The Ambassador's Wife (34 page)

Before leaving, Miranda and Marguerite visited one more house of boys. Miranda held another feverish child, a two-year-old who also had chicken pox. She supposed that once one child had it, it swept through the orphanage. The boys gathered around her, asking their endless questions. Did she know the Quran? Did she know it in Arabic or English? Did she pray? One of the housemothers was cradling an older boy who was so disabled he could do nothing but lie prone. His name was Rahman, and he was seven years old. He had pretty, thick-lashed eyes and rotting teeth. Miranda wondered if the children were given toothbrushes. Maybe she should have brought some? This boy would require someone to brush his teeth for him. He was skinny, with chicken pox scars on his toothpick legs. But he smiled and looked cheerful, lying on a couch. Miranda squatted next to him and stroked his hair. He looked up at her and beamed, displaying all of his brown teeth.

“Come,” said another of the women, who introduced herself as Leila. “We are going to sing for you.” She led Miranda and Marguerite to the courtyard near the entrance, where most of the older children were gathered, standing in neat rows. When they saw the women approach, they opened their mouths in unison and began to sing. Miranda looked at the little girls, standing so straight in their green-and-white checked dresses, and the little boys with their arms held tight to their sides and their hair combed back. And while she couldn't grasp the words of the Arabic song, the sound of the children's voices rising together above the dust of the afternoon wrung her viscera like a rag.

As the song ended, Miranda became aware that Marguerite had disappeared and returned with a box full of packets of cookies. As the children filed past, she handed each of them a packet. Delighted, the children tore them open and stuffed the cream-filled cookies into their mouths. “I got them from the embassy,” Marguerite told Miranda. “They were left over from something.”

Suddenly one of the housemothers was shaking Marguerite's arm. “Look!” she shouted in Arabic. “Look! These are expired! No good!” Miranda picked up a packet and looked at the date. The cookies were seven months past the sell-by date. “Do not give them to our
children,” said the housemother. “Do not give them your leftover garbage!” She shook with fury. Marguerite flushed with shame as the woman tore the packets of cookies from the children's sticky fingers, leaving them bewildered and tearful. Once all of the packets, opened or untouched, were collected, she dumped them into a trash can.

“I'm sorry,” Marguerite said helplessly to the woman. “I am so sorry. I didn't know.” Her big blue eyes filled with tears. Miranda felt sure that she hadn't. “Next time,” she began.

“No next time,” said the woman. “We don't need anything. We take care of the children. They do not need your trash.” Haltingly, Miranda translated this for Marguerite.

“We are sorry,” said Miranda to the woman. “She really didn't know. Please tell the children we are sorry.” But the woman just stared at them, her arms folded across her chest as she watched them slowly turn and walk away.

NOVEMBER 29, 2010

Finn

“I think we should involve the Americans.” Dax doesn't look at Finn as he says this, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. They are pacing along the ramparts encircling the Old City, next to deafening, obscuring traffic.

Finn nods. “But the local spooks, can we avoid telling them?”

“I don't know. It could be hard. How do we explain why we didn't share the information on her whereabouts? It's not likely we'll be able to rescue her very discreetly.”

“Certainly not if the Americans do it.”

Dax laughs. “They aren't that bad,” he says. “In fact, they may be better than we are.”

Icy fingers suddenly grip Finn's heart. “Dax,” he says, slowing his footsteps. “You know how risky a rescue operation is, and even more so if the locals are involved. I don't know—are there any other options?” He doesn't need to remind Dax what had happened to the group of tourists who were kidnapped several years ago down south.
Government forces had come to the rescue prematurely, despite ongoing mediation, resulting in the death of three hostages in a shoot-out.

“You mean, should we send up a card politely requesting the return of the ambassador's wife?” says Dax.

“Sorry, I'm being stupid. It's just, there is no chance of mediation with these guys?”

“They haven't made contact with us. There has been no ransom request. I don't need to tell you that is not a good sign. Given that, we definitely don't want them to know we know where she is. That is, if your information is good.”

