Eventually, it became clear that Alya was criticizing Chrysantha for not having invited all of HOMSA to go to these organizations and see their conditions for themselves. Apparently, she had visited with just a few of the other wives. Alya thought they should all have a chance to visit the organizations before any decision was made.
“Everyone was notified,” Chrysantha protested. “I sent a fax!”
“I did not get a fax,” said Adinda.
“You see?” said Alya. “The rest of us did not know.”
“It is not my fault if your fax machine does not function. Most embassies, they have a fax.”
The conflict escalated until the women were once more shouting across the room. Miranda watched in fascination. It seemed such a ridiculous debate. Why couldn’t they all just go visit the places this week and then make a final decision, if more people wanted to see them? Why yell at each other? Were they not supposed to be diplomatic wives? Were they utterly unschooled in the gentle art of persuasion? This was not the meeting she had envisioned.
Intriguingly, most of the women addressed their comments directly to Miranda, as if pleading their case with her. They overestimated her understanding of Arabic, barraging her with proclamations and questions, to which her only response was to smile and shrug her shoulders. When phrases were translated into English, the women glanced at her to check that they had said them correctly. She was, after all, the only native English speaker.
Finally, after another incomprehensible burst of Arabic, Chrysantha hauled herself to her feet and stalked out. A few women made a show of begging her to stay, but no one actually stood up to stop her.
After this, things descended into chaos. No one seemed to know how to properly hold a meeting. “Who is our vice president?” Olamide asked. “Don’t we have a vice president?”
“Adinda,” Stefania offered.
“No, I am the treasurer!” said Adinda.
“Adinda should be the vice president!” said another.
“No,” said Adinda, laughing. “I don’t even have all the information I need to do my job as treasurer!”
Nothing was resolved. No one proposed a way to go forward. No one suggested a plan of action. Miranda might have suggested one, just to get things moving in some sort of clear direction, but she wasn’t sure that her first meeting was the best time to try taking the reins.
Olamide abruptly stood and began shepherding the women into the other room. Bewildered, Miranda followed the others into a dining room full of white-clothed tables. A buffet table was heaped with food: cheeses, meats, salads, and breads. Miranda wished she were home, eating alone with ARTnews.
“Eat, eat!” said Olamide kindly, taking her arm. “You can sit by me.” Feeling trapped, Miranda scooped a few spoonfuls of salad onto a plate and perched on one of the chairs. She sat quietly, listening to the other women speak in Arabic, trying to follow the conversation. She caught the words for children, home, and sick. Noting her confusion, Adinda took pity on her and translated. “We’re going to an orphanage next week,” she said. “We go every Tuesday to visit the children.”
“All of you?”
“No no, just a few. Otherwise it is too much for the children. Too many people.”
“Of course.”
“This Tuesday, it is just Marguerite, but she could use company. Do you want to go?”
“Yes, please! Would that be okay?”
“Of course! You can see the babies and then the older children. They are in a separate area.
“For an orphanage, it is not too bad,” continued Adinda. “It will only half break your heart.”
NOVEMBER 19, 2010
Finn
It is an unusually quiet Friday afternoon in the Old City when Finn sets off from the house, Bashir at his side. Cressie is home with Gabra, who has strict instructions to allow no visitors until their return. Tucker will also check on them, as he still does several times a day, in addition to the hours he spends organizing Celia’s protection. Finn doubts that Tucker ever sleeps; if work didn’t keep him awake, guilt would. He cannot forgive himself, holds himself personally responsible for Miranda’s loss. Despite the bright sun, a chill has settled into Finn’s bones. He has done his best to make himself inconspicuous, dressing in a long white thobe and suit jacket, a black-and-white scarf tied around his head. Yet inevitably, people stare as he and Bashir weave their way through the maze of streets toward the Grand Mosque, where Tazkia’s brother Hamid is to meet them. Finn received the text from Tazkia yesterday. The girls needed to speak with him, but they had to be careful. Would he please meet Hamid at the mosque? He would take Finn to a place where it was safe.
