When the Apricots Bloom

by Gina Wilkinson

  “Me? Work for her?”

  Huda nodded reluctantly.

  “I am an educated man,” he hissed. “I can’t be expected to be at the beck and call of some foreign slut.”

  “Please, don’t call her that.”

  Huda stared at her fluffy slippers. Abdul Amir stomped back and forth across the lawn. She thought of the Bolt Cutter, and how he leered as he described Ally running across the road. Had he been in the car that followed her to the embassy? Was it he who spat obscenities at the lonely young woman on the sidewalk?

  She wondered, Was it all a mukhabarat plan? Did they hope to frighten Ally into hiring a driver? Did they prime Amira to swoop in with Abdul Amir’s name? The cold ball she’d been carrying in her stomach returned. It was spiky now, as if wrapped in barbed wire.

  “What should I do?” she said. “I can’t simply tell them you refuse.”

  Abdul Amir cursed.

  “I can’t be this woman’s driver.”

  “But you understand simple things like ‘left,’ ‘right,’ and ‘stop here.’”

  “‘Left,’ ‘right,’ ‘stop here’? That’s why I studied all those years?”

  “Listen, I will drive Ally whenever I can. She will not bother you often. And she will pay two hundred dollars a month.”

  Abdul Amir paused.

  “Two hundred dollars? American dollars? That is almost as much as you earn.”

  Huda shrugged.

  “It’s nothing to her. She was prepared to offer more.”

  “And you stopped her? Why? It’s not as if you’re friends.”

  Huda opened her mouth to argue, but prudence stilled her tongue. Abdul Amir was right. She and Ally could never be friends. No matter what she wished, it was dangerous to think otherwise.

  CHAPTER 5

  Abdul Amir grimaced as if Ally were about to yank out his tooth.

  “Please,” he hissed, “no pointing.”

  “Sorry, I forgot.” Ally shoved her hands into her lap. “No pointing, only looking, right?”

  Abdul Amir frowned. “Sometimes, better not to look at all.”

  On the far side of the windshield, two enormous bronze hands rose toward the sky, each clenching a 150-foot sword, the tips meeting overhead. Ally tried not to roll her eyes. She’d seen the “Arch of Victory” plenty on local television, usually accompanied by the Star Wars theme and superimposed with footage of Saddam riding a white stallion. The mighty mitts were supposedly engraved with the president’s own fingerprints. Helmets looted from the bodies of enemy Iranian troops lay in jumbled heaps below, real helmets, each with its own individual wounds and stains from the battlefield.

  The Arch of Victory disappeared in the rearview mirror, only to be replaced by a great copper disc slanting above the tree line like a stricken UFO. Ally felt like she was riding through a totalitarian amusement park.

  “That’s the Monument to the Unknown Soldier, right?” Ally remembered not to point. “Is it open to the public?”

  “I do not think so,” mumbled Abdul Amir.

  “The National Museum is nearby. Is that open?”

  On one of her postcards, Ally’s mother had written of wandering the museum, resting her hand against the statue of a human-headed bull with wings, and wondering, Is that its stone heart beating beneath my palm?

  “The museum is closed for renovations.” Abdul Amir stared at the road. “Same as last time you asked.”

  Ally tried to quell the heartburn of frustration. She wasn’t going to let it get her down. Not today. Not when she’d finally located the hospital where her mother had worked. It turned out, like so many other institutions and landmarks, it had been renamed after Saddam Hussein. As if on cue, the gargantuan dome of a new, multimillion dollar mosque came into view.

  “That’s the Saddam mosque, right?” said Ally.

  Abdul Amir’s shoulders hiked toward his ears, and he stared mutely at the road. Regret nibbled at Ally. Saddam’s face might be everywhere, and his statue on every corner, but she knew darn well that no one said his name out loud. They continued in silence until they reached the Saddam Cardiac and Vascular Hospital, a six-story block of grimy concrete. As they drew closer, Abdul Amir eased his foot onto the brake.

  “I will come with you.”

  “That’s okay. You go ahead and find the parking lot.” Ally gathered up her bag and pointed to a shaded seating area by the entrance. “When I’m done, I’ll meet you there.”

