Mujeeb Ali accompanied him to the door. Azhar went towards the street where Dr Sharif lived to deliver a message from the judge’s widow: the physician was to call at the house and collect any of the dead man’s medicines he thought he could use. Mujeeb Ali watched him cross the street — as he stepped into shade the glare of his spotless white shirt was extinguished. Mujeeb Ali bolted the door. In the absence of any noise the room appeared more spacious and, since the sunlight too had been excluded, it felt cooler. The only reminder of the manic activity of the past few hours was a faint smell of human sweat clinging to the walls. Mujeeb Ali went into the house through the rear door.
The courtyard, a square expanse of ochre terrazzo, was enclosed on three sides by shallow verandas and bound on the fourth side by alternating male and female pawpaws, jasmine bushes and domestic palms whose tips had been clipped to give them the appearance of Japanese fans. Mujeeb Ali crossed the courtyard, picking his way around the fruit and vegetables that had been spread out by the servant women on sheets of white cloth to dry in the sun. There were sections of mango, salted green chilli and lady’s finger with slits along the length for the pickles; carrots, apples and cubes of pumpkin for the preserves; plums and pods of tamarind for the chutneys. The season’s beans and pulses had been ground, moistened with milk and worked into coin-sized tablets for the winter months.
‘I wish it would rain,’ Mujeeb Ali said, entering the bedroom. ‘After all, it is supposed to be the rainy season.’
Nabila Ali did not acknowledge him. Reclining against the pillows, she continued to read from the velvet-bound copy of Bahishti Zévar which, according to custom, she had received in her dowry. The fabric had long since lost its shine and the edges were torn. Nabila’s hair, still hot as metal from the street — she had just returned from Judge Anwar’s house — was loose on her shoulders. Mujeeb Ali cleared his throat and sat down on the edge of the bed. He made the noise again.
Nabila lowered the book. It was a full minute before she spoke. ‘You, ji, may not have any fear of God left in you, but I still do,’ she said in a determined tone.
Mujeeb Ali made as if to speak but changed his mind. Nabila sat up and placed the book on the night-table beside the bed. ‘It’s a sin even to offer food to a fornicator.’ She had stood up. ‘Even a mother is supposed to refuse food to her son if she suspects him of …’ She left the sentence unfinished, completing it with a wave of her hand.
Mujeeb Ali followed her with his eyes as she crossed to the wardrobe. ‘What do you want me to do about it?’ he asked quietly, undoing his shirt.
Nabila had opened one side of the wardrobe and was taking out a change of clothes for her husband. White muslin shirts and linen trousers were arranged neatly on the shelves. Each garment bore the small indelible insignia that the laundryman had assigned to the household. ‘You, ji, seem to have forgotten that we have daughters in the house.’ Every time she spoke passionately the vein on the left side of Nabila’s neck swelled up. After a brief pause she added: ‘And that we are also responsible for the safety and honour of the servant girls.’
Mujeeb Ali nodded. ‘She’s a Christian, isn’t she?’
Nabila’s glance yielded at last. She looked at her husband and said quietly: ‘Elizabeth Massih.’
Mujeeb Ali unbuckled the belt that held the holster under his left arm and, with the revolver resting by his side on the bed, he took off his vest. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Stop inviting him into the house. Deputy commissioner or no deputy commissioner, I don’t want any sinners in my house.’
‘How do you know her name?’
Nabila closed the wardrobe after making sure that nothing inside would catch in the door. ‘All the women were talking about it.’ There were sharp creases in the fabric of her tunic running across the stomach, caused by her having spent the last few hours sitting cross-legged, praying for the repose of the dead man’s soul.
‘How is Asgri today?’
Nabila heaved a sigh and lowered herself onto the edge of the bed. ‘Everyone knows that crying never brought anyone back but what else can she do?’ She was twisting her hair into a bun.
‘They’ll be caught,’ Mujeeb Ali said matter-of-factly and sat down two places away from his wife. He picked up the shirt he had taken off and began to clean his shoes with it.
Nabila was securing her hair into place; she held the hairpins between her teeth. She took out the last one and said, ‘Parveen Shafiq says that she was washing herself for the dawn prayers when she heard someone running past her bathroom window.’
Mujeeb Ali gave a nod. ‘We’ll see what can be done.’ He felt for the keys in the old shirt.
‘Remember, ji,’ said Nabila, ‘I don’t want him in this house any more.’
Mujeeb Ali looked back from the door. ‘I’ll be back about this time tomorrow,’ and he left the house without acknowledging the greetings of the servant women who were returning for the evening, having spent the afternoon with their families.
The ticking of the clock was a clear, precise sound in Nabila’s head. She was thinking about Asgri. Shortly after daybreak the previous Monday — before the servants began arriving and the children were awoken — Nabila had answered the door to find a distraught Asgri standing at the doorstep. Her fingers seemed to tremble. ‘I want you to take me to the Clinic,’ she had said in a voice that betrayed a night without sleep. Nabila had taken her into the kitchen. ‘I pleaded with him to leave me alone just for tonight, but he wouldn’t listen, Nabila,’ she said through tears. ‘I don’t want another one at my age. And anyway, it will probably be a girl again. I don’t have to explain anything to you — you have five girls of your own. Only Allah Himself knows why He has decided to punish us both this way. Take me to the Clinic.’ As a pretext for calling at her friend’s house at such an early hour — a pretext thoroughly unconvincing — she had brought an empty flour bowl.
Maulana Hafeez transferred the folded newspaper to his other armpit and knocked on the door. Above him bird-droppings had caused a tomato plant to germinate between two loose bricks. The walls of the small house were streaked with broad vertical bands of lichen. During the summer months the sun would scorch this lichen, turning its lush green to a dull grey, but the monsoon always restored these stripes to the poor people’s houses. Maulana Hafeez knocked again.
Mansoor’s wife, her face painted pink with cosmetics, came to the door. To numb a headache she had tied her stole tightly around her head. ‘Maulana-ji!’ she said, reaching behind her ears to untie the knot in the stole. Then, on noticing the newspaper, she said, ‘You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, Maulana-ji. Mansoor would have collected it himself.’
She dutifully covered her head and chest with the stole and backed on to the narrow courtyard to allow Maulana Hafeez into the house.
Mansoor sat on the edge of the bed, eating. He raised each mouthful — a well-worked ball of rice and lentils — on the fingers of his right hand and guided it into his mouth with the thumb. At the other end of the small room the television set gave off a bluish-white glow. Ranged around the set, their heads tilted backwards, were about a dozen of the neighbourhood’s children. Most of them were half-naked — taut stomachs swelling up beneath xylophone ribcages. They were watching a violently energetic cartoon.
Mansoor stood up when his wife entered the room followed by Maulana Hafeez. With his shins he pushed away the small table on which his meal was set. His exuberant adam’s apple and long neck made him look like an estuary bird. ‘You shouldn’t have troubled yourself, Maulana-ji.’