The Ambassador's Wife (51 page)

He is ashamed of his own weakness. He'd had no malign intent when he removed them from their hiding place. It was just—they
were captivating. He had wanted to take them somewhere he could sit and look at them for a long, long time. It was the painting of Miranda that had first caught his eye, of course. But then he saw the other one. A woman, small, dark, clearly Mazrooqi. He'd never even seen an exposed female Mazrooqi face, let alone all that lay below. Not that she was anatomically different from any other woman; it was the knowledge of where she came from that made it so especially titillating. He wondered who she was. Obviously a friend of Miranda's. A
good
friend. And then it occurred to him—was she a friend? Or something more?

He had discovered the paintings while doing an inventory of the safe room just before Celia moved into the Residence. Finn must have forgotten them in his distraction over the kidnapping. Before Norman had time to properly examine his motives, he was stuffing them into bin liners and toting them to his car. Perhaps it had been merely erotic fascination that prompted him. But he'd be a liar if he didn't admit he'd briefly wondered if he could somehow use them against Finn. Then again, the kidnapping seemed punishment enough. Finally, Finn was suffering. It was a relief to Norman that he felt no need to make things worse.

While he has certainly enjoyed studying these works of art, if you could call them that, these works of primitive pornography, he almost regrets having taken them. What is he going to do with them in London except discreetly try to get rid of them somewhere? It isn't as though he could keep them in their flat. What's worse is that Finn knows he was the one to take them. No one else had keys. He was a fucking idiot sometimes.

“Sir, that parcel is too large for a carry-on,” the pretty black-haired girl behind the counter tells him, nodding at the paintings. “You'll have to check it.”

“Surely not,” he says. “I'm flying business.”

“Nevertheless,” she says. “It must fit in this.” She gestures to the wire display indicating the proper size for a carry-on. You have got to be joking, he thinks. Of all times to follow the fucking rules.

“Surely you can make an exception? I'm a diplomat, and this is an important package.”

“You will have to check it.” The woman picks up one end of the parcel, apparently with the intention of heaving it onto the conveyor belt behind her. Sweat soaking his armpits, Norman lunges at the package, catching just the edge. The thick paper tears. He watches in horror as a triangular strip of brown paper peels away to reveal, in all of its naked glory, a vagina. And not just an ordinary vagina, but a monstrously oversized vagina seemingly crafted from sweets, from the ribbons of red-and-white peppermint he had loved as child and a well-placed lemon drop.

For a moment, the airport is, for the first time in its existence, silent. Then a roar of outrage erupts. Two men grab Norman's arms, holding him still while someone shouts for security, for the police. His Arabic isn't good enough to understand all that swirls around him. The check-in counter girl has stepped away from the package in revulsion, as if afraid it will contaminate her. In front of him, several men tear open the rest of the package, exposing the sugar-sticky thighs, the dark hair, the sweetest and most sacred places of those two untouchable girls.

MAY 5, 2011

Finn

Finn is at the office when he gets the call from the airport. As soon as he has figured out what the angry man on the other end is shouting at him, he hangs up the receiver, waits for a dial tone, and rings Tazkia.

“Where are you?” he says. If it didn't involve gearing up an entire armored convoy, he'd be tempted to head out to get her.

“Home. We're in the middle of breakfast. What is it?” Her voice is anxious; she already knows the only reason he would ring her.

“Listen carefully. As quickly as you can, pack a few things, whatever is most important to you, and get to the Residence. You may not be able to go back. Do you understand me?” If only those paintings hadn't been titled and signed.

“I do.” Her voice is small, terrified.

“Tazkia, do you have a passport?”

“I'm on my father's.”

Finn winces. Damn these countries that don't allow women their own passports, where women are treated as perpetual children incapable of managing their own lives.

“All right. We'll think of something. If you have any identification papers at all, try to find them.”

“I will try.” She sounds doubtful.

“You are going to be all right, Tazkia, we will take care of you. Don't cry. Your parents mustn't suspect anything until you are safely here. Miranda will be at the Residence waiting for you.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“As soon as you can, do you understand? I don't think you have very long.”