Finn holds out no real hope, but he is not in a position to turn down any offer of assistance. His local network has not yet turned up even a rumor of Miranda’s whereabouts. Or those of the other women. Or of Mukhtar. From the various embassies, there has been only silence.
As they approach the mosque, Finn scans the crowd. He hasn’t met Tazkia’s brother before, but he knows it won’t take long for the boy to spot him. He is easily the tallest, palest, and lightest-eyed person for blocks. Dozens of men loiter near the mosque. Friday afternoon prayers have come and gone, and most of the men are on their way to a quiet place to gossip over miniature cups of sticky-sweet tea. A diminutive, dark-haired youth flicks his cigarette into the street and stands abruptly from where he has been squatting on a stoop with a friend. His outfit matches Finn’s, with the addition of a decorative dagger dangling from a thick leather belt. He smiles, gestures to Finn to follow him, and swiftly disappears down a side street.
Quickening their pace, Finn and Bashir follow him for a dozen or so turns deeper and deeper into the city. At last they arrive at a small, blue, battered Ford truck and the boy turns to look at Finn. “Apologies, sa’adat as-safir,” he says. “I am only protecting my sister. I am Hamid.”
“Fursa saeeda. Fahimt.” Understood. “Please call me Finn.”
“Yalla?”
Finn nods. The boy opens the door of the truck and Finn slides in, wedging himself between Hamid and Bashir. As the truck rattles through the streets, narrowly avoiding wheelbarrows and small children, Finn notices he can see the cobblestones through a hole in the floor by his feet. The noise of the engine makes it hard to speak, though Finn isn’t sure what to say anyway. “Your sister is kind to want to help me find my wife,” he says finally.
Hamid nods. “She loves your wife,” he shouts in Arabic over the engine’s rumble. Taking his right hand off the wheel, he rummages between the seats for his cigarettes. The truck swerves, nearly brushing a corner of a building. Finn wants to ask where they are going but isn’t sure he should.
It doesn’t take long for Finn to discern their destination. Hamid has driven them to the outskirts of a ruined village, abandoned decades ago. Many of the stone houses still stand, but their insides have been scooped out and filled with rocks, soda cans, plastic bags, and other detritus of picnickers and passersby. Finn has visited the village before, on a hike with Miranda. They had climbed up from the nearest wadi and sat on the crumbling wall of the village looking out over the countryside while they ate a picnic of bread and palm fruit. A small boy, not more than six (though it was hard to tell when so many children were stunted by malnutrition), had trailed after them as they climbed, chattering about the history of the village while he collected the palm fruit for them to eat. “This was all Jews,” he’d said proudly, waving his hand at a row of modest stone houses. He had peeled the spiky orbs for them, holding out the dripping yellow flesh in his filthy palms. “The Jews, they made the silver jewelry,” he’d told them. “The best, with the best designs.” Miranda had asked the boy if he had ever met a Jew, and he’d said, “No. They are gone long ago.” (“No doubt chased out by his ancestors,” Miranda had muttered under her breath to Finn.)
Now, Hamid climbs out of the truck and scans the horizon before letting Finn and Bashir out to follow him. They walk toward one of
the larger ruins. “I brought the girls here earlier,” he tells Finn. “They wait. In the city, there are too many eyes.”
When Finn first ducks into the stone building, he is blinded by the darkness. Slowly, the dim shapes of about a half-dozen women emerge. Completely swathed in black, they are nearly invisible. Yet he recognizes one, the only face not obscured by a niqab: Madina. “Madina!” he says, offering and then withdrawing a hand.
“We’ve been meeting at my house,” she says. “They needed somewhere they could talk without a man. No offense, Finn.”
“None taken. I’m glad.”
One of the smaller, dark shapes jumps up and runs toward him. “Sa’adat as-safir!” It is Tazkia. She stops just short of him.
“Kayf halikee?” he says, grateful for the warmth of her voice, familiar and kind.
“Al haamdulillah,” she says. “Come, sit.”
