When the Apricots Bloom

by Gina Wilkinson

  “I read that people used to water-ski right here,” said Ally.

  “Oh, yes,” said Huda. “Young people liked to swim and water-ski. Families came to picnic, to take a nice walk, to play badminton. At night, Abu Nuwas Boulevard was the most exciting place. More exciting than Cairo. More than Beirut. There were bars and nightclubs. Fancy casinos too.”

  “What about you, Huda? Did you ever go water-skiing on the Tigris?”

  “Me? No, never.” Huda pursed her lips. “I was too busy playing blackjack at the casino.”

  Ally threw her head back and cackled.

  “Oh, yes,” Huda chuckled. “I juggled martinis in one hand, and dealt seven-card stud with the other. They called me the Queen of Diamonds.”

  The two women giggled, their merriment echoing through the car. Ally gazed out the window and marveled at how history always managed to repeat itself. Thirty years after her mother, she was here, sharing a laugh with a friend, while Scheherazade kept spinning her tales on the banks of the ancient Tigris.

  * * *

  Huda maneuvered the Corolla down a narrow street and pulled up by a sturdy gate the mottled green of old copper. Nothing could be seen beyond it, only treetops and a buttery smear of stars.

  Ally unbuckled her seat belt. “Shall we go in?”

  Huda eyed the gate uneasily. “I’ll wait in the car.”

  “Please, come inside. I’m sure you’d be very welcome.” Ally squeezed Huda’s hand. She couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving her to wait out in the car, alone. “When’s the last time you had a girls’ night out?”

  Huda ran her hand over her hair. She reached for the interior light, flipped down her visor, and inspected her reflection in the vanity mirror.

  “Will they be serving wine?” She scrubbed a fleck of lipstick from her tooth.

  “I think so,” replied Ally tentatively.

  “Good. I need a drink.”

  The copper gate had been left ajar. Ally pushed it open, revealing a once grand Baghdadi home. Flakes of paint clung to the pale walls like the scales of a great fish. Light filtered through a small stained-glass window set in an iron-studded front door that looked like it had been built in medieval times. A burst of laughter came from somewhere around the side of the house.

  “It sounds like the party is out back.” Ally smoothed her dress.

  Huda dug a pack of cigarettes from her handbag.

  “Go ahead. I will join you in a few minutes.”

  “I can wait.”

  “No, go ahead.” Huda shooed Ally toward a stepping-stone path hemmed with lavender. It led to a large yard at the side of the house. On the lawn, a handful of people milled about a firepit. A few others congregated at picnic tables and benches. A rosy-cheeked man in a safari suit spied Ally hovering at the end of the path.

  “Welcome!” He hurried past a seven-foot statue of a woman curled around a child, like a fruit around a seed. He stuck out a sweaty hand. “I’m Gunter Kops, director of the German Cultural Center. It’s so nice to see a fresh face.”

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Ally Wilson.”

  “Tom Wilson’s wife? I should have guessed. After all, there’s not many Western women running around Baghdad. May I get you a drink?”

  “A chardonnay would be great,” said Ally. Gunter poured her a glass at a makeshift bar, then ushered her toward the other guests. An older Asian woman elbowed her companion, and the group swiveled toward them like a school of fish.

  “Welcome to Baghdad.” The Asian woman crushed Ally’s fingers with her handshake. In heavily accented English, she introduced herself as the chargé d’affairs at the Chinese embassy. The other guests—all men—were either diplomats or they worked for the United Nations.

  “And what do you do, Ally?” asked a silver-haired Frenchman.

  “I, uh . . .”

  “Ally is married to Tom Wilson at the Australian embassy,” said Gunter.

  “Oh, a housewife,” said the Chinese woman. Her eyes went blank, like someone had pulled down a blind. She turned to the man beside her and they began conversing in what sounded like Russian.

  “I thought Iraq was a nonfamily posting,” said the Frenchman.

  “I believe the Bangladeshi ambassador has his wife here,” a Nigerian diplomat replied.