“I understand.”

Finn rings Miranda next to ask her to prepare a room for Tazkia before calling airport security back, bracing himself for a diplomatic shitstorm.

MAY 5, 2011

Miranda

Miranda sits watching Tazkia mangle one of Finn's blue silk handkerchiefs. Her tiny friend is curled in a ball in a corner of her blue studio sofa, as hysterical as Miranda has ever seen her. “I'm so sorry,” she says. “I'm so sorry.” What else is there to say? She has ruined the life of the one person she cares most about, outside of her family. If only she had said
no
, it wasn't a good idea for them to make the paintings. If only she had burned them as soon as they were finished. If she hadn't been stupid enough to go off hiking in the hills in the current security situation. If only one of Tazkia's many cousins didn't work at the airport.

“Tazzy. Tazzy, we have to talk about what to do.” There is no
response. Miranda gets up and makes her a cup of tea, with seven spoonfuls of sugar and lashings of milk. When she carries it back to the sofa, Tazkia accepts it with shaking hands.

“Where will I go?” she says finally. “Where is there for me? Nowhere. I have no family anywhere.”

“You have us.”

Tazkia looks at her skeptically. “I can't stay here.”

“No. Not for too long. You can stay here for a few days, but I think we need to get you out of the country before your family figures out where you are.”

“To where?”

“To wherever we can get you a visa. Do you have a passport?”

Tazkia's face crumples.

“Okay, okay. Look, Finn will help us. He will think of something.” Miranda has no idea if this is true. “Taz. Would your family really hurt you?” She knows Tazkia's family, has eaten her mother's homemade flatbread, borrowed her sisters' sequined dresses for wedding parties, and discussed politics with her father. She cannot imagine any of them wanting to harm their youngest child.

“I don't know. I don't know. Nothing like this has ever happened. Probably not ever in this country. I don't see how they can ever forgive me.” She blows her nose vigorously in the hankie.

“Maybe someday, maybe if you go away for a while, mightn't they someday forgive you? You can write to them, try to explain.”

“They won't understand! And how could I explain to Adan?”

“The same way you explained to me why you wanted to do it?”

Tazkia just shakes her head. “He is the kindest, gentlest, most loving man I have ever met. But he is Mazrooqi. He is Muslim. There is no way for him to understand this. He lacks the—what is it you are always saying? The cultural subtext?”

“The cultural context. Oh, Taz. I have ruined everything for you.”

Tazkia doesn't refute this, just sits twisting the mauled blue silk in her fingers. Maybe it was a bad idea to sit in the studio, where they are surrounded by paintings. Naked women, alone, entwined, embodying objects, confront them from every side. Miranda feels an impulse to turn them all toward the wall.

She struggles to come up with a scrap of hope for her protégée. “Most of my friends and family are in the US,” she says, “but I don't think we can get you there. It will be too hard to get a visa. Same with the UK. Let me think…Do you have friends in any other Arab country? Jordan? Egypt?”

Tazkia shakes her head. “I have never had the opportunity to travel,” she says. “My family has no money. People like us don't leave home. You know this.” It is true; only women from the most elite families, with both money and political connections, are able to study abroad, develop careers.

“Is there anywhere you think you might like to go?” Miranda asks hopefully. “It's probably safest if we get you out of the Middle East altogether, actually.”

“No.” Tazkia is decisive. “This is my home. What I want is to be here. With Adan, with my family.”

Her heart sinking, Miranda lists out loud the places she might have friends willing to help Tazkia. “I have a very good friend in Stockholm. But it's cold. Very cold. You get cold easily. And my friend is a man so that probably won't work. There's, let's see, there's Anna in Australia, but again, the visa issues. Saudi Arabia—no way. I don't know anyone there anyway. Okay, where is easiest to get a visa…The Dominican Republic? I have a friend who moved there. Or Panama? My friend Virginia from grad school moved there and she loves it. Or, what about—”

“Mira, I cannot go
anywhere
alone. I have never been anywhere alone in my life. I have never been in a car alone. I have never slept alone. I have never been in an airplane either alone or with someone. You cannot just
send
me somewhere, like a parcel.”

