“ ‘WHY IS SHE ONLY EATING YOGURT?’
“ ‘SHE IS VERY POOR AND DOESN’T WANT TO SPEND MONEY.’ This provoked laughter, as everyone knows that foreigners are rich!
“ ‘HAHA! WHAT IS THE TRUTH? SHE IS TRAVELING AND SO ONLY WANTS TO EAT THE SMALL THINGS?’
“ ‘THAT’S IT.’
“There were no other women in the restaurant, and the entire time we were there no one looked anywhere but at me.
“We left Dibra, with the car cooler packed with water and Pepsi. And thus began our journey through one of the vastest stretches of nothingness I have ever seen. Miles and miles of nothing. There was some relief in the swell of sand dunes, rising and subsiding like the sea. Families of camels strolled alongside our car, including many shaggy little babies. You would love the camels. I didn’t know they came in so many colors; I liked the little black ones best because I’d never seen a black camel before.
“There were checkpoints every few minutes, an absurd, Kafkaesque number of checkpoints. About halfway to Qummash, we lost our police car escort, which was replaced with a police officer in our car. This police officer, who was also replaced at intervals, was laconic. He sat quietly, not even talking with Mahmoud. I found this odd, given that men in your country don’t ever fall silent. I drifted off to sleep every few minutes, lulled by the incessant sameness of the landscape.
“The last police officer left us near Qummash, when the landscape began to change. Patches of date palms appeared, ornamenting the vast swaths of beige. The landscape had been just relentlessly khaki. And you know, I’ve never been a fan of neutral colors, habibti. I was so happy to see trees I wanted to get out and hug them.
“Then came a series of cute little villages, some with pink buildings! The sun began to slip in the sky. Things turned gold. I felt oddly tranquil. I’d been oddly tranquil ever since leaving the North. Maybe I was just happy to be alive, grateful that I had not been blown to smithereens in a car bomb?
“Twilight was descending as we arrived at the Hotel Noura. One of your country’s most beautiful hotels, little one. With a pool! Streaked with dirt and sweat, I was desperate for a swim, so I changed and slipped into the water, and swam under a half-moon, in jasmine-scented air…” She is silent for a moment, remembering the bliss of that evening. How she misses this country.
“During my Arabic lesson Mahmoud gave me the verbs and nouns I would need to describe our day, and then I described it to him. Dalā dalā. Slowly, slowly. It’s amazing how much better my Arabic has gotten since meeting you, habibti. Nothing educates like being kidnapped in a foreign land.”
Miranda looks down at Luloah, who has gone limp and heavy in her arms. It was a wise choice to drift off before Miranda got to the part about the seven Japanese tourists who were blown up in the same exact spot where she and Mahmoud had stood to watch their first sunset in the East, on the cliffs overlooking the mud-brick city. She had almost forgotten how many near misses she had had. She wants to talk about the splendor of the land, the warmth of the people, but keeps tripping over guns and bombs. “I’m glad you’re finding this all so riveting, habibti.” Gently, she lays the child down beside her. “I just wanted you to know that all of your country is not like this. There is so much beauty out there, habibti, so much kindness. I won’t let these assholes take that away from me, take this country away from me. The little mud cities in the East, the sunny beaches of the South, the jasmine of everywhere. Sleep, ma petite puce, and dream about these.”
—
WITH LULOAH BACK at her side, Miranda thinks again of escape. She wants to get the child out before they come for her again. What kind of future could she have here? Like Miranda’s students, like Tazkia, she would be taught to loathe her own body. She would be wrapped up in synthetic fibers, imprisoned by the wills of men, denied education. She could be married off to an old man at the age of twelve. Tazkia once told Miranda the story of a friend of her brother’s who was forced to marry a girl who was raped and impregnated by her own father. Unmarried and pregnant, the girl could not accuse her own father. No one would believe her and her entire community would turn against her. So she accused Tazkia’s brother’s friend. He was imprisoned until he agreed to marry her, which he did. To his credit, he raised the boy as his own. He also had a second son with her. The girl, says Tazkia, is utterly submissive because she still feels guilt for having wrongly accused him, although her husband knows that she had no choice. He recently took a second wife, from the South, and the first wife said, “Well, of course he would want to do that, since he was forced to marry me.” What is worse, the girl’s mother knew that her husband was raping her daughter and did nothing about it. How can people be so inhuman? Miranda wonders. How could a mother continue to live and sleep with the rapist of her children? How could a mother not murder such a man? Miranda is a pacifist until she hears stories like these.
