When the Apricots Bloom

by Gina Wilkinson

  “First, let’s focus on a driver,” she said, “and then I will look at the grounds.”

  Ally grinned.

  “Do not expect too much,” warned Huda. “I am not a performing dolphin.”

  “You mean ‘performing seal’?”

  “Is it not a dolphin that jumps through the hoops?”

  “Well, yes,” laughed Ally. “I guess you’re right.”

  Huda jotted down a few notes on the new driver and sipped her steaming coffee. The cardamom-scented brew was thick and creamy, twice boiled as required, but a touch too bitter. The cook in the cafeteria was skimping on the sugar again.

  “Have you ever had one of those dreams where you think you’re flying? Well, these days I dream about driving.” Ally chuckled ruefully. “Since I found out I’m not allowed a license, I wake up drooling at the idea of stomping on the gas.”

  Huda laughed, despite herself.

  “And what about the driver’s salary?”

  “I’m happy to pay the going rate.”

  “And which day of the week shall the driver have free? A Muslim may want Friday. A Christian perhaps Saturday.”

  “He can have two days off, whatever days he likes.”

  “Whatever he likes?” Huda frowned. “Be careful, people will take advantage of you.”

  Ally blushed. The label of diplomat’s wife made her seem older than her years, but Huda knew she was still young enough to believe the best of everyone. Pity needled her side. The mukhabarat didn’t give a damn about youth. Or innocence.

  Ally offered her cup for inspection. “I’ve finished my coffee.”

  Huda set aside her notepad.

  “First, keep hold of your own cup,” she said. “Then you must still your mind. Find a quiet place inside yourself. Think of the questions you want answered.”

  Excitement flickered across Ally’s face, followed by a ripple of apprehension. The girl was easy to read. A worm of envy wriggled in Huda’s chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone a day without cloaking her true feelings.

  “Watch carefully,” said Huda. “And do what I do.”

  She removed her saucer and clamped it like a lid on top of her cup. Porcelain clinked as Ally did the same. Huda raised the pieces to her chest, swirled counterclockwise, and then flipped them upside down. She set them gently on the desk, with the saucer now lying underneath the upturned cup.

  “Wish me luck,” said Ally, and did the same. Dark dregs drained into the pale saucer.

  “Now,” said Huda, “we must wait a few minutes for the grounds to dry.”

  Ally leaned across the table.

  “I heard your grandmother was a famous fortune-teller,” she whispered.

  “Hush now.” Huda patted the young woman’s hand. “You must focus on the questions you want answered.”

  She couldn’t disrespect the rituals her grandmother had drummed into her, even for a slapdash reading like this. Not that she expected much. The days when she could find meaning in the grounds were few and far between. Huda wondered if it was her fault, if she lacked something deep in her soul, but she knew she wasn’t alone. All the ancient arts were suffering. The coppersmith and the carpet weaver were packing up shop, driven out by plastic plates and nylon prayer rugs at Cheap Ahmed’s Discount Store. The great poets languished in obscurity, with barely enough dinar to buy bread. The Sufi dervishes had almost disappeared.

  Huda eyed her cassette player, its tiny wheels spinning around and around. If she was a true patriot, she’d be listening to a maqam or muwashshah, but try as she might, she couldn’t give up Bryan Adams and his ballads of love. Could it be that the luxuries of modern life—of Western life—all the televisions and microwaves, were to blame? Was all this radiation and static interfering with messages from the universe?

  Outside the window, a crow wailed. Huda knew whether or not she found signs in Ally’s grounds, the mukhabarat would be pleased. They wanted her to draw the girl close, to ferret out her secrets. The cold ball of fear Huda had carried since the mukhabarat’s visit suddenly ballooned. She had a vision of the Bolt Cutter clenching her teacup in his meaty fist. She swiveled away from Ally, breath shaky and shallow, and busied herself with paperwork.

  “Is it ready?” asked the girl, a minute later.

  Huda eyed Ally’s upturned coffee cup warily. Perhaps she would find a kernel of truth in the grinds, not just for Ally’s future, but her own as well. Huda lifted the cup from the saucer. Fine flecks of coffee adhered to the curved interior, dark islands mapped on a white sea.

