“For an extra two thousand dinar, your son can journey around the world.” Abu Nasser flung his skinny arms wide. In his baggy black shirt, he looked like a cormorant sunning itself by the Tigris. “What mother would not want that for her son?”
“If only it were that simple,” mumbled Huda. Worried that Abu Nasser would catch the ugly fight between love and fear going on behind her eyes, she busied herself fixing Khalid’s collar and combing his hair.
“I’d like a white background.” She licked her thumb. Khalid grimaced and pulled away before she could smooth his eyebrows. “Nothing fancy, thank you, Abu Nasser.”
“Are you interested in a portrait to hang on your wall? I stock a lovely variety of frames.”
“Passport size is what I need.”
“Passport size?” Abu Nasser stopped and tilted his head. Once again Huda thought of a cormorant eyeing a fish in the reeds. “You have travel plans abroad?”
“That would be wonderful, but no.” She tittered nervously, and wondered, Could Abu Nasser be a mukhabarat informant, like her? “This is for a locket. A gift for my mother. Passport size will fit perfectly.”
Abu Nasser pulled a bare screen behind his stage.
“Passport size comes in a set of four. You can’t buy one only.”
“Four is fine. Thank you.”
Abu Nasser sighed and straightened Khalid’s shoulders. He switched on a tungsten lamp and retreated behind his camera.
“Okay, young man, give me a smile.”
“No!” Huda lurched from the bench. “No smile. Just a straight face, looking right at the camera.”
Abu Nasser glanced up from his viewfinder.
“First no lovely backdrop. Now you say, no smile?” He jammed his hands on his bony hips. “It’ll look like a mug shot. Shall I fingerprint him too?”
“His grandmother is very old-fashioned.” Huda smiled like the petrified brides on the wall. “Back in my mother’s day, a photograph was a once-in-a-lifetime event. She still thinks it’s serious business, not to be made light of.”
“Well, it’s your money,” the old man muttered. “If you say no smile, then that’s what you’ll get.”
A few minutes later, Abu Nasser retreated to his darkroom to develop Khalid’s photos. The boy slouched on the bench beside Huda.
“The stink of those chemicals is going to kill me.” He buried his head in his hands. “Unless I die of boredom first.”
Huda glanced through the window fronting onto the sidewalk. The wind pushed a plastic bag down the street, picked it up, and lifted it high into the sky like a balloon that had escaped a child’s hand. Over by the traffic lights, a beggar woman hawked newspapers to passing motorists. The wind clutched at her tatty abaya. The fabric, like the woman, had faded with age and countless hours spent outside, under the scrutiny of the sun, and every man and dog that passed by.
“How much longer?” groaned Khalid. Huda patted his arm. When she glanced outside again, Ally was on the far side of the street, walking briskly in the direction of the embassy. Tom must have gone into work, even though it was Saturday. Huda felt a stab of pity. Ally’s days must be long and lonely. No wonder she was the only diplomat’s wife left in Baghdad.
Huda wondered if Ally had tried to call Abdul Amir before setting out. She rarely contacted him on weekends anymore, not since Huda showed up in his place to ferry her to the Rashid Hotel. Huda remembered the glow of the Rashid’s chandeliers, and the clack-clack-clack of her heels against the marble floor. Suddenly, she was short of breath, as if the mukhabarat with the purple scar still had his hand wrapped around her throat.
She took a deep breath and watched Ally duck into a small delicatessen. A few minutes later, she emerged with two bulging plastic bags. A moment later, a small boy toddled out from an alley. Ally smiled as he ran toward her, waving a stick in the air like a make-believe sword. From her corner, the newspaper vendor watched, unsmiling, as Ally ruffled the boy’s hair.
Ally played with the child for a minute, then she deposited one of the plastic bags by the wall, alongside the woman’s stock of newspapers. She bent down, pretended to steal the child’s nose, and then strode on in the direction of the embassy, without looking to the woman for thanks. Huda admired her generosity. If she’d been the one handing out groceries, she would expect to hear, “Allah, bless you, sister,” or even better, “May you live a long and happy life.”
The newspaper vendor scanned the street warily. Was she on the lookout for mukhabarat? Weeks ago, Abdul Amir noticed Ally’s interest in the boy and his mother, and reported it to Abu Issa. He sent one of his men to interview the woman about Ally: how often she stopped by, where she went, what she said. Huda examined the woman’s stiff spine, her razor-sharp cheekbones, and hooded eyes. Like anyone else, the newspaper vendor knew it was dangerous to get close to foreigners. Still, she needed the food Ally provided. And the girl always made her son smile—perhaps that made it worth the risk.
Huda watched Ally disappear down the road. She wished she could fling open the door of the photography studio and call after her. She wished they could stroll to the riverside, like people did before, in the golden years, the years of plenty. Most likely Ally would crack some jokes, or point out how the sun’s rays split into rainbows as they bounced off the blue dome of a mosque. She wished they could simply be friends, free to speak their minds.
But Huda knew that after being warmed by Ally’s unfiltered cheer, she’d be required to provide a full accounting of every word. Abu Issa would chastise her for failing to unearth an ugly secret or some snippet of information to pass on to his superiors. The Bolt Cutter would crack his thick, hairy knuckles, one gristle-laden pop after another. Huda knew she had no choice, but the closer she got to Ally, the greater her shame grew, like a microscopic toxin multiplying beneath her skin.
“Your photos are ready.” Abu Nasser returned from his darkroom, bringing with him yet another wave of malodorous gas. Huda took a final glance at Ally disappearing down the road. Her eyes stung, but this time Abu Nasser’s chemicals weren’t to blame.
* * *
Huda pulled over by the soccer field behind the Palestine Hotel. A pigeon keeper had loosed his flock from their cage atop a nearby apartment block. The birds looped through the cloudless sky then flapped in tight formation across the field.