“I trust my source.”

“Look, Finn, I trust you. But I am going to need to know who your source is.”

“No.”

“Finn, I cannot in good conscience go to the Americans on your say-so. With all due respect, I'll look like an idiot.”

“No one must contact my source. My source is vulnerable and would be in serious danger. More than one person would be in serious danger.”

Dax is silent. The crunch of their shoes against the grit of the road is unusually loud, punctuated by the frequent blasts of car horns.

“If I promise to keep the name of your source from the locals, can you tell me? I can swear the Americans to secrecy. I trust them.”

“Completely?”

“My American contact, yes.”

Finn considers this. “If the Americans head up this rescue, can you keep them from notifying the locals?”

“Honestly? No. I am not the boss of the Americans. Telling them is a risk. But she's an American, Finn, she's their girl. And they're better equipped.”

“If it were your wife…?”

“What are our options? It's either tell the Americans and attempt a rescue or sit around waiting for a ransom note or a body. Is that what you want to do?”

“You'll talk with Celia?”

“I'll talk with Celia.”

Finn pulled a copy of
al-Ayyam
from underneath his arm. “Something I want to show you in here,” he says. “It's hers.” Dax takes the paper and glances at the front-page headlines before slipping the rolled-up newsprint into a deep front pocket. And as they continue to circle the Old City, sucking in the exhaust of the cars rattling past, Finn tells Dax who found it, and where.

MARCH 17, 2010

Miranda

Tazkia hadn't called to say she was coming. Her unexpected arrival naturally alarmed the guards, who were given a daily list of visitors. They called Miranda, who slipped on shoes and ran outside to reassure them that the five-foot-tall woman with the suspiciously bulging purse was not a threat to her security. “Why didn't you call?” Miranda said. “I could have had Teru make you quiche.” Tazkia had never tried quiche before her first luncheon with Miranda. “Is this a pizza?” she had said, her mouth crammed full. Now she demanded it regularly. Tazkia was their only guest who actually called ahead of each visit to request specific foods. Miranda took an amused pleasure in indulging her. She hadn't met anyone else in this country who was willing to try new foods. When she had first taken over menu planning for their dinner parties she had chosen spicy, experimental dishes—curried broccoli, Vietnamese salads—until she realized that the Mazrooqis would never touch a food they didn't recognize.

“I had to come before I changed my mind,” Tazkia said, hurrying to the door. At the threshold, she paused. “Finn isn't home?”

“He's at the embassy.”

Miranda remembered the evening Tazkia had first met Finn. Miranda had been showing Tazkia the garden when she heard his convoy approach. As the massive gates swung open to admit the three armored cars, Miranda had grabbed Tazkia's hand to pull her back. The car doors had flown open all at once, releasing a dozen bodyguards, weapons in their hands, eyes sweeping nearby rooftops.

“Oh my god, what's happening?” Tazkia had said, cringing as the CP team spread out across the lawn.

“It's nothing!” Miranda had cried, trying to reassure her. “It's just Finn coming home! It's always like this!” But it took Tazkia several minutes to get over the shock, before she started laughing.

Upstairs in Miranda's studio, Tazkia impatiently tore off her
hijab
and
niqab
and threw herself on the sofa. “I'm getting married,” she said, without preamble. Her hair was damp with sweat, and a few strands clung to her cheeks.

Miranda just looked at her, waiting.

“It's my choice,” she added reassuringly. “I love him.”

Miranda was immediately wounded. How could Tazkia be in love and not have told her? And how could she not have known? Surely there was some sort of sign she should have recognized, some special flush of excitement? And hadn't she told Tazkia about Finn, before anyone else? And even, eventually, the truth about Vícenta?

“I
couldn't
tell you earlier,” she said, as if reading Miranda's mind. “You know I couldn't tell anyone until I knew we would be married. You know how things work here. We are not free to feel love without being married.”