  “What do you see?” whispered Ally.

  Huda stayed quiet. Make them wait, her grandmother always said. That way they’ll value your insight more. Huda squinted into the cup. All she saw were grainy puddles of brown. She squared her shoulders and sat up straight.

  “I see birds flying.” She shaped her lips into a wide smile. “That means you will soon have good news. There is also a kite—that is a sign of change ahead.”

  She handed the cup back to Ally. While the girl peered into its depths, Huda glanced at the saucer. Patterns leaped at her: swords, towers, snakes slithering across the porcelain. Clear as day. Abruptly, the fine hairs on her arm stood to attention. She looked up. Amira Hindawi was at the door, watching her.

  “Amira, I didn’t see you there.” Huda switched to Arabic. “How may I be of assistance?”

  “Where is your esteemed boss?” Amira’s lips were painted lavender, like the tongue of a snake. “I see his wife is here again.”

  “Mr. Tom has a meeting with the ambassador.”

  “What’s the meeting about?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “Surely, it is your job to know?”

  Amira sidled to Huda’s desk. She glanced at Ally and bared her teeth in a facsimile of a smile.

  “Reading the fortune?” she said in halting English. “What does the future say for Mr. Tom’s lovely wife?”

  “It was just coffee,” said Huda. “We are all too busy for such nonsense.”

  Ally seemed to sense the tension.

  “Tom asked Huda to help me. I need to hire a driver.”

  “A driver?” Amira pressed her fingertips together as if she were a great sage. “What about your husband, Huda? He knows Baghdad well. And he has free time, does he not?”

  Huda stiffened.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Your husband is trustworthy,” continued Amira. “That is very important. Miss Ally cannot hire a stranger.”

  Ally perked up.

  “I’ve got to say, I like that idea.”

  “That’s right.” Amira caught Huda’s eye. “This solution will benefit everyone.”

  “I’ll ask him,” Huda mumbled. Everyone knew Amira was on the mukhabarat’s payroll. She would be taking notes on this. And reporting back.

  “I am going to the canteen.” Amira leaned forward and swept up the cups and the saucers, obliterating the tower and the sword and the signs that screamed, Read me. “I’ll return these dishes for you.”

  Huda grit her teeth. Amira offered another poor excuse for a smile and slunk away.

  “I’m afraid I must get back to work.” Huda made a show of shuffling her papers.

  “Are you certain that squiggle was a flying bird?” Ally leaned across the desk. “Maybe it was a raven. Surely that would be a bad omen?”

  Huda pushed her chair back from her desk.

  “You have a good imagination,” she said, “but you are no fortune-teller.”

  * * *

  When Huda arrived home, Abdul Amir’s Corolla was gone from the driveway. Huda closed the front door behind her, turned the key in the dead bolt, and slid the lock back into the catch. The scrape of metal on metal echoed along the hallway.

  “Hello?” Huda kicked off her heels. “Anyone home?”

  She hoped Abdul Amir hadn’t gone to the tea shop. It never did him much good. Most of the men there were jobless, and hurting like him, but too p
roud to reach out for help. Instead, they sucked on their nargilah pipes and fanned the coals with their bitterness.

  In the kitchen, Huda found a note from Khalid, saying he and Bakr were playing soccer. She opened the kitchen window. The aroma of freshly mowed grass wafted through the screen. Abdul Amir took great pains to keep the lawn lush and neat. He refused to admit that the Iraq of the fabled Fertile Crescent was gone, that the gardens of Babylon would never bloom again. Instead, when he wasn’t at the tea shop, he watered, pruned, and fertilized, keeping close watch over his plants. He sought out pests and exterminated them. Weeds were consigned to the compost bin or, if they threatened to lay seed, burned in the firepit.

  Huda poured a glass of water and watched the tangerine sun sink toward the horizon. Ally had said something earlier, about seeing paradise in Baghdad’s sky. Now, as she watched columns of light pierce the pink and yellow clouds, it wasn’t hard for Huda to imagine heaven up there. Maybe Ally was right. She had a way of finding something new and novel in things that most people had long ago stopped noticing. Huda wondered, In different circumstances, might the two of them be friends? Real friends?

