Superstitiously, she hoped that perpetual awareness of her good fortune would somehow ward off tragedy. Free from religion, she had no god to thank. Nor did she see the universe as a benevolent force that arranged things as they are meant to be. But she’d read in a science magazine that gratitude alone, whether to God, cosmic forces, a friend, or family, was enough to improve health and well-being.
Miranda was not constitutionally cheerful; her default take on the world veered toward noir. She viewed with awe her Zen-like friend Moira back in Seattle, who found reasons to be overjoyed every minute of the day. Moira stopped to smell the roses. Moira was flooded with pleasure by the sight of a bluebird, a jar of almond butter, or a stray balloon. Moira believed that everything happened for a reason. Miranda wished she could believe that, but struggle though she might, she could not manufacture faith in the bounty of the universe.
Moira was an acupuncturist, someone who believed that bad moods were simply blocked energy flows. For Miranda, bad moods were the results of reality, by-products of reading the news. Every front-page story sank into her like a voodoo needle. Every day there was another dead child, another natural disaster, another insane politician insisting that gay people could be “cured.” She didn’t know how not to take it all personally.
Yet the pendulum also swung the other way, filling her with a baseless euphoria that made her skip down a sidewalk, flirt with a pretty girl at a party, or dance on a bar. Her bleak worldview remained unaltered, but she experienced brief reprieves. Which is all to say that this consistent happiness was like a stiff, shiny ball gown rubbing against her tomboy’s knees. She couldn’t get used to wearing it. She didn’t know how to properly inhabit it, how to walk in it, how to make it her own.
The first time she stayed over at the ambassadorial Residence, she’d spent the night throwing up in the marble-floored bathroom. She’d woken close to 3:00 a.m., desperately nauseated, and slipped out of bed in search of a remedy. They kept a stash of organic ginger beer in the upstairs refrigerator. Naked, she’d sat on the cold bathroom tiles clutching the sweating can. She’d been halfway through it when she started vomiting.
She wasn’t ill. She had no fever, no pain, and had had only a modest dinner of carrot soup and bread. It was just, she couldn’t believe that all of this, that Finn most of all, was hers.
He hadn’t stirred. He slept so little that when he did drift off he committed fully to unconsciousness. In the morning when she’d told him what had happened he chastised her for not waking him. “You needed the sleep,” she’d said. “And there was nothing you could have done anyway.”
“I could have held your hand! Or kept your hair out of your face.”
She’d laughed. “Thanks, but it really wasn’t a moment for romance. I’m not in the least sad that you missed it.”
—
HER FEET HAD been beating out a mindless rhythm on the treadmill for nearly an hour, her mind lost in a meditation on color, when the glass door of the gym slid open. The sound jolted her back from Ethiopia, where she and Vícenta had traveled during their first year here, and where they were shocked to find themselves in the dazzling palette of Africa after so many months confined to the black-and-white world of Mazrooq. Here, with women dressed as shadows of their white-robed men, any color was subdued, hidden, suppressed. But Ethiopia! Ethiopia was a revelation. She fell instantly in love with the women there, with their bare faces and their lithe bodies dressed in reds, purples, oranges, yellows, and pinks all at once. Every woman was a garden unto herself, in radiant full bloom. Traveling from Mazrooq to Ethiopia was like going from Kansas to Oz.
—
“SALAAMA ALEIKUM,” CHORUSED Mukhtar and Bashir politely, looking slightly bewildered at the sight of her in a camisole and shorts. No doubt they were wondering whether to report her unauthorized use of the gym equipment—before remembering that the person to whom they would report her was most likely responsible for her presence. “Wa aleikum asalaam,” she said cheerfully, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for them to find her here. Only then did she realize what her iPod was blasting. That butt you got makes me so horny…It was “Baby Got Back,” from her One-Hit Wonders of the ’90s album. “I can turn off the music,” she offered, hoping the guards’ English lessons weren’t going well.
“No problem,” said Mukhtar, heading for the bench press. “We like music.”
Miranda kept running, praying the next song would be better. But no. I’m too sexy for my shirt…Mortified, Miranda didn’t know whether to turn off the music or fake ignorance of the lyrics. The men continued their bench-pressing and biceps curls, seemingly oblivious. She left it on. They didn’t stay long, just another ten minutes, before slipping out to change back into uniform. Breathing a sigh of relief, Miranda upped the speed on the treadmill. And the door slid open again.
“Oh!” a female voice said.
It was Antoinette, a chubby blonde from the embassy whose job seemed to be primarily to find furniture for staff housing (Miranda hadn’t realized how pedestrian most diplomatic jobs were. Most people in the embassy were not involved in politics at all; they were accountants, housing managers, or personal assistants). She’d never been particularly friendly when they’d seen each other at the club or various receptions, but then again, not many of the British staffers were. They were cliquish and kept largely to themselves, not mixing socially with the local population or even the staff of other embassies. Why be a diplomat then? Miranda had wondered. Why take a job abroad if you want to spend all of your evenings tossing back gin and tonics with your pals from the homeland? Finn was different, of course. Though comparisons were not fair, given that an ambassador had entirely different social and professional prospects from those of his staff. Finn socialized every night, either out or at home, much of it obligatory. Still, he seemed to relish spending time with his local contacts and immersing himself as much as was practical in the culture. He often dressed in a thobe for Mazrooqi gatherings, joining in the local dances with gusto.
