The Ambassador's Wife (39 page)

“Laa.”

“Francia?”

“Laa.”

“Al-Roosiah?”

“Laa.”

He gave up.
“Min wayna antee?”

“Ana min New York.”
She always said New York because no one had ever heard of Seattle. And she and Vícenta had spent a lot of time there, after all.

“Ah, New York! Amreekah!”

“Aiwa.”

“Amreekah wa Mazrooq very friends! Very friends!”
He was wildly excited, slamming his hands together to show how friendly Mazrooq and America were, turning around in his seat to look at Miranda. In fact, he did this every time he said something to her, which meant that for at least fifteen minutes of the half-hour drive, he was not watching the road. And Mazrooqi cars do not have seat belts. You're lucky if they have floors.

“Aiwa.”
It was easiest simply to agree. What she wanted to say was, In what sense are our countries friends? Friends as in “the enemies of my enemies are my friends”? Friends as in You need the US to keep pouring development money and military assistance into the country? Or friends as in Your president desperately needs American political support?

He didn't clarify.
“Mazrooq kwayis?”

“Aiwa,”
she said again, sighing.
“Mazrooq kwayis.”
She said this at least nine times a day. They all had wanted to hear how much you loved their country. And she did, she truly did. But it was wearying to have to express it so often.

He was quiet for a bit, then thought of something else.

“Antee maseeheeah?”
Are you Christian?

She paused for a moment. She wasn't a Christian. She wasn't anything. But while the Mazrooqis could understand someone being Christian or Jewish, they simply could not fathom someone not having any religion at all. The absence of God was imponderable. For Miranda, the opposite was true.

“Aiwa,”
she finally said.
“Ana maseeheeah.”

“I need to know something,” he said, twisting around again.
“Isa, leyshe Isa yusawee Allah?”

At first Miranda didn't recognize the Arabic name for Jesus.
“Laa aref,”
she said. I don't know.

“Isa! Isa! Ibn Miriam!”
The son of Mary!

“Ah. Jesus?”

“Aiwa. Jay-sus.”
He carefully mimicked her pronunciation of the word.

“Aish?”

“Leysh in Christianity, Jesus yusawee Allah?”

“Laa laa laa,”
she said.
“Isa laa yusawee. Isa ibn Allah.”
He is not Allah. He is the son of Allah.

“Ah, ibn,”
he said. “But Allah have no son!”

Miranda sighed. “Maybe not,” she said.

“Lithalik leysh?”
Why you say son? I want to know everything about Christianity, he told her. He wanted someone to teach him. Could she teach him?

You picked the wrong gal, Miranda wanted to say. I don't really have a strong opinion on whether or not God has a son. Had a son. Whatever. Frankly, he should have had a daughter. Maybe we'd all be better off.

“Laa aref,”
she said as he pulled into her street. I don't know. Before he could ask her anything else, she thrust a handful of dinars into his hand and leapt from the car. “I'm sorry,” she called back. “I'm sorry I don't know.”

L
YING ON HER
back, the bristle of her cropped hair her only pillow, she lifts thin arms above her and claps her palms together. “Mazrooq wa Amreekah very friends!” she says with a hollow laugh.
“Very friends.”

That is when she hears the cry from next door, a low howling sound. Scrambling to her feet, she presses her palms against the cold plaster of the wall. Where has it come from? Is there another prisoner here? She wants to call out to him. The thought that she is not alone
fills her with abrupt euphoria. Surely it is a man, though the voice had been distorted by pain. When it comes again, that desperate keening, she hears another voice with it, aggressive and punishing. Miranda clenches her bottom lip between her teeth to keep herself from crying out. Several thuds follow the shouting of the second man, followed by more cries of pain.

Miranda slides down the wall, letting the rough surface chafe her skin. She wants to press her fingers in her ears to block the sound but feels an obligation to listen. Somewhere on the other side of this wall is a man being tortured. Perhaps she is the only person aside from the jailer who knows this. Who is he? A Westerner? Or a Mazrooqi traitor to the cause? She cannot make out the language, only indistinct sounds. After what feels an eternity with her ear pressed against the plaster, the building falls silent. All night she curls close to the wall, forcing herself to bear aural witness should there be more. It is all she can do.