  Before Abdul Amir could object, she pushed open her door and hurried up the steps into the hospital. Inside, on wooden benches, patients and their families waited for release or admission, X-rays, and blood draws. At the information desk, a man in a blue jacket greeted Ally politely.

  “I’m looking for some information,” said Ally, as butterflies did loop-de-doos in her stomach. She tried not to look at the two armed guards slouching by the entrance. Both were eyeing her with the same unnervingly blank gaze.

  “Do you have papers, miss?” The clerk glanced at the manila envelope protruding from Ally’s handbag. “Doctor’s orders?”

  “Actually, I’m trying to find someone.” Ally pulled a yellowed photo from the envelope and slid it across the counter. “I’m looking for a nurse who worked here, back in the 1970s.”

  Ally knew hospital records would show her mother was American. So she’d chosen a photo of one of her Iraqi friends, dressed in a nurse’s cap and pinafore. The woman had a long, thin nose and dark, dramatic eyes reminiscent of Cher. She appeared in several photos, so Ally knew she had Cher’s long hair too, although in that particular shot it was pulled into a tight bun. The journalist in Ally recognized a telltale glint in the woman’s eyes, the glint of someone prone to speaking the truth—even if it wasn’t always in their best interest.

  The clerk tapped his forefinger against his chin.

  “I’ll check with my supervisor,” he said, then ducked into a glassed-in office.

  Ally leaned against the counter and tried to act as if it were perfectly normal for her to be frequenting a hospital named after a bloodthirsty tyrant, with armed guards at the door. It was another journalistic trick: act like you belong, even if your nerves are fizzing.

  As she waited, she imagined her mother in a starched nurse’s uniform, striding briskly through the waiting room, stopping to comfort patients—like the elderly woman on the bench by the wall. Ally winced as the woman emitted a long thin bleat of pain. A younger woman, probably her daughter, patted her arm. For a moment, Ally wished she could trade places, wished for the chance to hold her mother’s hand, to whisper in her ear that she loved her.

  With a hot rush of guilt, she remembered her mother’s last days and how, as her mother wasted away, five-year-old Ally convinced herself that an impostor lay in her mother’s darkened bedroom, with claws for hands and fluid-filled tubes sprouting like tentacles from her arms. Ally was sure her mother was elsewhere. Perhaps she was on a daring adventure, trekking through jungle or riding camels through desert in some exotic land, or by a rippling river, with the wind catching her hair. Or maybe the explanation was simpler. Maybe she was at the grocery store, pushing a squeaky-wheeled cart laden with flour, sugar, and eggs for the cookies they made every Friday afternoon.

  Maybe she’d come home soon. She’d rest her hand on top of Ally’s and help her to guide the whirring mixer round and round the bowl, beating butter and sugar until they were smooth and fluffy. Her mother swiped a finger along the edge of the bowl.

  “Tell me, is it ready?” her mother asked, offering a snow-topped index finger. “Is it mixed enough?”

  Sweet cream dissolved on her tongue. Ally nodded with delight. After cracking eggs and sifting pale clouds of flour, they put the rolled dough in the fridge. As her mother washed up, Ally hopped impatiently from foot to foot and fiddled with the cookie cutters. Ally was sure there could be no greater satisfaction than the moment she pressed the tin stars through the chilled dough. With her mother by her side, they created a sugare
d constellation all their own.

  Maybe this Friday we’ll make cookies, she’d thought, as she stared at the portrait on the mantel. She sent the young woman in the photo frame silent messages, Please, come home soon. But the woman stayed mum, hand raised, waving for her daughter to join her instead.

  One evening, as Ally moped by the mantel in the living room, her dad came in and said that her mother wanted to talk to her. At that moment, a long moan escaped from the sickroom. To Ally’s ears it sounded more animal than human. She grabbed the photo from the mantel, ran upstairs, and threw herself onto her bed. She cried and wailed and refused to come out. Later that night, her mother breathed her last.

  A squawk from the hospital intercom jolted Ally back to the present. If only she could go back in time. She’d grab her five-year-old self by the shoulders and give her a good shake until she gave up the foolish suspicion that an impostor had taken her mother’s place. She’d send her downstairs toot sweet. Then finally, Ally and her mother would hold hands, whisper words of comfort, like the Iraqi women on the far side of the waiting room.

