The Ambassador's Wife (46 page)

What is she going to do? She crouches on the pavement for a moment and gives Luloah a taste of her water. She could ask a stranger for help, take a taxi all the way home to Arnabiya, or call someone else. The last is the only logical option. She isn't feeling particularly trusting of strangers at the moment, and she doesn't have the money for a taxi or the permission slips to get through the checkpoints. So whom should she call? Tucker? Dax? They are the logical choices. But she doesn't know their numbers. There are only two phone numbers she knows by heart, Finn's and Tazkia's.
Tazkia
. Miranda sits heavily down on the pavement. Luloah leans against her as she dials. She lets the phone ring a dozen times before giving up. No one in this fucking country ever answers the phone, and voice mail does not yet exist. Tazkia won't call her back; she never has minutes on her phone. Besides, she won't recognize the number.

Sighing, Miranda tucks the phone in the waistband of her skirt and hauls Luloah up again. When a small boy runs past her, trailing a Palestinian scarf like a kite, Miranda calls after him. He stops and stares at her. She pulls out her remaining dinars and holds them in her palm. “For the scarf?” she says. “Could I have the scarf?” Greedily, the boy scoops the coins from her hand, tossing the scarf on the
ground before running off. Miranda picks up the scarf and uses it to tie Luloah to her waist. That's a bit better.

She walks on, passing mosques, bombed-out homes and businesses, shops, and half-built concrete houses with iron rods pointing skyward, awaiting a second floor that will never come. No one has to pay taxes on an unfinished house, so there is little motivation to complete any new construction. She squints, suddenly aware of how long it has been since there was sun on her skin. Tilting her face upward, she drinks it, gorges herself on it. Euphoria wafts through her: At this moment, she is free.

This feeling is quickly followed by vertigo and panic. She has no money. She cannot get food for herself or Luloah or take a taxi or pay for a room. At any moment she could be plucked off the streets again by men with malign intent. At any moment someone could take Luloah from her. The faster she gets off the street the better. Plucking the phone out of her waistband, she dials Tazkia again.

FEBRUARY 14, 2011

Finn

Finn is exhausted. He had finally fallen asleep after the morning prayers, only to be woken an hour later by Cressida's cries. She hasn't slept long enough either and is uncharacteristically clingy. Finn lurches downstairs to make her porridge and cut her up a mango, but she doesn't want to eat, throwing sticky pieces of fruit to the linoleum floor. “I know how you feel,” he tells her, peeling up the pieces of fruit and rinsing them in bottled water. “But we have to somehow go on.”

The empty day stretching before him is an affront. He needs work, he needs action. He rings Dax, who says to call him later. He is still working on finding someone to send up north. Maybe Finn
should
go back to London. Is he doing anyone any good here? All of his connections and friends have proved useless. He feels scooped out, impotent. And if he doesn't get out of this fucking house he will lose his mind.

Disregarding Bashir's warnings and refusing his company, he
takes Cressida out for a long walk through the Old City. He wants to lose himself. Cressie struggles to keep up, stumbling on the cobblestones, and he lifts her to his shoulders. Despite his black mood, he is struck anew by the beauty of the city. It has no straight lines. Every building leans and curves. Narrow lanes lead past stalls selling handcrafted daggers, carved wooden doors, multicolored scarves, intricate silver jewelry. As he passes one of the jewelry stalls, a man rushes out to greet him and shake his hand. It is the place Miranda had taken him that first day, where he had bought the coral necklace for his one surviving aunt. The man pulls him inside, disappears into the back, and reappears with a glass of sticky-sweet tea. “So happy to see you again,” he says. Finn has been back several times since that first visit, every time he needs a gift for a visitor or friend back home. But this is the first time he has found his way here without his team.

He sets Cressie down on the floor and accepts the glass of tea. She wanders over to the wall display of necklaces and fingers the beads. “Your daughter?” says the man. Finn nods, sure that it is careless to admit such an attachment. But he is tired. Tired of caution, of fear, of being on constant alert. The man disappears again and returns with a glass of unnaturally orange juice for Cressie, who sucks it down hungrily. It must be getting close to lunchtime. Before they leave, Finn buys a strand of turquoise beads for Cressida, placing them around her neck, and a string of dark emerald beads, in the stubborn hope that he can someday give them to his wife. Cressida insists on wearing these too, and he lets her. Because he has to say no every time she asks for her mother, he says yes to almost everything else.