“But
me?
You didn't trust me? I wouldn't have told anyone! You've trusted me with your paintings.” Miranda realized she sounded like a petulant child, but she couldn't help it. Tazkia was her closest friend.

Tazkia nodded. “
Aiwa
. I had no choice with the paintings, if I wanted your help. If I wanted to learn. But it was just safer for me to tell no one about this. Not even my sisters, not even you.”

Miranda felt ashamed of her reaction. “Okay,” she said. “I get it.”

“You'll come to the wedding,” Tazkia said. “Do not worry. You will love him as I do; he is a good man.”

Miranda had so many questions she wasn't sure where to start. “Who is he?”

“A professor at the university. He is a poet.”

“Ah. A poet.”

“A very brilliant poet! He is famous here.”

“But how did you meet?”

“He was a friend of my brother. But this is not why I come.” Tazkia sat up abruptly.

“No?”

“I need you to paint me.” No one came straight to the point like Tazkia. Even Vícenta was oblique by comparison.

“Paint you,” Miranda echoed.

“Yes. Without this—” Tazkia swept a hand down across her
abaya
.

Miranda studied the serious, dark eyes of her student, weighing her words. “But, why? And this is not a problem for you? Because of…your beliefs?”

Tazkia leaned forward. “My belief is that Allah would not make us ugly. My belief is that our bodies must be beautiful if so many artists want to paint them. Your Vícenta, she was beautiful. And before I marry I want to see myself. I need you to show me that I am not disgusting before I show myself to my husband. I need to
see
. I need to see what an artist sees. What my husband,
insha'allah
, will see.”

For a moment, words failed Miranda. “You are not afraid?” she finally said.

“It is
you
,” Tazkia said. “How could I be afraid? You I would trust with my life. You will protect me. You see, I do trust you.”

Miranda nodded slowly. “Still, this is risky, Tazkia. What if someone finds out? What will we do with the painting? Will you be able to get here without anyone knowing where you are going?”

“Yes,” said Tazkia, leaning back as if the matter was settled. “Can we start now, or is Finn coming home soon?”

Miranda studied her favorite student, flushed and eager. “On one condition,” she said. “We set a date to burn it.” It would be insane to keep such a painting, capable of causing incalculable damage to her friend should it ever be discovered.

“Yes!” Tazkia looked relieved. “This is the best thing to do. We will set a date.”

Miranda stood and walked to the desk, picked up her daily planner. “When do you think?”

Tazkia thought for a moment. “June sixth but next year. The day before my wedding.”

“That certainly gives us plenty of time.”

“I don't want to rush.”

“Okay.” Miranda uncapped her pen and scratched the date into her book. “June sixth, 2011.”

DECEMBER 3, 2010

Finn

Finn stares at Celia, not wanting to absorb her words. “Gone?” he says, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “But she was there?”

“We think so.” Celia fiddles with her spoon and teacup, without lifting either to her lips. They sit on the wide porch of the Residence, on the worn blue cushions of the wicker chairs Finn had been trying to get replaced for the last year and a half, where he and Miranda and later Cressie had eaten their mango and pomegranate seeds together every morning. How strange it is to be back here, as a guest. As a supplicant.
Please, my wife, could you find my wife?
How many times has he sat here, or on the fat white sofas inside, listening to the urgent pleas of others.
My father is being persecuted, please get him a visa before the government has him killed. My son is missing and I know what tribe has him. Please, could the UK recolonize the country, so there would be jobs and security?
The stream of misery has no end. Now it is his turn.

“We?”

“Us and the Americans.”

“Who knew we were coming?” Only once the words are out of his mouth does Finn wonder if he still has a right to the pronoun
we
.

“We had to tell local security,” she says, tucking a wisp of blond hair behind her impossibly small ear. “There was no other way to do it. Not without some kind of an incident.”

Finn looks at her. Her blue eyes are kind, intelligent. She is hating her job right now, he knows. He nods, slowly. “I see.” It isn't surprising there was a leak. That was one of the reasons they were in the country to begin with, to try to improve the security forces, law and order.