  For the millionth time, Ally wished she’d had more courage, more loyalty. What had her mother wanted to tell her? Was it precious advice for the daughter she’d never see grow up? Was there a secret she wanted to share? The shameful hole in Ally’s chest expanded. Her mother had deserved so much better from her.

  A door opened, and a middle-aged woman in a baby-blue pantsuit and head scarf emerged from the office behind the counter. Ally blinked back a tear. She straightened up, hoping her sweaty palms hadn’t left an imprint of the precious package of photographs.

  “My name is Mrs. al-Deeb.” The woman in the pantsuit eyed Ally warily. “My clerk said you are looking for one of our nurses. Is there some problem?”

  “No, no problem at all. Quite the opposite.” Ally smiled in what she hoped was a reassuring manner and explained that she was writing a book about nursing history. Most Iraqis held writers and scholars in high esteem. It had been that way for over fifteen hundred years, when Baghdadi caliphs built Bayt al-Hikma, the House of Wisdom, to record the works of the world’s best philosophers, scientists, and poets. Ally hoped the caliphs’ love of knowledge still ran in Mrs. al-Deeb’s blood.

  “From what I’ve learned,” said Ally, “the late sixties and early seventies was a wonderful period in Baghdad.”

  “Ah, the golden years.” Mrs. al-Deeb’s dark eyes glazed over with a nostalgic haze that Ally had quickly come to recognize. “You’re right, those were glorious times.”

  “And the Iraqi health system was the best in the Middle East back then.” Ally leaned a little closer. “At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

  Mrs. al-Deeb beamed with pride. Ally felt a stab of remorse for manipulating her emotions, but soon Mrs. al-Deeb was regaling her with stories of a British nurse called Daphne who sang opera like Maria Callas and staged late-night limbo competitions in the hospital cafeteria.

  “So, please, tell me, dear,” said Mrs. al-Deeb, “who is the woman you’re looking for?”

  Ally’s pulse quickened. She slid a few photos across the counter.

  “Do you recognize any of these nurses? Perhaps someone in the background?”

  Mrs. al-Deeb looked through the photos, humming a tune from one of Daphne’s favorite operas. She paused at the photo of the nurse with eyes like Cher. When she looked up, her eyes had gone eerily blank, like the armed guards at the door.

  “I can’t help you.” She pushed the photos back across the counter. “I have work to do.”

  “Should I come back later,” said Ally, “when you’ve got more time?”

  Mrs. al-Deeb shot a nervous glance at the guards.

  “Who are you?” she whispered. “What do you really want?”

  “I, um . . .” Ally trailed off nervously.

  “No good will come of your questions.” Mrs. al-Deeb threw another furtive glance at the guards. “Now, please, go.”

  Ally’s fingers trembled as she shoved the photos into her handbag. She hurried away, past the mother and daughter, hands still entwined. The old woman groaned again. Her pain vibrated through the waiting room. Ally felt it like a stitch in her side long after she slipped past the guards and left the hospital behind.

  * * *

  Ally’s doorbell buzzed. She glanced at her watch. Eight p.m. Abdul Amir was right on time. She quickly pressed the phone to her ear and dialed the number for Tom’s hotel in the northern city of Mosul. Static hissed like a broken radiator.

  “Damn it.” Ally put the phone down. She didn’t want Tom to call later and get no answer. But she couldn’t bear another night watching Saddam tributes on TV, with nothing but a bag of counterfeit “Keet Katts” for company. She grabbed her handbag and set to work on the locks and bolts of the front door.

  It was dark outside, but the concrete slabs in the courtyard still radiated the heat of high noon. The perfume of the rosebushes mixed with exhaust fumes from the traffic circle, confusing Ally’s senses with their benzene sweetness.

  “Hello?” She eyed the quiet guard hut. “Ghassan?”

  Ally tiptoed to the front gate and pushed it open. Cars trundled by, headlights skewering the ocher-tinted gloom. Ghassan was chatting through the window of the idling Corolla. Ally hurried across the sidewalk and ducked into the passenger seat.

