The Ambassador's Wife (17 page)

She was relieved when the elevator disgorged them on the eighth floor, opening into a small front room lined with buffet tables. A pair of swans sculpted from butter gazed imperiously down on dozens of salads, spreads, cheeses, and fruit. Miranda looked longingly at the cheese. But they were swept along with the crowd, into an enormous ballroom crowded with people in various forms of evening dress. Mazen, the Lebanese hotel manager, greeted them just inside the door. “Tonight for your special pleasure we have a belly dancer,” he said. “From Helsinki!”

“They have belly dancing in Finland?” Miranda wondered if it were ever warm enough in Finland to shed the requisite layers of clothing.

“She has trained in Cairo. She has been working at the Marriott there.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” said Finn. “I've never seen a belly dancer.”

Eagerly, Miranda scanned the faces for someone she knew. Crimson-draped tables clustered around the dance floor, most of them nearly full.
“Ahlan wa sahlan!”
A man dressed in white slacks and a blazer made his way to her from across the room.

“Halim!” She smiled, relieved to see him. The owner of a resort
on one of the Red Sea islands, largely responsible for the launch of the new company, Halim was an old friend. She and Vícenta had met him during their first year, when they'd stayed in one of his grass huts. He kissed her on both cheeks before turning to Finn. “You must be the ambassador,” he said, his round brown face radiant with welcome.

“How did you know?” Finn and Halim had never met, and Miranda had confessed her romance to no one but her housemates.

“This is a small country,” he said. “Everyone knows everything.”

“God, I hope not!” said Miranda, immediately regretting taking the Lord's name in vain. But Halim didn't seem to have noticed, or if he had, didn't care. The two men chatted happily while Miranda continued to gaze around. She spotted Morgane, a friend from her weekly treks, whose husband, Sebastian, worked for the German development organization. They were sitting with Kaia and Stéphane (here courtesy of BNP Paribas), who were also avid hikers. Morgane and Kaia spent their time exploring, mountaineering, and studying Arabic. Suddenly, Miranda was excited to introduce them to Finn. Finally, finally, they could stop hiding. He could know all of her friends, and she could know his. This was marvelous. She tugged at his sleeve.

“Halim, would you mind if I borrowed Finn for a moment? I want to introduce him to some other friends.”

“Only if you promise to come stay with us. On the house! We will be so happy to host you.”

“Thank you, Halim. But you realize that if we come, you'll be getting ten extra guys with guns. You may want to think about that.”

Halim stretched his arms wide. “You are all welcome! But there is no need for protection on my island. We are peaceful there.”

“I'm sure you are. I've been there, remember? But ambassadors have an awful lot of rules.”

“So you will come?”

“We'll come, Halim. Someday.” She kissed his cheeks again and led Finn away.

I
T WAS AT
least an hour before they got to the buffet. After chatting with the French and Norwegians, Miranda had introduced Finn to Mosi and Madina, who had settled into a back table, where Madina was busy flirting with some young Arabic students while Mosi sat in his customary regal silence, smiling indulgently. Madina had given Finn her most dazzling smile and talked nonstop at him until Miranda finally led him away to the food. By the time they joined the buffet line the butter swans were beginning to wilt, their long necks drooping toward the basket of flour-dusted rolls. Miranda blissfully filled a plate with cheese and accepted a glass of red wine from a passing waiter. By the time she was on her second glass, the band had started and the belly dancer had begun a slow slither across the floor.

Somewhat predictably, the belly dancer was pale, a chalky white. Slender and narrow-hipped, she lacked the grounding heft of the belly dancers Miranda had seen in Egypt. Still, there was enough fat over her belly to jiggle as she shimmied. Miranda found it more entertaining to watch the men in the audience, who stared fixedly at the long-haired girl, their mouths hanging slightly open. “I wouldn't say it's my favorite dance form,” said a disappointed Finn. “But maybe it's better in Egypt?”

