The Ambassador's Wife (3 page)

“Look,” she said. “We all know what the problems are.” The corrupt government siphoned off oil money that could be directed to public services, brokered illicit arms deals, and starved its people. Hardly any oil money made its way to the resource-poor North, where unemployment was soaring and anger over state corruption was festering. Rot, dishonesty, and betrayal ran so deep that northern rebels could often purchase weapons directly from government forces. Water was increasingly scarce, and at least two cities could run out of it entirely within two years. More than half of the population was illiterate. The press was censored. Women had few rights. Sure, they were allowed to work, drive cars, and travel unaccompanied by men, unlike in other parts of the Middle East, but they couldn't choose their careers or their husbands. Terrorists were allowed to operate training camps in remote areas (mostly in the North) as long as they didn't blow up any of their fellow countrymen. Conflicts raged off and on between government forces and northern rebels. Foreign companies had to negotiate separate deals with the government and the tribes for permission to operate in certain areas, or risk finding their offices suddenly surrounded by armed men.

The Arab ambassadors looked up in surprise at hearing a female voice, before staring back into their coffee cups, but the Minister's head swiveled toward her attentively as she continued. “We know all of this; we have known all of this for years. But what are we going to
do
about it?” Only then did she allow herself a glance at Finn, who was smiling slightly while also managing to convey that she should stop there.

“Exactly,” said the Minister, smiling. “So,
gentlemen
, what shall we
do
?”

Over coffee in the sitting room, the visiting Minister told Miranda that he had had a similar conversation ten or so years ago—about Iraq. Leading Finn to suggest—with a completely straight face—that the British start planning to liberate the country from its ruthless and immoral president. “It worked out so
well
in Iraq,” he added. Even if he wanted to, said the Omani ambassador, this president couldn't fix things. While a totalitarian despot, he still fell short of Saddam's absolute domination. When several ambassadors claimed that the country's problems could not be solved with money, the head of the World Food Programme chimed in to say that they certainly couldn't be solved
without
money. The country director of the World Bank added that many reforms just had to wait for the country to become magically secure or for its economy to turn around. But we can't wait for that! cried others. By the end of the night, Miranda noticed that the World Bank director was asleep in his chair. She was relieved when they could finally tuck the jetlagged Minister into bed and stay up for another port with the cops.

W
ITH THE MORNING
light slanting through the bars of her dressing room window, Miranda stands in front of her closets, contemplating her wardrobe. She still cannot get over the fact that she has an entire room in which to dress herself—a room that serves no other purpose. It was particularly ridiculous when she first moved in, with the two suitcases she had been living out of for the past few years. One of the things she had loved about living in this country was that she never had to think about what to wear. She could live in a succession of long black cotton skirts with long black cotton blouses, or jeans and a T-shirt under an
abaya
. It was so simple.

But everything changed when she moved in with Finn and was suddenly hosting dinner parties for high-ranking officials. At first, she had borrowed a few dresses from her friend Marguerite, the French ambassador's wife—the only ambassador's wife even close to her size, corpulence being part of the job description—before going
on a shopping expedition to Dubai, the fifth circle of Hell as far as she was concerned. Despite the profusion of clothing stores in the sprawling malls, it was nearly impossible to find a single dress, skirt, or even a pair of jeans not pasted with sequins and spangles. Arab women love glitter, the flashier and gaudier the better. They also favor synthetics, such as rayon and polyester, despite the unsuitability of these materials for sweltering climates. Perhaps they were simply cheaper. Still, Miranda had managed to find enough cotton clothing to keep herself covered until her next trip to London, when Finn had patiently spent an entire day with her choosing outfits.

But she doesn't need to dress up for breakfast with policemen. Her gym clothes will be fine, as long as she isn't leaving the house. She slips on a camisole and shorts. These are British policemen; there is no danger of shocking them with the sight of female skin.