  “No, she left a month ago.” Gunter wiped beer froth from his lip. “Her husband sent her back home after President Bush’s ‘Axis of Evil’ speech.”

  Muttering and eye-rolling broke out.

  “Al-Qaeda has no stronghold here.” The Frenchman sipped his wine, grimaced, and then sipped again. “This is a farce designed to distract Americans voters from their own problems.”

  “The regime can’t keep the lights on or the phones working, let alone threaten Washington,” said the Nigerian. “The Americans must know that.”

  “I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that there’s an old stockpile of nerve gas tucked away somewhere.” Gunter leaned into the circle. “If things get worse, who knows what the regime might do.”

  “Like what?” said Ally. “Smuggle nerve gas onto the subway in New York?”

  “Oh, no, they couldn’t pull that off,” said Gunter. “They’d use them on only the foreigners within reach—us. Or maybe they’ll keep us as human shields, like they did with thousands of expats during the Gulf War.” He glanced over his shoulder. “The regime can be as ruthless with foreigners as it is with its own.”

  The Frenchman nodded. “Remember that British journalist they accused of spying? The regime invited him here on a press tour, but when he deviated from the itinerary . . .” He paused, checked the garden, and sliced his hand across his throat.

  Lukewarm chardonnay lodged in Ally’s gullet.

  “What journalist?” she stammered. “I never heard about this.”

  “That’s no surprise—the world has a short memory,” said the Frenchman. “It was a few years after the Gulf War. The reporter heard rumors of an explosion at a refinery, so he went to investigate. The Iraqis arrested him just outside of Baghdad, charged him with spying, and hung him at Abu Ghraib.” He paused. “Of course, they tortured him for six months first.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Rania straightened her silky blue jumpsuit, ran her hands over her long wavy hair, then stepped out of the gallery and into the backyard. She prayed that she could convince at least a few of the diplomats to buy a painting from the new exhibition. The money she’d made selling her father’s books was running out fast.

  “Come now, gentlemen.” The stern voice of the Chinese chargé d’affaires echoed across the lawn. “No one wants to hear such wild talk.”

  Rania slowed her pace. Lee Ping had a fine-tuned ear for chatter that might upset the authorities. Rania considered turning around and retreating indoors. After all, the mukhabarat would have followed at least some of the diplomats here, and one of those oafish thugs could well pay her a visit later, demanding to know who said what, and to whom.

  Rania turned her amber eyes to the night sky. The stars were bright, but the moon was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t surprised that it wanted nothing to do with the folly below. She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and continued across the lawn. Artists had always held an honored role in Iraqi society, and that afforded her some leeway from the regime’s restrictions on associating with foreigners. Still, she knew she was walking a high wire.

  Over the years, Rania had become skilled at fending off the mukhabarat’s inquiries. She knew how to distract, flatter, and feign ignorance, how to smile even when fear bubbled in her stomach. She could always find a way to casually mention that one of the city’s thoroughfares bore her ancestral name. Her family’s wealth might be gone, but she was a sheikh’s daughter, and that still carried some weight. In the rare case that didn’t work, she’d produce her Presidential Arts Award with its dollop of bloodred wax. The sight of his signature always brought the interview to a quick close.

  Tonight, however, Rania could feel a migr
aine coming on. She didn’t want to have to stay up late, performing verbal gymnastics and dropping names for some mukhabarat brute, just because one of the diplomats drank too much wine and indulged in wild talk. Still, the bills weren’t going to pay themselves.

  “Rania, there you are.” Gunter broke away from the gaggle of diplomats and hurried toward her. “Please allow me to introduce you to a newcomer to Baghdad.”

  He steered her toward a young woman—the diplomat’s wife from Mutanabbi market.

  “It’s so wonderful to see you again,” said Ally. As the conversation continued, Rania noticed her sipping nervously on her wine and glancing over her shoulder toward the gate.

  “You probably find it boring here, Ally, without a job to keep you busy,” said Gunter. “Did you know that Baghdad has an international school? There aren’t any foreign children left, but there are some very bright Iraqi students. They always need teachers. What’s your background?”