When the belly dancer had left the stage, the band struck up “Come On, Eileen,” and there was a stampede to the dance floor. Miranda was about to pull Finn into the fray when across the room she caught sight of Leslie, Finn's deputy, with his wife, Camilla. Miranda had immediately liked Leslie, a stout, warm man with a hearty laugh. He had arrived in the country a month before his wife, and Miranda had enjoyed chatting with him at parties. She was less sure about Camilla, a tall, stork-like woman with short, straw-dry hair and liver-spotted, leathery skin suggestive of a life spent by the side of a pool clutching a gin and tonic. She and Leslie had done postings in Kiev, Sierra Leone, Athens, Zimbabwe, and Tortola, places with no shortage of sun or alcohol. As far as Miranda knew, Camilla had never had a job. She had been friendly enough when first introduced to Miranda, but in that high-pitched, overly polite British way that doesn't convey true warmth. They must have seen Miranda and
Finn, but they hadn't come over. She tugged Finn's sleeve. “Shouldn't you say hello to Leslie?”

“Oh, is he here? Of course.” As they walked over, Miranda tried to remember if Leslie and Camilla had seen them together. “Does Leslie know?” she asked.

“I told him earlier this week, before I told the rest of the staff. Um…” Finn paused for moment.

“What?”

“It's just, they'll be polite I'm sure, but I wouldn't expect Camilla to be overjoyed that you're on the verge of outranking her.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “I hadn't thought of it like that.”

“Sweetheart, if all goes according to plan, you're going to be an ambassador's wife. That may not go down well with women who have been waiting thirty years, suffering through innumerable posts in uncomfortable places, for their husbands to be made head of post.”

“I see.”

“You kind of cheated.”

“It never occurred to me that women actually
aspired
to be ambassadors'
wives
. As if that were a profession in itself. I mean, I can see aspiring to be an
ambassador
. But an ambassador's
accessory
?”

“Do me a favor? Don't say anything like that to anyone but me?”

“Are people going to hate me?”

Finn hesitated. “Well,
hate
is kind of a strong word.”

Anxiety clutched at her abdomen. “I think you had better fill me in later on the various expectations people will have of an ambassador's wife. Perhaps before the wedding.”

“Certainly. Right. Are you ready? Deep breath…”

“As I'll ever be.”

Camilla stood up as they approached, still clutching her glass of white wine. She was at least three inches taller than Miranda, and slightly unsteady on her feet. “Hello,
darling
! I hear congratulations are in order,” she said, with a wide smile that didn't quite communicate joy. Her lips were dry, flaking lipstick the color of orange sherbet. “That was
quick
, wasn't it? We hadn't even known you two were a couple! Though of course, there have been rumors…”

Miranda smiled back. “Yes. Well, thank you.”

Leslie stood and gave her a warm hug.
“Mabrouk,”
he said. “And good luck.”

“Will I need it?”

“Every married couple needs it.”

“I hope you know what you're getting into,” said Camilla, her smile stretching even wider.

“I'm sure I don't,” said Miranda. “But isn't that the fun of it? Come on,
darling
,” she said, turning to Finn. “They're playing our song.” They were, in fact, playing something in Arabic she'd never heard before. But it would do.

On the dance floor, Finn surprised her with his abandon. He took her hands and spun her into his arms and back into the fray. At first, the floor was crowded with other couples and groups of people, laughing and swaying. Through the crowd, Miranda could see Finn's team watching them, their hands ever-ready at their waists. Was there a chance that he'd be offed by a sniper on the dance floor? She closed her eyes and shook the thought from her head. Sweat ran down the sides of Finn's face and drenched the back of his shirt. Miranda shrugged off her shawl and felt grateful for her bare arms. She could not remember the last time she'd danced like this, felt the visceral delirium of disappearing into the music. When Finn spun her close again, she responded instinctively, kissing him. The moment their lips touched, he drew back quickly. “Not here,” he murmured. “We shouldn't…” The cheese and wine curdled in her stomach. She had forgotten, for a fleeting moment, where they were. “I'm sorry!” she said in abject apology. He smiled and said it was all right, but she wasn't sure it was. She didn't feel like dancing anymore. It was late anyway, and the band would soon be stopping.