Clearly there are no plans for Miranda’s release. If only she knew where she was, if only she knew what was outside. If only she knew if there were a reason they were holding her, other than her ability to feed Luloah. There must be. Unless the child is more important than she knows. She thinks about the guns and the size of the guards. She thinks about whether she could use a gun while holding a child. Does she remember how to sight, how to fire? She thinks about where she could hide. Surely if she could get out to a road, someone would pick her up. Ninety-nine percent of the people in this country are not terrorists. Ninety-nine out of one hundred drivers would stop to pick her up. What are the chances she would be kidnapped again?
This camp—or prison, or whatever it is—doesn’t feel as isolated as her first. Outside she can hear cars rattling by, the muezzins of several mosques, the gasman banging his cans. These sounds suffuse her with equal parts hope and despair. There is only one door to her solid little room, and the only window is too tiny and high to be of any use. She considers throwing a note out the window before remembering she has no pen or paper. Here, she cannot even scratch an image in the dirt; the floor is smooth and hard.
“The guards are our only hope, habibti,” she tells Luloah. “We’ve got to take down the guards.”
DECEMBER 13, 2010
Finn
Finn had warned Celia he was coming. “I forgot something of Miranda’s in the closet in the safe room,” he said. “Some of her paintings.” If Celia found this odd she didn’t say. “I was wondering what was in there,” she said over the phone from the embassy. “I haven’t been able to find the key.”
Finn apologized. He had only recently figured out where Miranda had kept it. He promised to leave it behind on the hall table, underneath the portrait of their monarch at her coronation. In turn, she had promised that no one would be in the Residence after 4:00 p.m., that he could have it to himself for two hours. That should be plenty of time for them to get all the paintings out.
Tazkia had arrived promptly on his doorstep in the Old City, an additional veil over her eyes. “There are times it is convenient to be a woman here,” she says to him in Arabic. “Out of the house, we all look alike.” In the taxi, she falls silent.
“What do you want to do with them?” he asks her.
“Burn them,” she says without hesitation.
“You’re sure? You don’t want me to keep them somewhere safe for you?”
“Please, don’t be upset, but that is too big a risk. I cannot relax until I know no one can use them to hurt me.”
Finn nods. “I understand. You can burn them in our garden if you want.”
“That is best, I think.”
One of the guards unlocks the gate for them, his face impassive. He is supposed to know the name of everyone who enters the Residence, but Finn does not offer Tazkia’s name. Together, Finn and Tazkia lug several large duffel bags through the garden and up the steps to the heavy wooden door. Celia has left it unlocked; there are guards, after all. In the front hallway, Tazkia stops to remove her shoes and Finn listens. Nothing. No clatter of pans
from the kitchen, no swish of a broom. They proceed to the stairs, Tazkia finally flipping the niqab from her eyes. She takes the stairs two at a time and walks ahead of Finn, desperate purpose in her steps. When she arrives at the safe room, she stands waiting for him. The cramped hallway is dark, and he switches on the light.
“Please,” says Tazkia, alarmed. “No light.” Finn obliges before pulling the key to the cupboard from his pocket and sliding it into the lock. He twists it until he hears the bolt slide back and retreats into the bedroom without opening the door. “All yours.” Tazkia pulls at the edge of the door with her fingertips until it swings open. A moment of silence, then a strangled cry.
“What is it?”
But Tazkia has sunk to her knees before the cabinet, her hands scrabbling at its floor, her fingertips searching the corners. “Laa,” she moans. “Laa laa laa laa laa laa laa…” Finn steps toward her and peers over her crouched form.
It is empty.
JANUARY 13, 2011
Miranda
Miranda is lying on her back playing airplane with Luloah, balancing the child on the soles of her upturned feet, when the guard knocks on the door with her lunch. Swiftly, Miranda lowers Luloah to the floor and yanks her skirt down to her ankles. “Salaama aleikum,” she says brightly, scrambling to her feet. Luloah remains in a sitting position, wobbling. Every day she manages to stay upright for a few moments longer.