DECEMBER 12, 2010

Finn

A banging at the front gate makes it suddenly difficult for Finn to hear the voice on the other end of the phone. It's London calling, again. He paces the third floor, from his bedroom to the
diwan
to the bathroom, fingers tight around the mobile, agitated, restless. It's been nearly four months now, and his bosses are growing increasingly impatient. “We can't hold the job open for you indefinitely,” Wilkins says. “We need a full-time head of mission there. It's a critical country, we know you understand this. Celia is doing a fine job, but she's due back for language training in a few months. You heard she's going to Islamabad?”

Finn has. But he is having a difficult time trying to work up a panic over losing his job when something—someone—so much more significant is missing. He speaks seven languages; he understands development issues; he is knowledgeable about trade and business. If all else fails, he can teach etiquette classes. He will never go
hungry. At the moment, working on anything other than finding his wife and raising his daughter is inconceivable. There will be no other work for him until Miranda comes home or her remains arrive in a body bag.

“I understand your predicament,” Finn says. “And I am in no position to tell you what to do. But we're getting close; you heard we just missed her. The Americans think she's alive. It may not be long now.”

“Finn. Listen to me. I'm going to be frank with you. Even if Miranda does turn up, we're going to send her straight back to London. Chances are good she'll need some kind of treatment, medical or psychological. Things won't just go back to normal. In fact, the chances of you being reinstated are infinitesimal.”

Finn holds the phone away from his ear, as if to keep the words from reaching him. He stares at the bare walls around him, longing for distraction. He hasn't hung anything on the walls, save for a few of Cressie's drawings in the kitchen, because he didn't plan to stay here for long.

“Hello? Finn?”

He moves the phone fractionally closer. “Yes.”

“Think about these things, Finn. We don't know what shape she will be in, should we find her. You know I hate to bring this up, but we owe it to you to be honest.”

“Yes.” Finn doesn't trust himself to say more.

“You would be better off waiting for her in London, Finn. Think of your daughter. Think of her safety.”

A flicker of rage ignites in his sternum. “Do you think that I don't?”

“Finn. Please.”

“I'm not coming back, Wilkins. Not without my wife.”

There is silence on the other end, then a sigh. “Another month or two at the most.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” The banging at the gate is growing more frantic. Finn walks downstairs to Cressie's playroom, keeping the phone at his ear. The room is empty, the bare stone floor littered with stuffed bears and rabbits, colored plastic cups, Richard Scarry
books, beads from broken necklaces. “Gabra?” he calls, returning to the hallway.

“I'll go, sir.” Gabra emerges from the bathroom carrying Cressie and hands her to her father. Finn sets the phone down to settle his daughter on his left hip bone. She is getting too heavy to carry for long. With his right hand, he picks up the mobile. “Can I ring you later? There's someone at the door.”

“I hope you're being careful who you let in, Finn. It's not like you're inconspicuous there.”

“I'll speak with you tomorrow, Wilkins.” He flips the phone shut and slips it into his pocket. Cressie wriggles in his arms, protesting her confinement.

“Okay,” he says. “Run along and explore.” She is getting increasingly reckless now that she is steady on her feet, falling a few more times every day. The bruises and skinned knees do not daunt her; she stubbornly gets back up and charges on. She'd probably hold her own running with the parentless tribes on the streets. He worries constantly about the stone stairs, their lethal edges, their uneven heights. He still trips going up them at least once a day. Safety stair gates don't seem to exist here; he has looked. Gabra must be his stair gates, his poison control center, the eyes in the back of his head.

Cressie toddles off toward her playroom, no doubt in search of a bear or her growing pebble collection, kept in a discarded Girl-brand ghee can. Gabra has dressed her in another one of her Ethiopian outfits. They are gorgeous, but Finn worries that his staff—his former staff and Gabra—are spending money they don't have to outfit his daughter. She has at least five different hand-embroidered shirts now. He has already increased Gabra's salary twice.