They gathered their things from their table and started to make their way to the door, stopping every few steps to say good-bye to the dozens of men stretching their hands to catch Finn and kiss him. “I'm beginning to get jealous,” she muttered. The guys followed them, unsmiling. She tried to remember if they usually smiled when they were working. Mukhtar helped her into the car without speaking. That was definitely unusual. No one said a word for the entire
ride home. Miranda stared out the window, feeling miserable. Finn reached for her hand and pressed it.

As soon as the heavy door of the Residence had swung shut behind them, Finn turned to her in the hallway, under the watchful gaze of Elizabeth II at her coronation. “How bizarre!”

“What?” She slid the shawl off her shoulders and stepped out of her shoes, sticky with spilled wine, leaving them by the hall table.

“The close protection team. They were so quiet the whole way home. Completely taciturn.”

“Because we were dancing?”

“I don't know. They usually natter away the whole journey.”

“Was it because they saw us kiss? Is that why Mukhtar wasn't speaking to me?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I had better make an honest woman of you fast. They'll get over it.”

“They will?” She looked up at him, worried. “You'll tell them how lovable I really am?”

“I already do, all the time. Eventually, everyone will love you. I promise.”

OCTOBER 2010

Miranda

Miranda does not try to keep track of the time. She doesn't want to know how many days she has been apart from her daughter. She doesn't want to know how long it has been since Finn slept beside her, since she had to roll him over in his sleep to stop him from snoring. If she doesn't count the days it deprives them of a sense of reality, of solidity. Time is measured out only in the hours she spends feeding this nameless child. Unable to do anything of use to herself, she does this. She narrows her world down to filling up this tiny girl, this sparrow of a person. It is difficult. The child is slow to learn to suck properly, to build up the strength to drink for an extended period of time. Miranda is grateful for the massage techniques she had learned
to make her milk come down for Cressida. She feeds the baby almost every hour, unless she is walking to fetch water or doing the other menial tasks required of her. In her real life, this would have felt a terrible burden, an interruption of her painting or reading or time with Finn. But here, it is her connection to sanity. The child has not gained a significant amount of weight, but her eyes have started to brighten and she waves her hands with more vigor. Her cries too have grown louder. The breast milk seems to have reawakened an appetite she had forgotten she had.

Miranda's breasts have swollen with the increased demand, but she wonders at the quality of her milk. Her diet here is dire, consisting mainly of sweet, milky tea, beans, and bread. She remembers reading that a breast-feeding mother's body will deprive itself of nutrients in order to ensure enough nutrients end up in the milk, that even a malnourished mother can nourish a child. She wonders if this is true. And she wonders how long this is so, before the mother's body has no stores left to drain. She is always thirsty, always seeking extra water.

At night, Miranda sleeps curled around the tiny girl, breathing the smoky scent of her head, a luxury she had rarely allowed herself with Cressida. She had read too many stories about parents rolling over on their children and accidentally suffocating them. But children here all sleep with their mothers. Tazkia had been horrified when Miranda told her that Cressie slept in her own room, down the hall. “What if she gets sick?” she had said. “What if she needs you?” “I will hear her,” Miranda had responded, confident of the lightness of her slumber. Now, it occurs to her that babies sleep with their mothers in most of the world's cultures. It is only the West that sees this pressing need to separate the child. Miranda wonders if she has somehow damaged her daughter, leaving her to sleep alone in those early months, without even the comfort of a plush animal (another suffocation risk). Is this why Cressida is so uncuddly? To punish them for having slept apart?

At every thought of Cressida, which is nearly every waking moment, there is the twist of pain and guilt and longing around her solar plexus. Every night Cressida goes to sleep motherless, while this silent child borrows her warmth. Miranda wants the anchor of Cressida's
plump, well-fed body in her arms, the light, soapy scent of her scant hair. She wonders what Cressie would smell like without her daily bath, if she would smell more like the child at her side. Or if every baby has her own particular scent, crafted to appeal to the olfactory organs of her particular parents. At first Miranda had found this dark baby's scent mildly repellent, redolent as it was of excrement and animal. But now she smells nothing but the child herself, a warm, bread-like odor. Bread cooked by a smoky fire.