  In the orange tree, a pigeon hummed to its mate. Its coo was so loud it almost masked the rumble of a car turning into the street. Huda recognized the burble of the mukhabarat’s Oldsmobile, and her throat went dry. Another visit so soon—that would not escape attention. Tonight, every one of her neighbors would be in their backyards, in their quiet places, mouthing words and talking in code. The mukhabarat always brought misery. The question was, would it fall on Huda and her family alone, or would it engulf the whole neighborhood?

  Huda hurried to the front door. She checked that Khalid hadn’t messed with the president’s framed portrait and that it remained at the front of the photos. A car door slammed. Then another. Huda scurried down the driveway.

  “One moment, please. I’m coming.”

  She unlocked the gate and pried it open.

  “I’m glad you’re at home, sister, and not tardy this time in opening the gate.” Abu Issa raised the corners of his mouth perfunctorily, like a bored clerk at the post office. He motioned at his bolt-cutting partner to stow his pliers. “After all, good padlocks do not fall from the sky.”

  Was this his idea of a joke? Huda asked herself. Was she supposed to laugh? She dithered in the gateway until Abu Issa coughed discreetly.

  “Shall we have tea?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Huda’s voice quivered. “I mean to say, please, enter.”

  Minutes later, Huda found herself in the kitchen, heart pounding like a sleepwalker woken far from her bed. The mukhabarat were in the sitting room, waiting for tea. She wondered, If she closed her eyes and prayed, would it turn out to be nothing but a bad dream? But even as she thought it, she knew life didn’t work like that.

  On the burner, the teapot boiled furiously. Steam spiraled toward the ceiling. Huda placed the sugar pot and teaspoons on the tray. As much as she tried, she couldn’t stop the glasses from rattling in their saucers, jingle-jangling all the way back to the sitting room.

  The mukhabarat had made themselves at home. The Bolt Cutter’s boots were stacked on the coffee table.

  “Young man, what would your—” Huda caught the reprimand just before it slipped from her lips. She stood, waiting for him to remove his boots.

  “Our sister has brought us tea.” Abu Issa flicked his hand at the Bolt Cutter like he was waving off a biting fly. “She needs to set it down.”

  The Bolt Cutter dragged his boots off the table. They thumped against the rug like cinder blocks. When Huda put down the tray, the Bolt Cutter ignored the tongs and dug his fleshy fingers into the sugar pot, rooting around among the pale cubes. Huda pressed her lips together in a thin line.

  “Sit, sit.” Abu Issa waved her toward the seat opposite him.

  Huda perched on the edge of the cushion, spine erect, feet together, hands in lap, perfectly still except for her fingers rubbing back and forth, as if counting prayer beads.

  “So please tell us,” said Abu Issa, “how are your relations progressing with the foreign woman?”

  “I’m doing my best. These matters take time.”

  “In a perfect world, we could wait until the apricots bloom. Alas, the world is not perfect.”

  “But there is nothing to—”

  “Careful, sister.” Abu Issa stared over the rim of his tea glass. “A lie takes only one moment to leave the mouth, but it can linger to the grave. Now, tell me, is your husband ready to start his new job?”

  “His new job?”

  “As the foreign woman’s driver, of course.”

  Huda’s fingernails dug into her palms. Damn Amira’s snake tongue.

  “My husband is a financial analyst, not a driver.”

  “I understand.” Abu Issa set down his teacup. He flexed his fingers and cracked each joint. One by one, sinews and cartilage popped. “Working for a foreign woman would be distasteful for any Iraqi man, especially a loyal patriot such as Abdul Amir. But she will pay in American dollars, yes?”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Abdul Amir will be well compensated by the diplomat’s wife.” Abu Issa smiled icily. “And finally, she has realized she can’t parade through our streets, flaunting herself like a jezebel.”

  The Bolt Cutter sat forward and grunted.