“Sir? Ambassador sir?” Gabra is running up the stairs, breathless. “It's Tazkia, sir. She says please she has only a moment.” Behind her, Finn spies the tiny form, familiar to him despite the fact that she is completely covered, even her eyes. He has never seen her eyes covered before.

Tazkia pauses at the top of the stairs, unsure where to go. “Ambassador Finn,” she says. “I need to speak quickly. I am not officially here, I am with Aaqilah. But it is an urgent matter.”

Finn waves her toward the stairs. “You are not here,” he says gravely. “In fact, I'm not even sure who you are.”

She skitters up the stairs to the
diwan
, her
abaya
rustling around her like autumn leaves. Without waiting for an invitation, she kneels on the gold cushions, tucking her shoeless feet underneath her. “I know I am safe here with you, but no one else knows this,” she says. “We are so backward we think men think only of one thing. But I have had to put my fear away because I have a greater fear. Ambassador Finn, Miranda, she was doing some paintings with me. Paintings of me.”

Finn nods, sinking onto the cushions opposite her, careful to keep a distance. Sitting on the floor, or this close to the floor, is always difficult for him. His legs are too long, too stiff. Unable to sit cross-legged, he bends one knee to the ceiling and one to the side.

“She told you?” There is alarm in her voice.

“Only that she was doing some paintings of you. I know nothing about them, I promise you. She never showed them to me. I swear, Tazkia, she would never violate your privacy.”

“I didn't think so. She knows how dangerous…We were going to burn them, we set a date. Ambassador Finn, I try to be patient. I did not want to disturb you in this time. I hoped that Miranda, we would find her before now. But I cannot wait any longer. I need to get those paintings. I need to destroy them myself. Miranda said the place where they are is so secret she is the only one with a key. So I believe they are safe, but I need your help to get them out so I can be sure.”

A current of fear flashes through Finn. Dear god, he had forgotten the secret paintings. Miranda had kept them locked in the safe room near their bedroom in the Residence, and he hadn't thought to remove them when he left, distracted as he was by grief. To be honest, he hadn't even remembered they were there. He would have had second thoughts about opening her cupboard, seeing things not meant for his eyes. But he could have moved them safely, he could have found a way not to see them. He is an idiot. There is little chance Celia would have found them; she is there only temporarily after all, and is staying in the Minister's Suite rather than the master bedroom, communicating
her hope that Finn will soon return. Does Tazkia even know she's there? He doesn't want to ask.

Tazkia's hands tremble in her lap, twisting the straps of a small purple purse. Her head is turned toward him, and he is sure her eyes are fixed on his, though he cannot see them. She has not removed her veil.

“I think I know where they are,” he says, carefully. “And they are locked up. It is true that only Miranda had a key.” He had given it to her. And to the Overseas Security Manager. Norman. Shit. But he would have no reason to be poking around the house. Would he? Finn does not say this. There is no point in unduly alarming Tazkia. “Look, try not to worry. I will find Miranda's key—it must be in her purse with the rest of her keys—and go to the Residence tomorrow.”

“But no one must see them, please! Not you, not anyone.”

Finn thinks for a moment. “We'll go together,” he finally says. “You can take them yourself. We will take a large case for them. Are you able to come with me?”

She nods. “I will find a way to come. But I don't know where I will keep them. I will have to destroy them. It is too dangerous for me. Will you help me?”

“Of course.” While the thought of destroying anything created by his wife's hand is almost unbearable, Tazkia's life is at stake. He doesn't have to have seen the paintings to guess at their content. Miranda would have protected her student at any cost; he dimly remembers her saying she and Tazkia had plans to destroy them. But what was she thinking? Nudes, in this country? He'd known this before, of course, on some unspoken level. But it had always been his policy not to meddle with Miranda's work. She was constrained enough by life with him; he wanted her art to be free. But Jesus, maybe not
this
free.