He is slow, methodical, a perfectionist. He could not be rushed, which meant he pulled as many all-nighters as a college student, trying to keep up with his work. Miranda had long ago given up trying to get him to come to bed before he was finished with a project, though there were a few nights when she crept downstairs at 3:00 a.m. and found him asleep facedown on his keyboard, and he allowed himself to be led upstairs. Her heart staggers at the thought of Finn, of the way his face crumples in sleep, and she feels the emptiness of her arms.
She hears a rumble of voices ahead of her. The men are speaking quietly, for Mazrooqis. Did you tell Aisha?
No, she is sleeping. She would try to stop us.
Alarmed, Miranda’s feet slow. They are taking her from Aisha? From Luloah? From sanity? Not wanting to alert the men to her comprehension, she forces her feet to move forward.
She wouldn’t try to stop us if she knew they were coming, the first one said.
She still worries the child won’t survive.
No one will survive if we don’t move her. We don’t have a choice. They could be here any time now.
Maybe she’ll feel more at home up there. For some reason, this strikes the men as funny and they emit a joint snort of laughter. Anyway, they’re more likely to actually do something with her than the lazy dogs here.
Bile rises in Miranda’s throat. Luloah has not saved her after all. Nor has she saved the child. But—who is coming? Help?
Her body trembles as she walks, alert now. They haven’t blindfolded her, perhaps because it is simply unnecessary in this unrelenting dark. Her mouth is dry, and the pressure on her bladder is growing urgent. Abruptly, her shin hits something cold and unyielding. “Get in,” says one of the men who have been shadowing her. Miranda takes a step backward. “Why?” she asks. “Where are you taking me? Where is the baby? Where is Luloah?”
They do not answer. “Get. In.” A rifle butt provides the punctuation.
“No.” Miranda is trembling violently now. “Please, tell me where is Luloah.”
There are two guns now, prodding at the flesh above her ribs. “The child is no business of yours,” one says.
A flash of liquid rage courses through her blood. “No business of mine?” Her voice is raw and hoarse, unrecognizable. “She is my business as much as anyone in the world is my business. I keep her alive.” Immediately she regrets her outburst. “Please, punish me, but don’t punish Luloah. She still needs me. She won’t survive. She won’t—”
Suddenly hands grip her sides and she finds herself hauled into the back of what can only be a pickup truck, cold and gritty beneath her knees. The tailgate slams shut behind her. “She doesn’t need you anymore,” a man says. He walks around to the driver’s side while the other two vault into the back with her. One holds her wrists together while the other binds them with a thick, scratchy rope. A new panic wrenching her insides, Miranda doesn’t even think to resist. When the men have similarly trussed her feet, they roll her onto her back with a shove. A moment later, her view of the stars is obscured by a blanket. She turns her head to the side so she can breathe, inhaling some kind of rank animal scent. Rigid with grief and too frightened to cry, she remains motionless. Are they selling her to another group? Is that why they are moving her? Or are they simply fleeing possible rescuers? But how would they know of a possible rescue? Her brain won’t stop spinning with the possibilities. Exhausted but far from sleep, she tries to imagine escape. She wiggles her fingers and feet, but they are tightly bound. Even if she could rise somehow, could launch herself over the side of the pickup and out onto the road, she would not be able to free herself. On one side of her she feels the heavy presence of the two men.
Rage rises and floods her body; she can feel it pressing outward against her skin. But there is nowhere for it to go, no escape valve. It is a useless and most certainly dangerous emotion. She has worked hard to stifle her fury at these men, at their delusions. She must try to stay calm. And alert. Watch for any opportunity to flee. But in the unlikely event that she frees herself, where would she go? Would she first search for Luloah or try to find a ride straight back to Arnabiya, to Cressie and Finn? How could she return home, knowing the fate to which she was abandoning Luloah? And how could she go first to Luloah, knowing that she was risking never seeing her own daughter again? Either choice would eviscerate her. At the moment, however, there are no choices to be made.