Miranda studies her face, trying to think of a solution, any solution. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. Well, we will just have to find a way to take you with us, wherever it is we end up going next. You are a sister to me, as much as anyone has been. Until we go you'll stay here.”

Tazkia looks more miserable than ever. “You're not my family. This is not my home.”

“No,” says Miranda sadly. “We're not your family. But we are less likely to kill you.”

MAY 5, 2011

Finn

Finn sits on the edge of the tub, watching the girls. Blissfully ignorant of the drama unfolding around them, threatening to uproot their lives once again, they are pressing colored foam letters against the tiles of the bath. Cressida sticks a purple
j
in place and turns to her father. “Look!” she says, pleased with herself. Her string of letters spells
efjkdssdvojewzapfjsvkdvj
.

“Clever girl,” says Finn. “What word is that?”

Cressida frowns at him. “Not a
word
, it's a
story
.”

“Ah,” he says. “Of course. Can you tell me the story?”

“Daddy,” she says disapprovingly, “you can
read
!”

She turns her attention to the little wooden boats the staff have made for her, loading them up with tiny wooden people and laughing when they capsize. Luloah watches her, mesmerized. She can sit up on her own and has started to crawl. It amazes him how quickly Cressie has adapted to her presence, treating her a bit like a special pet. Cressida can, however, be a wee bit tyrannical, reveling in the fact that she has found someone smaller than she is, someone who knows less. She speaks to Luloah in a mix of primitive English and Arabic, explaining the world to her.
“Azraq, habibti,”
she says now, grabbing a bath crayon in her fist and smearing it on the wall.
“AzraqAzraqAzraq!”

Cressie knows all of her colors now, in English and Arabic. She can count to five. And she has developed a close relationship with the elephant at the bottom of her porridge bowl. Sometimes when she is eating breakfast, she stops abruptly and says, “Elmer? ELMER?” with great anxiety in her voice. When that happens, he or Miranda scrapes a bit of the porridge aside to ease her mind that the elephant is still there. “Elmer!” she then shrieks with glee. “HELLO, ELMER!”

Luloah tries to imitate everything she does, though her little tongue cannot yet find its way around
l
's. “Emma! Emma!” she yells with Cressie, banging a spoon. Luloah has great fun with spoons, though she cannot manage to get one anywhere near her mouth.
Sometimes Cressida tries to feed her, splattering Luloah's cheeks (and the table, chairs, clothing) with pureed sweet potato or lentils.

He can't deny it; Finn enjoys the chaos of an additional child in the house, this house that has always been too large for his small family. And it's difficult not to return Luloah's affection when she hands him a stuffed zebra or clings to his knee. The laughter of the two girls playing together takes the sharp edges off everything else, even off Miranda. Could he seriously consider returning Cressida to the quiet life of a solitary child? Not that she had been unhappy, but having grown accustomed to a sister, wouldn't she feel that loss were the girl taken away? He has stopped trying to convince Miranda to give up Luloah, and begun trying to figure out how they could possibly keep her. It will not be easy.

They cannot risk a fake passport. They cannot risk bribing Mazrooqi officials. And they certainly cannot risk sneaking across a border. He struggles to discover a legal way to do this. Finn has never broken a law in his life. He has never even parked on a double yellow line. Any way he can imagine getting Luloah out of the country with his family deeply contradicts his sense of self.

Miranda peeks into the bathroom and smiles at the girls. “She's asleep,” she tells Finn.

He nods. “We'll talk once we get the girls down.”

Now they have the additional problem of Tazkia. Where is she to go? How would they get her a passport? Miranda looks exhausted, grim, the lines etched across her forehead deepening. She blames herself, which probably doesn't help her psyche at the moment. Once again, Finn feels helpless.

“Come on, girls, time for books,” he says, rising and grabbing two hooded teddy bear towels from the rack. Cressida protests with a howl, grabbing his wrist when he reaches to pull the plug. “Cressie sweetheart, I'll make a deal with you. If you'll be a good girl and climb out of the tub on your own, I'll sing you ‘Teddy Bears' Picnic.' ”