When she arrives in the dining room, Alastair is already at the table, tucking into a bowl of porridge. As she slides into her seat, Negasi bustles in with baskets of toast, her rows of stubby black braids tucked under the Japanese poppies scarf Miranda had brought her from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. (Every morning she asks Miranda and Finn if they want toast and eggs, though they never have anything other than fruit and muesli on weekdays. Miranda gets the feeling she is almost relieved to have guests, so that she can
cook
something.) “Good morning, Madame,” says Negasi, smiling. Miranda has been trying to get her to stop calling her Madame ever since she moved in. “Miranda is fine,” she said. “Even Mira.” She doesn't feel old enough to be a Madame, even at thirty-nine. But though Negasi always smiles and agrees, she can't seem to get her lips to form Miranda's name.

“Good morning, Negasi! Good morning, Ali.” Negasi hurries to pour carrot juice into her glass.

“Morning! Looking forward to getting rid of us?” Alastair smiles, bits of oat stuck to his upper lip.

“Of course not. Whom will I be able to bore with my political rants?”

“You'll miss us, then?”

“We'll cry ourselves to sleep every night.” Miranda smiles and
pulls her napkin into her lap. Finn appears a few moments later, showered and dressed in one of his gray pin-striped suits and a blue tie with tiny sheep on it. It is one of Cressida's favorite ties. “She's awake,” he says to Miranda, before greeting Alastair and pouring himself a cup of Negasi's coffee.

“I'll go up.” Miranda is still breast-feeding two or three times a day, though Cressida is nearly fifteen months old. She never thought she would nurse for this long, but it had been such a struggle to make the breast-feeding work in the beginning that now that she has it figured out she wants to do it forever. The first few months had been torture. Her nipples had cracked, bled, and succumbed to thrush. Against her affronted flesh, Cressida's lips had been razor-sharp blades. The brush of a soft cotton T-shirt had left her weeping. But she'd persisted, motivated by the health benefits and the threat of having to wash and sterilize bottles every day, until finally, miraculously, the two of them figured it out.

Upstairs, Cressida is standing in her crib, a new trick. She still doesn't have much hair, just a strip of wispy black curls down the middle of her scalp, a milquetoast of a Mohawk. Her eyes have turned from blue to a dark phthalo green, framed by eyelashes so long they brush the tiny bones of her eyebrows when she opens them wide. “Bob bob bobobobob BOB!” she cries as Miranda enters. “BOB BOB!”

“Morning, sunshine!” she says, lifting the little girl into her arms. “And how many times have I told you not to call me Bob?”

Just as Cressida is finishing nursing, Finn calls from downstairs. “Come say good-bye!” She slides the straps of her camisole back up over her shoulders and hefts Cressie onto her hip. Downstairs, Negasi rushes to take the baby, enfolding her in a patchouli- and perspiration-scented embrace. Miranda had initially felt uneasy about asking their housekeeper to look after her daughter—it wasn't part of her job description, after all—but Negasi adores the child, often prying her from her mother's arms to rock her, singing in her lilting Amharic. When Miranda tracks her down in the kitchen to retrieve Cressida, Negasi pleads for a few more minutes.

The men are lined up in the hall with their black cases. “We can't thank you enough for putting up with us, Miranda,” says Mick.

“Any longer and Ali here might have gone native,” adds Gazza.

“You're welcome anytime.” The bland words of diplomacy slip off her tongue so easily now, though this time she means it.

“I hope we won't have reason to come back anytime soon. Though we may not be able to keep Alastair away.”

Miranda stays in the doorway as Finn walks the men down the garden path. Bashir and Yusef emerge from either side of the front steps to escort them, their eyes scanning the surrounding rooftops. The rest of the team waits in the armored cars, already humming in the drive. Finn jogs back to kiss her one last time (surprising Yusef, who has to leap out of the front seat and jog back with him). “See you tonight.”

“At an undetermined time?”

“As usual.”