It is getting lighter. Soon it will be dawn and Luloah will be hungry. She is not old enough yet to go without any kind of milk. How long will she survive without Miranda? They would be feeding her dirty water and sweet tea. She might not last a week.
JUNE 23, 2007
Finn
Miranda and Finn had been (officially) living together for less than two weeks when Finn decided it was time to host their first dinner party. Actually, it wasn’t much of a choice. The Middle East editor of The Guardian was in town, and expecting to be appropriately feted. Dinner parties weren’t exactly an optional part of the job. They sounded glamorous to friends and family back home, but dinner parties were how much of the business of diplomacy got done. And they were hard work. Particularly for him. There were speeches to be made (in Arabic), alliances to be formed, uncomfortable subjects to be broached, dragging conversations to be prodded along. There were the endless courses of soups and meats and salads and puddings, followed by tea and coffee in the parlor and brandy and port on the veranda for the lingerers. Few of these night owls ever seemed to consider the fact that their host had to be back in the office by 7:30 the next morning, and that he could not go to bed until they did. Not that he always went straight to bed. Often, he still had hours of work to do in his home office, managing to slip into bed just as the muezzins were sounding their calls for morning prayers.
He wasn’t actually sure that Miranda should be present. Changes in partner status were to be reported first to Protocol, and he hadn’t gotten around to that yet. He was a busy man. But Miranda lived with him now; she was his life. He wanted her there. Besides, it was likely to be a friendly crowd, mostly locals. The Guardian editor was rumored to be an intelligent enough bloke, and Finn wanted to make sure he connected him with sources who actually knew what was going on in the country. This place was an onion, layer after layer of tribal loyalties, political maneuvering, half-truths. God knows he was still trying to peel back the first several layers himself.
When Finn returned from the embassy a half-hour before their guests were expected, he found Miranda standing in the middle of their room in her underwear, surrounded by discarded dresses. “I’m going like this,” she said, a touch of frustrated toddler in her voice. Stepping carefully over the puddles of rayon and lace, Finn leaned in to kiss her. “That’s one way to ensure a memorable evening,” he said. “But I thought you wanted me to keep my job?”
“My Western dresses are too Western, my Middle Eastern wear is too ugly. I don’t want to shock anyone, but I also don’t want to be hideous.” Finn suppressed a smile. With her hair curling loose past her shoulders, her face flushed and still bare of makeup, and her breasts barely concealed by lace, she had never looked lovelier. He was not a religious man, but every time he saw her unclothed he wanted to fall to his knees and thank someone.
“Hmmmm, not hideous. There’s a challenge,” he said. “Let me see if I can help.” He strode back to her dressing room and opened a closet door. A few minutes later he emerged with a tailored black skirt and jacket, and an aquamarine lace camisole. “What about this?” he said. “Modest with a touch of the feminine? Defiantly not housewifely? A little businessy looking, but I think you can live with that.”
Miranda stared at him. “Are you sure you’re not gay?”
Finn looked at his watch. “Do I have time to prove it to you?”
—
CHARLOTTE, SECOND SECRETARY Political, arrived first. Conscientious in the extreme, she always arrived early and stuck to Diet Coke until the meal was served. Miranda had answered the doo
r, looking only slightly rumpled, and Finn was relieved to hear them chatting away in the parlor like old friends. Why had he worried about Miranda? She could make friends with a hedgerow. He headed to the kitchen to check on the staff, though he wasn't sure why he bothered; they were pros. Glass dishes of pistachios, cashew nuts, and almonds already dotted their coffee tables; silver trays lined with white napkins and empty cocktail and wine glasses stood ready on the steel countertops of the kitchen; and Semere was hacking away at the ice, breaking it into usable sizes.