But the pressing concern at the moment was that Antoinette didn’t know about her and Finn. Which meant she would be wondering how Miranda had happened to get access to the gym. Think fast, Miranda urged herself, her feet suddenly getting in each other’s way on the treadmill.
“Good morning!” she said brightly. She couldn’t hide, so she might as well try to brazen it out. At least there was no chance that Antoinette would ask her directly what she was doing there. The Brits, in Miranda’s experience, rarely communicated anything directly. (Again, Finn excepted.)
Antoinette gave a short nod and headed toward the elliptical machine.
She could lie and say that she had come with Sally, one of her few embassy friends, and that Sally had left earlier. She could say Tucker let her in. Or she could say nothing and hope Antoinette just assumed she was there legally. The less said the better, she finally concluded, reaching for the treadmill’s controls.
She had increased her pace so that she was nearly sprinting, so she wanted to slow the machine before attempting to dismount. But embarrassment and panic made her clumsy. Instead of changing the speed, her swinging palm swiped the Emergency Stop key. The rubber mat of the treadmill jerked to a standstill. Miranda kept moving, catapulting headfirst over the front of the machine, her hips catching on the display console. For a nanosecond she hung there, draped over the tilted treadmill, her curls brushing the floor. But Miranda’s slight form was apparently not quite substantial enough to flip the machine entirely. It slammed back to the ground, dropping her unceremoniously on her head.
Breathless from the impact, Miranda kept her eyes closed. This did not just happen, she thought. I did not just flip myself over the handlebars of a treadmill in the embassy’s gym in front of an embassy employee. A treadmill that I am not officially allowed to use without Finn around. Even I could not be this uncoordinated.
And yet. There she was. Flat on her back with her head throbbing and her camisole riding up
, showing the top of her striped cotton underwear and a strip of her naked belly.
“You all right?” The voice was polite, but not overly concerned. Antoinette hadn’t paused the elliptical machine. “Do you need help? I could get off. I just didn’t want to stop suddenly and…”
And do what you just did, Miranda silently finished for her.
“Oh, I’m grand,” she finally managed. “Just getting my breath back. Up in a sec.” But she wasn’t quite sure this was possible. Cautiously, she tested a few body parts. Her toes wriggled. Her fingers too. Not paralyzed then. She bent a knee. If something were broken, she would be crying, wouldn’t she? Slowly she rolled onto her side, conscious of Antoinette’s curious gaze, and got to her feet. The lights felt very bright suddenly, and it occurred to her that she might have a concussion. She took a few limping steps.
Halfway to the door she paused. Would Antoinette see her slipping through the gates back toward the Residence? The embassy staffers came in a separate entrance, from the street. Only the ambassador and his guests used the gate from the house. She could avoid questions by going out the staff door and circling around to the main entrance of the Residence. But that posed two other problems. First, there was no way she was going to walk outside of this little compound dressed in shorts and a camisole. She’d give the guards a coronary. Second, she couldn’t get in or out of the staff entrance without a key. She’d have to go back to the house directly.
“Bye!” she said cheerfully to Antoinette, who continued to take slow steps on the elliptical machine.
There was no answer. Miranda watched her for a minute before slipping out the door and, glancing painfully over her shoulder to make sure Antoinette wasn’t looking, darted through the Residence gates and staggered up the lawn to the house.
Christ, she thought, stepping into the shower in Finn’s bathroom. Land mines everywhere.
—
FINN FINALLY GOT home around 3:00 p.m. She always had plenty of warning of his arrival, as the gates would clatter open and the guards’ walkie-talkies would start bleating before his armored convoy finally swept into the yard. She ran downstairs to meet him, still damp from her shower.
“Staying away from buttons?” he said, kissing her. “I leave you alone one morning and you managed to get the whole team round.”
“Let that be a lesson to you. I got lonely. Besides, I’ve been wanting to meet Tucker for ages.”
“And I’m sure you made quite an impression. What did Teru leave us?” They headed to the kitchen and rummaged around in the refrigerator, finding spinach quiche, salad, and apple-rhubarb crumble.
“I’ve made a decision,” Finn said as he refilled their glasses with sauvignon blanc. They were eating on the front porch, where they could look out onto the garden.
“You’re never going to leave me here alone again?”
“In addition to that. I’ve decided that it’s time to tell my staff. It’s silly, really, to wait any longer, and it just makes it seem like we’re doing something wrong.”
“Which we’re not.”
“Which we absolutely are not. So I think I’ll say something at Saturday’s morning meeting. If that’s all right with you.”
“Is there a reason it shouldn’t be? Do you have ex-lovers in the embassy who are going to come after me with AK-47s?”
Finn laughed. “I haven’t had a girlfriend in five years.”
“So you say. I still don’t believe you.” The five-year gap bothered her. It was impossible for Miranda to envision going without intimacy for that long. Besides, Finn was brilliant, attractive, personable, and single. How many people were there like that in the Foreign Office?