Finn cannot ever call her from work to say what time he is coming home. They have to assume that all their phones are tapped, and thus it would be dangerous to disclose the ambassador's whereabouts. Sometimes Finn calls to say he will be late, but never exactly
how
late. “Dinner or no dinner?” she asks. “Dinner,” he always replies. Though it isn't unusual for Finn to have dinner at 10:00 p.m. This didn't used to bother her, but since the most recent attack on the US embassy she finds herself unable to focus on her work after 6:00 p.m., when the sun plunges behind the minarets. Her ears strain for the roar of his convoy as she prowls the upstairs, peering out of each of their dozens of windows in turn, seeing nothing but the night.

“Have a happy day, sweetheart. And don't forget, the bug men are coming this morning!” he whispers, before jogging back down the path and climbing into his forest-green Toyota Land Cruiser. She had almost forgotten. Two Brits are coming this morning to sweep the house for electronic bugs. “Seriously?” she had said when Finn told her. “How would bugs have gotten in?”

Just about anyone in this country is bribable, Finn had said. Even their own staff members could be persuaded to settle a bug into a potted plant if it meant feeding their family back in Ethiopia for a month. This had startled Miranda. She couldn't imagine anyone more loyal than Negasi. Or Teru. Or even Desta. Could they really so
easily be bribed? Then again, she probably also couldn't conceive of the poverty of their families back in Ethiopia. Betraying an employer might feel fairly minor next to keeping a small child alive. “But we've been here three years!” she'd exclaimed. “The Mazrooqis might already know our darkest secrets.”

“It's not routine,” he said. “But with the increased security concerns, we want to make sure we are crossing all of our T's. Chances are, though, your secrets remain dark.”

The bug men arrive at 8:00 a.m., half an hour after Finn's convoy pulls out of the gates. Miranda is in the kitchen discussing the evening's menu with Teru when she hears the growl of their armored car. Cressie sits in the middle of the metal counter waving a wooden spoon, occasionally whacking a cookbook. Miranda leaves her there with Teru to run to greet the men, pulling the door to the kitchen shut behind her; the staff are to be kept away from the rooms being swept.

The bug men strike her as young, possibly not out of their twenties. One is tall and blond with the lean musculature of a surfer, while the other is stout with a shaved head and round belly. He wears a tiny Union Jack stud in his left ear. They lug in a series of heavy black suitcases, dropping each with a thud on the floor of the sitting room. “Do you mind if we start in here?” the blond one says, glancing around. “Start wherever you want,” says Miranda, slightly self-conscious in her shorts. “Tea?” The offer has become reflexive. No one enters the Residence without having a mug of English breakfast thrust into his or her hands.

“Yes, please!” The bug men settle into the living room and get to work. Miranda closes the door before the staff becomes inquisitive. When Gabra arrives to play with Cressie outside, Miranda grabs a water bottle and trots to the gym at the end of their garden for her morning run and swim. She doesn't love the treadmill, but running outside is out of the question. No one in this country runs, except at gunpoint. Women least of all. It is one of the things she misses most about life in America. At first the Residence staff were bewildered by her daily workouts, but after three years they have grown accustomed to her peculiar Western habits.

When she returns an hour later, her hair damp from her laps in the pool, the bug men are still at it. She creeps by them, wrapped in Finn's blue-and-white-striped terry-cloth dressing gown. The fat one is waving a wand across the surfaces of furniture while the blond stares at a laptop screen. When they finish with the living room, they move on to the dining room and Finn's office—the rooms where interesting conversations are most likely to take place.

Finn is scrupulous about discussing sensitive information with Miranda only in designated areas. They do not talk about his work in bed or at the dining table. When he wants to share something particularly intriguing, he takes her into the stairwell, and they walk up and down the stairs from floor to floor, whispering. Or they take a walk in the garden or around the top floor, moving quickly from room to room.

Miranda showers and changes into walking trousers and a blue cotton men's shirt, twisting her unruly curls into a knot. She's lacing up her hiking boots when her cell phone rings. Finn. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Is today your hike?”

“This afternoon. Why? Is it still okay?” Her spirits sag at the prospect of another day locked inside. With the new security restrictions in place there is hardly anywhere she is still allowed to go.

“Of course, I just…You're not going too far?”