  “My background?”

  “What did you do before you came here?”

  “She already said she’s a diplomat’s wife.” The Nigerian ambassador sipped pomegranate juice. “My own wife tells me it’s a full-time occupation—entertaining official guests, running the house, training the cook to make dishes the proper way.”

  “You didn’t bring her to Baghdad?” said the Frenchman.

  “I brought the cook instead,” he replied archly. His colleagues chuckled and swigged their drinks.

  Ally shifted uncomfortably.

  “Would you like to see some paintings?” Rania whispered in her ear. “I can give you a tour of my little gallery.”

  “I’d love that.” Ally smiled gratefully. She glanced over her shoulder again. “But do you mind giving me a few minutes? I just need to duck out to my car.”

  “Of course.” Rania gestured to the side door, where light from the gallery spilled in a long rectangle across the grass. “I’ll wait for you inside.”

  Ally appeared a few minutes later, still looking vaguely perturbed. Rania took the young woman’s elbow, and they began to circle the whitewashed room, keeping in step, as if they were ladies promenading by the river.

  “Are you an artist too?” said Ally. “Do you paint? Or did you create that sculpture in the garden?”

  “Oh, no, I bought that sculpture many years ago,” said Rania. “I just dabble, a little sketch here and there, but nothing of any great import. I try to support artists and match them with a buyer. And, as you can see, I host events in the garden from time to time.”

  Ally paused by a painting of three galloping horses: all slanting lines and geometric shapes in shades of orange and gray. Sharp-edged storm clouds pressed at their backs. Rania eyed the short biography pinned beneath the artist’s work: Hassan Ghraib, born 1985. He wasn’t much older than Hanan. Rania’s heart ached. Was this what peace looked like to her daughter’s generation?

  “Gunter told me the theme of the exhibition was peace,” said Ally, as if reading her mind.

  Rania arched an eyebrow.

  “Do you see peace in this work?”

  The young woman blushed. “I don’t know anything about art.”

  “Forget about your head,” said Rania. “What about your heart?”

  Ally eyed the stampeding animals.

  “I don’t see peace in this at all. Quite the opposite.”

  “I agree,” said Rania. “Peace is a convenient theme for an exhibition, but for many Iraqis, especially our youth, it is an alien concept. It shouldn’t have to be this way.”

  Ally glanced at her curiously. Rania was surprised too. She didn’t normally share opinions like that with strangers, foreign strangers. But the young woman had an unguarded quality, an openness, that reminded her of Hanan.

  The door to the garden swung open.

  “Look who I found by the gate.” Gunter hustled a short woman into the gallery. She raised her hand to her eyes, as if blinded by the light.

  “Huda!” cried Ally. “There you are. Please, let me introduce you to Rania Mansour.”

  Rania froze. She’d imagined this moment so many times: what she would do and say. Now, her mind went blank. Huda lowered her hand. Her eyes were flat as a pond.

  “We know each other,” she said coolly.

  “You do?”

  Rania forced a smile onto her lips.

  “Yes, we’ve known each other since we were children.” She reminded herself to breathe, but the past had sucked all the air from the room.

  “That was a long time ago.” Huda turned her cheek and eyed the galloping ocher horses.

  Rania’s heart beat faster. She could manage the mukhabarat’s questions about foreigners in her garden. Huda was different. How could Rania explain their connection? And what if the mukhabarat interviewed Huda? What secrets might she spill? Rania felt the high wire sway beneath her.

  “Ally, why don’t you show Gunter the painting you liked?” she said quickly. “I would love a moment to catch up with Huda. Please, excuse us.”

  She extended her arm and swept Huda out to the garden, so swift there was no time for her to object. She put her hand on Huda’s back and steered her away from the foreigners on the grass.

  “How is your family?” She directed Huda toward an overgrown citrus grove at the rear of the yard. “Your husband and son, are they well?”

  “Yes, both are well. Khalid is almost fourteen now,” Huda replied. “And your daughter, Hanan? How is she?”