The guest of honor, Aubrey Lewis, arrived next, looking pale and exhausted. “I’m very grateful,” he said, shaking Finn’s hand. He’d arrived in the country that morning on the early flight from Dubai and didn’t look as though he had had time to nap. The rest of their guests, all Mazrooqi politicians, professors, NGO workers, and ministers, predictably arrived late. Last through the door was Foreign Minister Abbas al-Attas, a short, smiling man with a shining bald head. Miranda told Finn later that she had touched up her lipstick peering into the back of his head. Finn wasn’t sure she was joking.
It was a lively evening, livelier than he had expected. Al-Attas was loquacious and expansive, which wasn’t always the case, and the Minister of Commerce, Tawfeek al-Kibsi, and political science professor Adil al-Ahmar spoke passionately about their country and its promise. So far Miranda was holding up admirably. After drinks on the veranda she had led the group to the front hall to sign the guest book before escorting them into the dining room.
While Miranda and the others were still in the front hall, al-Attas had followed Finn into the dining room, circling the table reading the name cards like a buzzard seeking out prey. He stopped at Miranda’s seat. “Miranda Taluma?” he read, a question in his voice.
“My partner.” There was no need to use the word wife with a man who was educated in the UK and kept a second home in Surrey. Still, Finn’s hands were sweating, and he wiped them surreptitiously on his handkerchief.
Al-Attas looked at him, one graying eyebrow cocked. “Long-term?”
Finn smiled. “Absolutely. Presuming she’ll have me.”
Al-Attas nodded slowly and patted the sleeve of Finn’s suit. “Mabrouk,” he said. In his pockets, Finn’s hands unclenched.
—
JUST WHEN FINN had completely relaxed his guard, the Foreign Minister had to go and mention freedom of expression. He complained about the way the press was handling the conflict with the North, prompting Finn to point out, with just a touch of frustration, that al-Attas couldn't expect the media to report accurately when the government didn't allow any journalists into the region. “When the government decides to completely block the media from somewhere, it instantly arouses suspicion,” he added. “I don't understand why the government has failed to grasp this.”
“We have let journalists in,” protested al-Attas. “Just last week we took a bus full of them—”
“That’s just it,” said Finn, smiling to soften his words. “You put them all on a bus and told them what they could see. Why don’t you let them roam freely?”
Al-Attas frowned. “It isn’t safe,” he said. “And you must know that our journalists are not professionally trained. We cannot trust them to report the truth.”
“Can’t you get them training?” said Miranda. “Surely there is no shortage of journalism trainers in the world who could come and teach them?”
Al-Attas bowed his head respectfully toward Miranda. “Perhaps,” he said. Then, perking up slightly, he added, “But even without training we have freedom of expression here. Our journalists are free to write what they want even when they are wrong.”
“Are they?” Finn raised an eyebrow. “So they’re free to criticize the president by name, are they?” Aubrey stayed bizarrely silent throughout this exchange, simply observing. Finn had the feeling he was simply too exhausted to ask the questions himself. But Finn hadn’t expected a newspaperman to be so passive.
The Minister of Commerce wiped his mouth and replaced his napkin in his lap with a cough. “They are free enough to commit libel,” he said. “I am suing someone for libel, a journalist who wrote that I hired some members of my family and put them on the government payroll.”
“Did you?” Miranda leaned forward with interest.
“Miranda!” But Finn couldn’t help laughing. Fortunately, the Minister smiled as well.
“I’m just asking!” said Miranda.
“No,” said the Minister. “This is why it is libel.”
—
INEVITABLY, THE TALK turned to terrorism and the issue of increasing radicalization. “So what’s the main cause here, do you think?” asked Aubrey, abruptly setting down his wineglass and coming to life. “Is it poverty? Unemployment?”
“I don’t think you could say there is one main cause,” replied al-Attas, dabbing at the curried shrimp soup on his chin. “It’s certainly much more than poverty.”
Finn turned to Aubrey, who was seated next to him. “I’d say—correct me if I am wrong, Minister—I’d say that a sense of injustice and unfairness contributes hugely.”