As they wind their way deeper into the city, Cressida makes him even more conspicuous than usual. A stream of women who want to touch her feet and cheeks slow their progress. “A doll!” they say. “Is she a doll?” He isn't sure whether the question is literal. Do they really think she might not be real? When they reach a pretty little square in front of a mosque, he sets Cressie down again, and they order
fasooleah
and sit in plastic chairs to scoop up the fried beans with their bread. Cressida is overjoyed to eat without silverware and treats the baguettes as paintbrushes, their table as her canvas.

Several men join them, asking the customary questions. Where is
he from? Does he love Mazrooq? Is it not a beautiful country? How old is Cressida? She is very big for her age, is she not? How many other children? Why not? Finn answers them, asking them questions of his own about their lives and livelihoods. As he listens to them explain their family histories, their neighborhoods, their work, he thinks how often he would rather be talking with them than with the diplomats with whom he was forced into conversation at every national day. The men play peekaboo with Cressida, making her laugh with funny faces, and crouch down next to her to sing her songs. This is what he and his staff are missing in these high-security environments, where they are kept sealed away from most of the population. The everyday pleasures of everyday people. Finn finds himself suddenly very curious about all sorts of things. He asks the men their thoughts on the president, the chances of war, on the kidnappings in the North, and his ideas for new development projects. They are happy to rail against the government and condemn the kidnappings and offer critiques of his ideas. Only when Cressida's head starts to bob sleepily toward her remaining beans is he able to tear himself away.

At home, he is only about halfway through
A Pocket for Corduroy
when Cressida falls silent beside him. He curls around her on his bed, neither of them stirring until early evening prayers remind them of the world and its cares. Cressida wakes first and pats her father's face. “What's it all about, Daddy?” she says. “What's it all about?”

Groggily, Finn opens an eye. “I don't know, Cress. What's it all about?”

Cressie leans forward so her breath is hot on his face. “It's about
bears
,” she says triumphantly. Isn't it, though? he thinks to himself. Cross to bear. Bear watching. Bear arms. Bear up. Bear in mind. Bear fruit. Bear witness. More than one can bear.

F
INN IS IN
the middle of cooking pasta for their dinner when his phone rings. Dax.

“We need you at the Residence.”

“Why?”

“You know I can't answer that.”

“I'm cooking dinner.”

“Forget dinner. This can't wait.”

Finn reaches to turn off the gas and put a cover on the pot. “Right,” he says. “I'll get Gabra to come round and find a taxi.”

“Don't you dare go anywhere near a taxi and never mind Gabra; you can bring Cressie. In fact, you must. We're sending a car.”

FEBRUARY 14, 2011

Miranda

Miranda stares at the car as though it were a mirage. White, crusted in mud, four doors, battered and rusting, it is the most exquisite vehicle she has ever seen. It had taken several phone calls for the women to figure out where she was, how to find her. And now they are—improbably, impossibly—here. Standing together on a relatively unpopulated street corner in the outskirts of the city. For a brief moment, Miranda wonders if she can trust them, but she no longer has the energy for doubt. Besides, Tazkia is running toward her, tackling her in a sweaty, polyester embrace. “Careful!” she says, moving an arm protectively around Luloah. Her mind has suddenly gone numb.

“Who is she? Where have you been? How did you get out? Were you bombed? Oh, Miranda, I'm sorry—” She covers her mouth with a hand. “Never mind my questions. I'm just so happy to see you. Oh, you're hurt!”

“I'm okay.” Miranda's eyes are dazed, uncomprehending.

“Come, into the car. We'll get you home.” Gently, Tazkia touches her shoulder.

“I don't quite understand how you happened to be here.” Miranda looks paralyzed, unable to move her legs.

“Quickly, help her, before anyone sees her,” urges Madina.