The guard greets her and sets the tray down on the floor. Bread, beans, some sliced bananas. A tin cup of water. Luloah beams when she spots the banana. Stretching out her small hands, she lunges in its general direction, tipping herself over onto her stomach. Miranda grabs her, hoisting her up in her arms. “Not for you,” she says pointedly. “You aren’t ready yet.” The child howls, uncomprehending. Miranda has been letting her have bananas for a couple of weeks now.
“Strong lungs,” she says to the guard, who loiters in the doorway, studying the child with a fascination Miranda finds unnerving.
“Like her daddy,” the guard murmurs softly.
“What?” Miranda’s heart stutters. “Her daddy? Is he alive?”
The guard looks stricken. “You don’t know?” he says. “Didn’t someone tell you this child is special?”
“I know she is special,” says Miranda, defensively, jiggling the girl in her arms to soothe her.
“Then you know why it is so important you keep her alive.”
Miranda just stares at him.
“She is his only surviving child,” he says. “So even though she is female we must keep her alive. When she is old enough to marry she will produce his heir.”
Old enough to marry. The words send a shudder of fear through Miranda. In this country girls are often married off as young as eight or nine. Over my dead body, she thinks. The word heir sticks in her brain. Heir to whom? To what? Then suddenly the pieces slip into place and the truth stands naked before her. She knows whose child this is. How could she not have suspected? When she heard he was dead, killed in the same government bombing that left Luloah an orphan? Her arms tighten around Luloah, who whimpers in protest. They are never going to let this child go. Not these people. And if Miranda were by some miracle to escape with her, she would be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life. This tribe has resources, and an elite diaspora of its own. No, there can be no future for her with this child. And yet, thinks Miranda, looking down at the blue-black eyes, the soft, spiky hair, the fingers curled in tiny fists, there can be no future without her.
DECEMBER 13, 2010
Finn
At first Finn thought Miranda might have moved the paintings. Perhaps she wanted them to be somewhere completely secret, where not even he could find them. But even as he turns this possibility over in his mind, he knows what has happened. He knows with a profound dread that drags his heart down into his shoes.
He and Tazkia had searched the house as thoroughly as they could before Celia was due home, going through Miranda’s old studio, her closets, the wine cellar, the diwan on the roof. Nothing. Tazkia was nearly hysterical with fear. “You don’t know,” she kept repeating. “You don’t know what this means for me.” Finn had an idea of what it meant for her, and it sickened him. But why would Norman want to hurt Tazkia? He might have understood Norman’s motivation had the paintings been of Miranda, with whom Norman clearly had an unhealthy preoccupation. But he couldn’t possibly have ever met Tazkia. Finn cannot make sense of the theft.
Still. At the same time some part of him has been waiting for this, waiting for Norman to make him pay. A rush of regrets nauseates him. He should not have overlooked Norman’s weaknesses. He should not have pleaded his case with the FCO. He should have suffered the consequences of his dreadful error alone, before he had a wife. He should not have allowed the man near his family. He probably should never have had a family. Not when he knew how vulnerable they made him. Anyone in love is an easy target. But he had been good to Norman. Norman was supposed to be on his side.
“Tazkia,” he says, struggling to sound confident. “I am going to take care of this. I will track down whoever took them, I will get them back for you.” They are standing again in the front hallway, under the ever-vigilant eyes of Elizabeth II. There is nowhere else to search.
She looks up at him, her shoes half on, tears streaming down her face. “Someone has seen them,” she says. “Someone has seen them!”
He wants to put his arms around her, to comfort her. But he knows this would be a serious mistake. He must be careful to do nothing that could be misinterpreted.
“What could anyone do with them here? It’s not like anyone could exhibit them,” he says, aware that he is babbling. “I mean, why would anyone want them?”
Tazkia looks at him as though he is a complete prat. “To ruin me. To murder me. My family,” she says. “It only takes one person to tell one person and for that person or someone they tell to tell my family. If anyone knows, they will know. And if they know, I am not safe here.”