“That’s right,” said political science professor Adil al-Ahmar. “Unequal distribution of wealth as a result of government corruption. It’s the same thing that drove Europeans to socialism in the nineteenth century. We see our world exploited by rich—often foreign—companies and governments. We see our country being run by another country. Or oppressed by it.”
“But isn’t it also an education issue?” Miranda looked at al-Attas. “I mean, you have a system focused on rote learning. People aren’t encouraged to think for themselves. If you had an educational system that actually taught people critical thinking, taught them to challenge what they are told—wouldn’t that change things?”
“That’s one of our working premises. Which is why education reform is a development priority, alongside political reform,” said Finn.
“Ah, but development assistance as a cure for radicalization is a delicate thing,” said al-Attas. “Yes, ultimately you need an enlightened education system, young people need access to a dignified livelihood, and the West can help with vocational training and curriculum reform, but—”
“But as soon as a Western presence is involved, the whole project becomes imperialist or colonialist—or at least that’s the perception,” finished Finn.
Al-Attas nodded in agreement.
“So what should we do? Shut down our development programs? Do we try to deal with these root causes at all, or do we just keep trying to kill off the terrorist leadership?” Aubrey slid a notebook onto the table.
“Killing off the leadership clearly isn’t working,” Miranda said, abandoning her attempts to saw a leathery aubergine in half. “Every time a US drone attacks, it kills one terrorist and creates five hundred more. Isn’t that right?”
Al-Attas nodded slowly. “In a way. It depends whether the radicalization results from a grassroots movement fed by the people’s common frustrations, or whether a few charismatic leaders are manipulating the people.”
“Could be a bit of both,” added Minister of the Interior Mohammed al-Bayaa, who had thus far remained silent.
“So if it’s more a leadership thing than a grassroots thing,” said Miranda, “by cutting off the head of the movement, do you kill the movement?”
“Yes—but you have to kill the right people,” said al-Bayaa. “It doesn’t stop it from being a terrorist movement, but it stops it from being a threat to the West. Which is why we allow the American drones to attack known leaders.”
“But the drone attacks make people hate the West more than ever,” said Miranda, her face flushed and voice moving up an octave. “Even some of my friends here, they have grown to hate the US because of the attacks in the North. I just don’t understand why you support them, especially when they always manage to kill off a bunch of civilians in addition to their alleged target. How can you let them slaughter your own people?” Finn found her foot under the table and gave i
t a firm nudge. She glanced at him distractedly but continued. “Don’t drones just anger tribal leaders and exacerbate the whole situation?”
“Well, maybe,” answered al-Bayaa cautiously. “But what are five hundred people without direction? A nuisance to their own country, perhaps, but not organized enough to attack abroad.”
“But isn’t it possible one of those five hundred people would then rise to be the new leader? And what if it wasn’t the leadership that had radicalized them after all, what if it had been a sense of common frustrations? And it just keeps spreading, this need for justice?”
“If there’s enough of them,” said Finn grimly, “you get civil war.”
DECEMBER 7, 2010
Miranda
From darkness to darkerness, thinks Miranda. You don’t think you could survive anything blacker than your current reality, and then you must. She lies on a cement floor in another stone house, some hours from her last confinement. Alone. Already, her painfully engorged and leaking breasts protest Luloah’s absence. Or Cressida’s. This undrunk milk mourning two unbearable losses. Cressie is her first love, always and forever, but tiny, fluffy-haired Luloah has made herself some space in whichever atrium or ventricle is responsible for the agonies of maternal attachment.
An image floats into her field of vision, illuminates her despair. An exhausted-eyed woman sits in a small, windowless room, grinding a steady stream of stars into a mush that she spoon-feeds to a caged crescent moon. Varo had probably meant the painting Celestial Pablum to say something about the way that women crush their stellar selves, sacrificing their unique light to the hungry demands of their children. Something about the soul-crushing, blue-collar slog of motherhood.
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