  “Hello, my dear.” Huda smiled from behind the wheel. “Abdul Amir is not feeling well, so I’ve come in his place. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, this is perfect.” Ally beamed. “We can make this a girls’ night out.”

  “Oh, my dear, I’m here as your driver, nothing more.”

  A concrete mixer rumbled past. Its lights swept across Huda’s face, revealing eyes lined with thick black kohl and lids painted pink and purple. Diamantés sparkled at her ears.

  “But you look so lovely.” Ally motioned at Huda’s long silky blouse and black pants. She paused and inspected her own linen maxidress and roman sandals. “I hope I’m not underdressed.”

  “Don’t worry.” Huda patted her arm.

  Ally thought she saw pity in her eyes.

  “You look very nice,” Huda assured her.

  “So you’ll join me?”

  Huda shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  They motored past the billboard and through the blinking traffic lights. After a few zigzagging blocks, they turned and cruised along the Tigris. Ally eyed the deserted promenade hugging the riverbank. Her mother used to come here to unwind with her friends. On one of her postcards she called it “our weekly gossip session.” Ally peered into the darkness and imagined young women strolling beside the water, music drifting from the cafés, families picnicking on the grass.

  In her mother’s day, Saddam was only vice president and his gargantuan palace of gray concrete had not yet sprung up on the far bank. Now his face was carved into each of the four massive turrets, granite eyes surveying every inch of the city. The palace lights reflected in the dark waters like a twisted Disneyland.

  “Abdul Amir said you went to the hospital today,” said Huda. “Is anything wrong?”

  “I’m fine. Nothing to worry about.”

  “People don’t go to the hospital for nothing.” Huda glanced at her. “Are you sick?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you pregnant?” Huda grinned. “Please, tell me, will we have a little Tom running about soon?”

  “That’s not it.”

  “So, what is it?”

  Ally hesitated. She knew she had to keep her mom’s nationality secret, but surely she could share a few things about her past. Did she have to behave like a paper doll, trimmed of substance, snipped of history? Without at least a little trust, Ally suspected her friendship with Huda would wither and die, like the gardens that had once hemmed the promenade.

  “Is it a secret, my friend?”

  “No, it’s just . . .” Ally knew Huda wasn’t a gossip and that they were alone in the car. Still, it was har
d not to check the back seat. “I was trying to find someone who knew my mother.”

  Huda’s eyebrows climbed up her forehead.

  “Your mother?”

  “She worked as a nurse in Baghdad thirty years ago.”

  Huda glanced across the cabin.

  “How come you never told me this before?” She frowned slightly, as if her feelings were hurt. “They had Australian nurses here? I thought they were all British.”

  “They were British, mostly, but there were also nurses from France, India, Australia and . . . other countries.” Ally wished she could tell Huda the whole truth, but that wouldn’t be safe. Not for her. And not for Huda.

  “Can’t your mother tell you how to find her friend?”

  Ally sighed. Her secrets were like stones in her pockets, dragging her down.

  “She died when I was five years old,” she said quietly.

  “My dear, I’m so sorry.” Huda reached across and touched Ally’s knee. “I didn’t realize.”

  “Don’t feel bad. It’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not.” Huda stared through the windshield. “My father died when I was little. For a girl, it’s not the same as losing a mother, but it hurts, even today.”

  Out on the promenade, a bronze statue gleamed under spotlights: Scheherazade, the fabled storyteller of One Thousand and One Nights. Ally’s mother had written about the statue’s unveiling, and every time Ally saw the graceful figure, she felt a rush of tenderness. It was not just the connection to her mom but that Scheherazade had survived—when so many other statues had been torn down and replaced by tributes to Saddam.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ally. “This was meant to be a fun night out.”

  Huda glanced at her.

  “The great poet Rumi said sorrow sweeps everything out of your house violently so that joy has space to enter.”

  Perhaps Huda was right, thought Ally. In the darkened car, childhood losses reached out their hands and greeted each other as friends.

  The car trundled by a quiet fish shack set in a patch of grass. There were no patrons at its rickety tables, only an old man roasting masgouf carp over a glowing firepit.