  “Her passport is Australian but she looks Russian.” He snickered, and tea slopped into his saucer. “I saw a film once, with two Russian women. You would not believe what they—”

  “Enough,” interjected Abu Issa.

  The Bolt Cutter snickered again.

  “When the Australian woman ran across the road, her ass jiggled like—”

  Abu Issa thumped his fist against his thigh.

  “I said enough.” He glared at the Bolt Cutter. “The foreigner may be a slut, but no decent Iraqi woman should be subjected to such talk.”

  Huda’s cheeks burned. She rose unsteadily from her chair.

  “My husband and son will be home soon. I must prepare their dinner.”

  Abu Issa threw another irritated glance at his partner. He got to his feet and gestured for the Bolt Cutter to do the same.

  “We understand, sister.” He bowed apologetically. “We’ll return when you’re not so busy.”

  Somewhere outside, a car backfired. Huda flinched. The Bolt Cutter noticed and smirked.

  “Remember, you must become the foreign woman’s confidante, and your husband can aid us too.” Abu Issa paused by the front door. He twisted the ring on his finger. “Loyal citizens are always rewarded, are they not?”

  Huda nodded dutifully. From the table in the hallway, the president watched over them.

  * * *

  Khalid had already gone to bed when Abdul Amir returned from the tea shop. Huda was at the kitchen table, wrapped in a pink dressing gown, smoking a counterfeit Marlboro. A deck of playing cards lay before her, divided into four columns.

  “Consulting the cards?” Abdul Amir frowned. “The prophet does not approve of such superstition, even if your grandmother said otherwise.”

  The fluorescent light buzzed above Huda’s head.

  “I am playing solitaire. Besides, you know I don’t read cards, and even if I did, it’s bad luck to predict one’s own future.”

  Abdul Amir opened the fridge and rifled through the shelves.

  “I cooked lamb stew.” Huda stubbed out her cigarette. “Shall I warm a dish for you?”

  “Don’t trouble yourself.” Abdul Amir removed a carton of mango juice and shut the fridge door. “I’m surprised you’re not in bed by now.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Huda watched Abdul Amir pull a glass from the highest shelf. He was a tall man. A handsome man. People said he looked like the Egyptian singer Amr Diab, except Abdul Amir’s eyes were green, not brown. She knew people were surprised when he chose to marry a plain woman like her. They thought he would pair up with Mona Karim, or one
of the other beautiful village airheads. But Abdul Amir didn’t want to stay in his village. He had bigger plans. So did Huda, and their shared ambition drew them together.

  Not long after they married, Abdul Amir finished his university studies and Huda graduated from secretarial school. Khalid was born, and Abdul Amir made it a habit to surprise Huda with a slice of baklava or a fragrant bunch of orange blossoms. But it’s not my birthday, she’d exclaim. He’d murmur in her ear that every day together was worth celebrating. Of course, after Abdul Amir got laid off, there was no money for surprises. Iraqi men were famously proud, and Huda knew her steady progress at work stung like salt in her husband’s wounds. Eventually, even a whispered compliment cost too much.

  For the first time in many years, she wondered, Would they be better off returning to the south? The village was out of the question, but what about Basra? Could they start afresh in the busy port city? Could they find their way back to the days of honeyed sweets and orange blossoms? She sighed and collected up the cards. It was foolish to dream of running away. The mukhabarat wanted something from her. There was no escape from that.

  “My husband,” she said, lowering her voice, “will you come to the garden?”

  Abdul Amir set his glass on the counter and stared silently through the window over the sink. What did he see in his reflection? wondered Huda. Did he blame her for the lines of disappointment in his face?

  Out in the garden, the palm trees swayed like dancers.

  “Didn’t I warn you that foreigners are nothing but trouble?” Abdul Amir dragged his fingers across his skull.

  You did not complain when you saw my embassy paycheck, thought Huda.

  “Well, my boss is fair, and Ally is a pleasant girl.”

  Abdul Amir grunted and stared at the horizon. The refineries were dark tonight. Only the stars and moon shone above their heads.

  “She wants to hire a driver. . . .” Huda twisted the belt of her robe back and forth between her fingers. “Abu Issa said you must take the job.”