  They exchanged ritual greetings, using the time to size each other up among the orange trees. The past pressed against Rania’s chest. Did Huda feel it too?

  “So what brings you here?” Rania struggled to keep tremors from her voice. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “No, not at all,” said Huda. “I’m here with Ally. She’s my boss’s wife. I work at the Australian embassy now. I’m a secretary.”

  “I did hear of this, from my mother. You’ve done very well. You should be congratulated.” Rania glanced over her shoulder. The diplomats had their backs to them, blissfully unaware of the ghosts stalking the orange trees. She lowered her voice. “Forgive me for asking, but do you often socialize with foreigners outside the office?”

  “I told you, she’s my boss’s wife.” Huda frowned. “She asked me to bring her here.”

  “I see.” Rania rubbed at the scar on her thumb. “It is quite likely that your car’s number plate has been taken down. You may be followed home and interviewed.”

  Huda raised her chin. “Every worker at the embassy is interviewed from time to time. I can explain it to them.”

  “Explain? To them?”

  “You associate with foreigners,” said Huda. “Plenty of them. Are you never questioned?”

  “But I am—” Rania stopped. “Our situation is very different.”

  “I’m not a poor village girl anymore.” Huda stared at her. “I work at the embassy. I am simply fulfilling my work duties.”

  Behind them, the foreigners bayed with sudden laughter.

  “You may be a secretary,” whispered Rania, “but to them, that means nothing.”

  Huda drew herself up to her full height. She was still two heads shorter than Rania.

  “I am nothing?” she hissed.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Perhaps you think—”

  “Here you two are.” Ally materialized at the edge of the citrus grove. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “Not at all,” said Rania hurriedly. She shot a wary glance at Huda. “It’s been a lovely surprise to see my friend here, after so many years. But forgive me, I better check in with my other guests.”

  As Rania hurried away, she wondered how long Ally had been standing there. She probably didn’t know enough Arabic to have understood her conversation with Huda, but even a dead man could feel the tension in the air. And the regret, thicker than the scent of orange blossom.

  CHAPTER 7

  “There are too many eyes in th
is room.” Huda hugged her arms to her chest. On the walls of Rania’s whitewashed gallery, black-robed women, children picking watermelons, and warrior kings were all boxed into wooden frames. “I feel as if I am being watched.”

  “So how do you know Rania?” Ally tilted her head. Her gaze still held the watchfulness Huda detected in the citrus grove. “I got the impression you two aren’t best buddies. . . .”

  Huda ignored the question and peered at a painting titled Three Men on a Bench. To her, they looked like prisoners strapped into electric chairs.

  “Forty dollars? So much?” She shook her head at the price tag, then surveyed the wall of oil-paint eyes: pale as moons, oversize, some crisscrossed with veins, others dead. “It’s hot in here,” she said. “Let’s go out to the garden.”

  The foreigners fell quiet as Huda and Ally crossed the lawn. All those eyes again, watching their approach. Gunter darted forward and escorted them to the firepit.

  “This is Huda.” He puffed out his chest like a fisherman who’d netted the catch of the day. “She works at the Australian embassy with Ally’s husband, isn’t that so?”

  She nodded and forced a smile.

  “It’s so wonderful to have one of our Iraqi colleagues among us,” he crowed.

  The foreigners erupted into a chorus of greetings. Huda told herself there was nothing to fear. Still, her heart thudded as she stammered through small talk: families, summer heat, vacation plans. Luckily, every time conversation threatened to veer into dangerous territory, a helpful Chinese woman intervened and directed talk elsewhere. All the while, she waited for Rania to reappear, but she remained inside her mansion for the rest of the night.

  When Huda arrived home, Abdul Amir was in the backyard, pacing the manicured lawn. The refineries were burning gas. Huda could taste it on her tongue.

  “Rania’s garden was in such a state.” She shook her head. “Threadbare grass, plants run to seed. Surely, she can afford a gardener?”

  “How did she appear?”

  “She has some gray hairs, a few lines at her eyes, but she was beautiful as always. And just as arrogant. She still believes she can tell me how to live my life.”