Finn thinks of the countless stories he has heard of so-called honor killings, women slaughtered for daring to leave the house in high heels, marry someone they love, or get into a car with a man. What would they do to a woman who had modeled nude? He knows Tazkia’s brother Hamid; he trusts him. Would he really do her harm?
“My family, they love me,” Tazkia continues tearfully. “But this will kill them. They cannot let me live. Don’t you see?”
“Tazkia, they may not ever know,” says Finn, with a hope he does not feel. “Let me try to get the paintings back for you. I have some ideas of where they went. Do you feel safe going home tonight?”
She looks up at him and shrugs. “Where else can I go?”
“Look. If anyone in your family hears anything, get out of the house. Get out of the house and come to me. I will find somewhere for you, somewhere to keep you safe.”
She nods miserably. “It’s only…I don’t want to lose my family. I don’t want to lose my home. I don’t want to lose…everything. Everything.” She looks up at him with the saddest eyes he has ever seen. “Finn. I was going to get married.”
FEBRUARY 14, 2011
Miranda
She is dreaming. She is somewhere with Finn, not Mazrooq, but Seattle or New York, where they are meeting her parents and their oldest family friend. They get into a car with the friend. “Oh,” Miranda says, realizing she hasn’t introduced them, “This is…” And she suddenly blanks on Finn’s name. Her own beloved, the man with whom she has pledged to spend her life, and she cannot remember his name. “My spouse…” Finally it comes to her, and she tries to pass it off as a joke. But later, alone in an unfamiliar bedroom, she turns around to find that Finn’s head has shrunk to the size of an apricot, while his body has swollen up like that of Fat Albert. “SPOUSE?” he says. “YOU COULDN’T REMEMBER MY NAME?” Horrified, she tries to apologize and reassure him. But he is unrecognizable. His body keeps changing shapes, so that he becomes this big, fat schlump of a man who b
ears no resemblance to the real Finn. As he rants and rages, she hears a loud rumble and the ceiling splits in half, raining plaster and stones on their heads.
She wakes abruptly, suddenly aware that the stones are real. Real and rattling down around them like hail. Pulling Luloah underneath her, Miranda curls in fetal position, her hands protecting her head. What the fuck is going on? Luloah wakes and starts to cry, but her wails are drowned out by an explosion that sounds like it comes from directly overhead. There is a roar as an entire side of the room splits away, tilting outward and crumbling to the ground somewhere beneath them. Miranda is unaware of exactly what has happened until she feels the rush of cold air on her skin. In the silence following the collapse, she risks looking up to see—the world. There it is, just on the other side of where that wall had been. A nighttime world of tiny glowing windows and distant headlights. Just as she is craning her neck to see how far from the ground they are, the floor underneath them starts to tilt toward the opening. Holding the struggling Luloah tightly in her right arm, Miranda looks for something to hold on to as they start to slither across the floor. But there is nothing there but the rough cement, slipping from her fumbling fingers. She wraps both arms around the screaming child, tucks her chin to her chest, and lets her body slide into the cool, dark night.
For a moment, there is nothing around her, nothing touching her. They are falling away into the darkness, airborne, untethered. She stretches out an arm. A split second later the ground rises up beneath them, knocking the air from Miranda’s lungs. She had turned so that her hip and not Luloah would absorb the impact, but her palm had struck the earth first. Not just the earth. When she tries to move her hand, a searing pain alerts her to the presence of the metal spike on which her hand is impaled. It’s about a quarter inch thick, poking up between the bones of her thumb and forefinger. Before she has time to think, before the pain has time to immobilize her, she yanks her hand straight upward to free it. The thought flashes through her mind that perhaps it would have been better to leave the spike there, let a doctor remove it. But it was anchored to the earth. If she stayed there, surely her jailers would be first to find her. Blood pours from her palm. Setting the crying Luloah on the ground, she tears a strip of cloth from her skirt and wraps it around her hand. The blood, unabated, soaks the cloth in seconds. She ties the cloth more tightly and picks up the child. There is tearing pain in her left hip and right ankle. She has to move quickly. With her left elbow she pushes herself up into a squatting position and looks down at Luloah, whose wails are drowning out the sounds of the city around them. She has to quiet the child; they don’t want to draw attention. Awkwardly she shifts Luloah underneath her shirt and presses her to her breast. She needs a moment to think.
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