Finn settles himself on the cool earth, moving aside a few sharp pieces of rock. “I appreciate you wanting to help,” he begins.
“Sa’adat as-safir, we must help. Listen…,” and squatting beside him with the grubby tips of her sneakers jutting out from under her abaya, she begins to talk. The women, like almost everyone in this country, have extensive families with numerous branches. Each of these families originates in an area beyond the capital city. The half-dozen women here have roots in at least as many far-flung villages. “And we have been talking with our cousins, our aunts, our nieces and friends,” says Tazkia. “We have sent messages to our families everywhere. And now, sa’adat as-safir, we think we may have an idea of where she is, your Miranda.” Tazkia pauses, waits for her words to take effect. “Or at least, we think we know where she has been.”
Finn has to stop himself from grabbing her shoulders and shaking the information out of her. “Tazkia, are you sure? How do you know? What do you know? Tell me everything.”
“Wait,” she says, as Finn’s heart speeds with reckless hope. Leaning behind her, she takes a bag and reaches inside. It takes years for her to find what she is looking for. And then she extends her hand to Finn. “Take it outside to look at it,” she says. “Tell me if it is Miranda’s.”
Finn’s fingers tremble as he takes hold of the crumpled sheet of paper Tazkia has given him. Moving closer to the door, he smoothes it against the ground, until in the light creeping in he can at last make out a familiar image.
SEPTEMBER 19, 2008
Miranda
It was the booze order that began to change things. It had been held up for ages, on account of Ramadan. That was the excuse the government officials gave, although the embassy’s alcohol shipment had arrived weeks ahead of the holy month. Every six months or so, staff were allowed to order their fill from a liquor and wine catalog, to get them through diplomatic soirees and their more desperate days. The country was tough enough without having to constantly deal with it sober, Tucker said.
By the beginning of September, everyone was running dry and beginning to panic. The British Club ran out of white wine, Leslie ran out of beer, and Finn had served the last of his Bombay Sapphire. The situation was dire. During Ramadan, not even the Sheraton or the InterContinental would serve a glass of wine. So it was a shock when the booze order abruptly showed up before the last week of the holy month. The customs authorities had refused them their crates of sin before Ramadan but decided to release them during the month itself? Maybe all that fasting was taking a toll. Still, no one complained. No one was about to question this particular bit of local perversity, least of all the Brits.
“I told Camilla that you’d help unload it tomorrow morning,” Finn said to Miranda the night before the big day as they undressed for bed. “It should arrive around ten a.m.”
A ribbon of dread wove itself around Miranda’s rib cage. Camilla, dipsomaniac wife of Finn’s deputy, first thing in the morning, was not her idea of a bright start to the day. Camilla had a habit of cornering Miranda after having tossed back one glass of chardonnay too many in the club or at a party and peppering her with pointed questions, usually of an ominously personal nature: What was the name of that girl Miranda used to live with in the Old City? Her roommate? What kinds of things did she paint? Wasn’t it nice that she had a lovely hobby like painting? What charitable work was she doing? Did she get the invitation to the Spanish ambassador’s wife’s coffee morning? (No, she did not.) Did she need any advice about her new life? (Yes, but not from Camilla.) Or she would say things like “It must be so hard, coming from a country everyone here hates so much.” And so on, until Miranda feigned desperate need for the toilet.
But it was important, in these early days, to show herself willing. Besides, she had been trapped in the house for several days. With terrorist attacks escalating, staff members were banned from using the pool or the gym, despite the fact that they were right at the end of Miranda and Finn’s garden.
“You’ll at least get a decent workout hauling all the boxes.” Finn smiled, reading her mind, as usual. It was a testament to how desperate Miranda had become in her fancy prison that she could suddenly think of nothing more thrilling than hauling boxes of bottles around town.
“Plus it’s a good bonding opportunity.” Some of the staff might actually be forced to speak to her.
“Thought that too.”