“I’ve been busy. I’ve moved quite a bit in the last few years. And I don’t manage time well.”
“And everyone else is married?”
“Either that or they just didn’t fancy me.”
“Impossible.”
“This is why I love you.”
“Well it’s not for my cooking.”
“Wait—you cook?”
Miranda laughed and choked on a bit of crumble. Finn pounded her on the back.
“Ow!” she winced and pulled away from him.
Finn looked stricken. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt—”
“No, it’s okay, really. I’m just a bit…bruised. I had a little incident in the gym this morning.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Another incident?”
Miranda told him about Antoinette and the treadmill. Finn tried valiantly to keep a straight face but couldn’t manage it.
“It wasn’t funny!” she said.
“No, no, I’m sure…I’m just…thinking about the CCTV footage.”
Miranda groaned. “Nooooo, seriously? That was on camera?”
“Sweetheart, you’re at the ambassador’s Residence. Everything is on camera.”
“Even here? Even now?” She stretched a toe underneath the table to nudge his knee.
“Especially here. We’re on the porch! Someone could try to climb in our windows from here. But we are safe inside. Or so I’ve been told.”
“God I hope so.”
“Well if they have any footage of what we get up to inside, we ought to be able to charge people to view it.”
“Pay-per-view ambassador porn. Sounds like a promising category.”
“Promising at least a better income than I have as a civil servant.”
“And more than you’d make as an artist.”
“Indubitably. Especially given my complete hopelessness with a pencil. Speaking of which, I haven’t seen any new pieces lately. Shall we go to yours after lunch?”
“Are you allowed?”
“If I give the guys an hour’s notice.”
“Okay. I don’t think anyone else is home. But if we eat anything there we’ll have to wash our own dishes.”
“Heaven forfend. I’ll bring them back here.”
“Go tell the guys then. I’ll head upstairs and slip into something much, much less comfortable.”
—
FINN WAS THE only one who had seen the paintings. Anyone in his position had to be good at keeping secrets, she figured. Besides, if there was anyone as enthusiastic about supporting the local women as she was, it was Finn. More than thirty paintings were secreted in her house, stacked in boxes within an unused wardrobe in a cramped room on the roof. She wondered what she would do with them when she eventually left. Where would her girls be able to keep them? They could not store them at home, where their families would see them. While some might be able to accept a still life or two under their roofs, surely the recent paintings would arouse furor. Or worse.
She sighed. Why was she doing this? Why was she encouraging these women to cultivate talents that they would never be able to use? But she knew the answer. The answer was simple. She was teaching these women to paint because they wanted to learn. They wanted to learn so badly they made up excuses to get to her house. They risked being found out. They kept secrets from people they loved.
—
“TELL ME AGAIN how you found all these women,” Finn said on their way over. “Tell me how Tazkia found you.”
“You already know about Tazkia!”
“I’m getting old. I forget things. And I want to memorize everything that has ever happened to you.”
Miranda smiled. “Call me Scheherazade,” she said. “Okay. Tazkia.”
“Wait, should we change her name for the purposes of the conversation? With the guys up front?”
“They don’t speak English. They’ll only understand her name. For all they know we’re saying Tazkia is the most pious and virtuous Mazrooqi in the entire country.”
“Okay,” said Finn, though his brow remained creased.
“I’ll try to avoid saying her name much. Okay?”
“Fair enough.”
“Once upon a time there was a feisty little artist named—well, a feisty little artist. She lived in a stone house carved out of the
Old City, with her mother and father and two sisters and two brothers. Our artist was the youngest. During the day, her father ran a tiny store, where he sold batteries, water, sodas, cookies, candy bars, milk, and yogurts.”
“No porridge? I feel like there should be porridge in this story.”
“Don’t be so English. Mazrooqis don’t eat porridge.”
“What do they have for breakfast?” he asked. “I’m never invited for breakfast.”
“Well, our artist’s mother baked long, skinny baguettes and stir-fried chicken livers and onions for their breakfast. Two sisters and one brother remained at home. Only the artist had attended university, where she had studied the unwomanly art of geometry, drawn to its logic and relation to her own secret scribblings.”
“See, you didn’t mention the geometry part before. What else are you keeping from me?”
Miranda smiled and picked up his hand from the seat to give it a clandestine squeeze. “Not a single thing.”
—
MIRANDA HAD MET Tazkia at German Haus, at Vícentas first installation. Eager to explore an unfamiliar part of the world and interested rather abstractly in the plight of women in the Middle East, Vícenta had come here on an artist’s grant and Miranda had taken a sabbatical to accompany her. Of all the cultural centers in the city, German Haus was the most active, often inviting foreign artists to exhibit their work, usually with the stipulation that they also teach a workshop for the local population. There, Miranda (who spoke exactly eleven words of German, most of them names of foods) had met weavers, batik artists, painters, photographers, writers, and sculptors. Not all of whom were German. It didn’t seem mandatory. She had watched presentations on alabaster, mined by hand here, and suffered through countless German movies with only Arabic subtitles. So few places in the city offered any kind of entertainment that she’d become willing to sit through just about anything.
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