She pushes Miranda and Tazkia toward the car doors, glancing around for any possible pursuers. Nadia moves to the front seat, and Tazkia climbs back in. “I'll take the baby. How old is she? Where
did you find her? I'll give her back to you once you're settled. I can't believe you're alive!”

Miranda smiles weakly. “Me neither.” Why is it suddenly so hard? Why can't she talk to these women she has known for years, women she knows as well as she knows anyone? But suddenly there is just too much to say. It all gets stuck somewhere around her sternum. Except for one question, the only one that matters: “Cressida and Finn?” She is still standing next to the car, unmoving.

“They are fine,
al-hamdulillah
. Do not worry. We'll explain in the car.” Madina gets back out of the driver's seat. “Come on,
habibti
,” she says, taking Miranda's arm. “It's not safe here.”

As if to underscore her words, a bearded man is suddenly sprinting toward them. Shouting something undecipherable, he waves his arms. He is dressed in camouflage and black boots. It is possible that he is a soldier warning them to get out of town. Or that he wants a ride somewhere. Or that he is part of a particularly aggressive welcome party. But none of them is in the mood to take chances. Madina shoves Miranda into one side of the backseat as Tazkia emerges from the other. Stepping between the man and the car, she raises trembling arms, clutching her father's gun.

“NO,” she says simply. “NO.” The man stops in amazement, staring at the tiny robed creature before him.

Madina is back in the driver's seat. The car stutters to life. “Tazzy,
get in
,” she yells. Keeping her gun pointed at the man, Tazkia backs toward the car and climbs in. Rolling down the window, she hangs the gun outside the car. It could have been the jolt of the car moving forward, or the press of Tazkia's excited fingers, but as they pull away, the gun fires, sending a bullet into the dust behind them.

“
Enough
, Tazzy,” says Madina. “Don't give them a reason to come after us.”

Reluctantly, Tazkia pulls the gun into the car. When she turns to her left, she finds Miranda backed against the door, her arms tight around the child.

“It's all right, Mira,” she says, soothingly.

“Put it away,” says Nadia. “You're scaring her.”

Tazkia scrabbles around in her bag for the metal box.

“The safety,” murmurs Miranda.

“What? I have a box.”

“Fix the safety first.” Miranda points to the gun without touching it, showing Tazkia how to slide the safety into position. Once the gun is secured, Tazkia returns it to the box and slips it into her purse.

Miranda realizes she has been holding her breath and exhales. They are moving. Moving! Her heart twitches with cautious joy. There are still so many miles between her and her daughter, her love, so many checkpoints, armed vehicles, so many
men
. Luloah has fallen into a stunned silence, staring around her with wide eyes.

“Her name is Luloah,” Miranda eventually says softly to Tazkia. “Her parents are gone.” That is all they need to know, for now. But Tazkia cannot be silent, not even for a moment. She has question after question after question. Miranda answers her as well as she can, but she has questions of her own. How did they happen to find her? How had they known where to go? Where were Finn and Cressie? The women interrupt each other, anxious to reassure her about her family and to tell the story of the drawing and Madina's helpful series of boys. Miranda struggles to take it all in. She doesn't want to talk anymore; she wants to close her eyes and let their voices wash over her, let them wash her into sleep.

“Your Arabic has got much better, by the way,” says Tazkia, impressed. Miranda is startled. She hadn't realized she was still speaking it. Has she always spoken to her women in Arabic, or did she teach classes in English? Why can't she remember? She wants to ask them but doesn't want them to think she has lost her mind.

A few miles before they cross the first checkpoint, Madina pulls over. “I hate to do this, Miranda, after everything you've been through, but we can't risk them seeing you. We'll have to put you in the trunk until we're past.”

“Wait,” says Nadia, fumbling in her bag. “Wait, no, I have…” She pulls out a plain black
abaya, hijab
, and
niqab
. “She can wear these. They'll be too short, but they won't see that in the car.” Miranda breathes a sigh of relief. She wasn't anxious to get into another confined
space. Handing Luloah to Tazkia, she steps out of the car to change.