Finn also wanted to help with the shipment, but he had more pressing concerns than the lubrication of his employees. Before 7:00 a.m., he headed to the embassy to ensure new security measures had been put in place, while Miranda pulled on her cargo pants and one of Finn’s shirts and pinned up her hair with a slender paintbrush. All the boxes had been unloaded at Leslie and Camilla’s, so she walked the two blocks to their house with Mukhtar, her guard du jour, trailing after her.
Leslie’s guards recognized her and swung open the black gate, admitting her to what looked like the festive preparations for a summer picnic. Almost everyone from the embassy had shown up, clad in jeans, polo shirts, and sunglasses, milling among leaning towers of crates of beer, gin, wine, whiskey, and a fairly wide array of other spirits. It was a bacchanalian’s wet dream. Leslie’s manic dog Tetley was hanging half out of a bottom-floor window, howling his opinion of his exclusion from the proceedings.
“Wow,” Miranda said. She had never seen so much booze in one place. No one seemed particularly surprised to see her there. Smiling brightly, she wandered around saying perky hellos, avoiding the creepy Norman and his porridge-faced wife, who were hovering over their cartons of gin and London Pride. The others were divided into their customary cliques. Political staffers, who worked with Finn on strategic planning, human rights, development issues, and who cultivated close relationships with Mazrooqi officials, tended to be snobbish toward the management staffers, who toiled at the more mundane yet no less essential tasks of accountancy, housing maintenance, and day-to-day running of the embassy.
“Finn’s stuff is there,” said Lydia, the head of the management section, who was holding a clipboard. “But don’t take any of it until we’ve checked it all off.”
Miranda nodded. Finn had asked her to be especially kind to management staffers, who had been feeling surly and unappreciated. Apparently the political section had been excluding them from their near-nightly parties and game nights. Given that house parties were among the few entertainments available to staff these days, this stung. “Thank you, Lydia,” she said. “This looks fantastic!”
Miranda and Finn had one of the biggest mounds of boxes, as they were responsible for quite a lot of official entertaining at the Residence. There were several cases of Bombay Sapphire and Gordon’s gin; five bottles of Hendrick’s for personal use; a dozen crates of Old Speckled Hen bitter; a dozen more of Heineken; several cases of wine from Chile, New Zealand, France, and California; two cases of Veuve Clicquot; and a large box packed with bottles of tequila, ginger wine, Belvedere vodka, Campari, Wood’s Old Navy Rum, and a dozen bottles of single malts.
“I am a little embarrassed that my stack looks a bit bigger th
an yours,” said Tucker, gesturing to a pyramid of boxes about the width of a city block.
“We’ll know where to head when we run dry.”
“Shall we?” Lydia hovered nearby, pen ready.
Miranda nodded and pulled a crumpled list from her pocket. Tucker read off what was in each of the crates, and Lydia checked them off her list.
“How many boxes of Caliterra do you have?” said Sally, leaning over to peer at their stack. “We’re missing some.” Her black hair was pulled back in barrettes, and she looked like a teenager in jeans. A very tall teenager. Miranda had liked Sally long before she met Finn. Sally had no time for cliquishness; she was good-humored and kind to everyone, including the management section and Miranda. But all of Finn’s Caliterra was accounted for on Miranda’s list, so Sally wandered elsewhere. “It’s great stuff,” she called over her shoulder. “Cheap as chips and eminently drinkable.”
No one was in a hurry. The embassy was officially closed until the new security measures were in place, and there was little else anyone could have been doing, especially given that most of them hardly left their houses since the last attack. The sun was warm but not hot, and there was a breeze. Another delicious autumn day.
“Who on earth drinks this much chardonnay?” said Leo, the vegetarian defense attaché and her defender at the club, leaning over a pile of boxes.
“What’s it to you?” said Lydia, rushing to defend her stash. “No one’s asking you to drink it, are they?”
Miranda smiled. “I hope she isn’t asking me to drink it either,” she whispered to Leo. “Not that there’s much chance of that happening.”
Leo touched her elbow, gently nudging her toward the house and away from inquisitive ears. “How are you?” he asked, with genuine concern. “Has anyone else been horrid to you? I confess I’m a little surprised Norman is still with us.”
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