“Are you sure about this?” Huda peered through the windshield. “Where’s Bakr?”
“He’ll be here.” Khalid unbuckled his seat belt. “We’re a little early, that’s all.”
“How early? I don’t want you wandering about and getting into mischief.”
He rolled his eyes and threw open the car door.
“Kiss your mother goodbye first,” said Huda.
He offered his cheek, mouth twisting, like he’d sucked on a Basra lime.
“You’re sure Bakr’s mom will drive you home?” She tried to wipe a smudge of lipstick from his cheek, but Khalid evaded her and clambered out of the car.
“Mom, stop worrying.”
“Be good. Stay safe!” she cried. “I love you, my darling.”
As Khalid jogged toward the dusty field, Huda slumped into her seat. Those last five words felt like the only honest things she’d said all day. Huda rested her forehead against the steering wheel. How long could she keep lying to her husband, to Ally, to her friends and neighbors? How long could she fool Abu Issa and the Bolt Cutter? And what about Khalid? When the truth finally came out, she feared he’d curse her name.
Huda dragged herself upright. Khalid was idling on the fringe of the soccer field, hands shading his eyes, as if he were watching her car. She turned the key in the ignition and waved goodbye. He didn’t respond. Perhaps he wasn’t looking at her. Maybe he was tracking the pigeons wheeling above their coop.
Huda didn’t understand the birds. Did they not harbor the urge to fly toward the sun, to eat wild rice, and drink from a babbling stream? Born in a cage. Raised in its stinking confines. Was a handful of seed
and a saucer of dirty water really enough to keep them in place? Was that all it took to change the nature of a bird, to extinguish its need to be free?
Huda waved at Khalid one last time. Her stomach churned as she tucked the passport photos deep in her handbag, alongside Khalid’s identity papers and a thick chunk of cash. She motored in the direction of the river, crossed the swooping bridge, and turned toward Mansour, all the while keeping constant lookout for roadside checkpoints. Finally, Huda arrived at the great copper gate. Rania pried it open before she had a chance to ring the bell and led her straight to the garden.
“We’re to go to Shorja market.” Rania’s words were barely audible amid the rustling of the eucalypts. “They said to pass by the spice stalls and wait near the old hammam.”
“The bathhouse?”
Rania shrugged.
“None of this was my idea.”
Huda clamped her handbag under her arm. Ten thousand people visited Shorja market every day, and common wisdom said a third of them were pickpockets. Some carried blades to slice open bags just like hers.
“May I use your bathroom first?”
Rania glanced at the house. Her mouth twitched. For a moment Huda wondered if she was going to refuse.
“Go through the gallery to the hall. It’s the first door on your left.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. “We need to leave soon to make it on time.”
In the bathroom, Huda removed the scarf from her neck and used it to lash Khalid’s documents to her waist. She wound the fabric tight as a girdle, hopped up and down and jiggled her hips. Satisfied no pickpocket could pry the papers loose, she buttoned her shirt, unlocked the bathroom door, and collided with a ghost from her past.
“Oops, sorry.” A fourteen-year-old version of Rania rested her slender hand against the wall. Huda’s eyes bulged like a character in one of Khalid’s science fiction comics, suddenly transported back in time and space.
“Do you need this, madam?” The girl held out a hand towel. “Mom told me to replace it this morning, but I forgot.”
Huda blinked.
“Your mom? Of course.” Huda laughed out loud—a high-pitched peal that wobbled toward hysteria. “Silly me. I should have realized.”
The girl’s long curly hair and aquiline nose were identical to her mother’s. But it was the proud tilt of her chin and her level amber gaze—even when confronted with a babbling lunatic in her bathroom—that made her seem like she’d walked straight out of Huda’s memory.
“You’re so tall. So pretty.” Huda pressed her hands together. “But then again, I always knew you would be beautiful, Hanan.”
Confusion crept into the girl’s eyes.
“Forgive me, but have we met before?”
“Your mother and I are old . . .” Huda paused. “I grew up in a village near your grandfather’s farm. We’re from the same tribe.”
“Oh, the tribe.” The girl’s lips twisted, and Huda was reminded of Khalid’s reluctant goodbye kiss. “My mom says ours is a small tribe, but they sure seem to have a lot of babies.”
“Well, I only had one. His name is Khalid. You two used to play together.”
“Khalid?” A spark flared in Hanan’s eyes. Suddenly, she grasped Huda’s hand and led her to a collection of photographs displayed on a wall. Hanan pointed at a picture of a baby swaddled in muslin, watched over by a curly-haired toddler.
“Is that your Khalid?”
Huda leaned in close.
“Oh my goodness.” She chuckled softly. “I remember when this was taken. You two were so cute together.”
“So, you’re the Huda Mom told me about.”
The smile melted from Huda’s lips. What had Rania said? Had she taken her daughter into the garden, beneath the swaying eucalypts, and whispered about blackmail, informants, and the mukhabarat?
“Yes.” Huda couldn’t bring herself to say her own name aloud. “I am Khalid’s mother.”
“My mom told me all about you.”
The girl stared at her, eyes wide, unblinking.
Shame bloodied Huda’s cheeks.
“Oh, yes,” said Hanan. “If she sees a boatman on a river, my mom always says, ‘Huda could sail better than that.’ If I scrape my toe, she says, ‘Huda could mix up a magic salve,’ like the one you made for the scar on her thumb.” The girl giggled. The sound cut Huda to the core.
It had been twenty years or more, but Huda still remembered the salve Hanan referred to, and the scar. Huda had been at the sheikh’s farm. Her grandmother was busy giving readings and dispensing advice in the women’s quarters, when Huda snuck out to the farmhouse kitchen. Rania was already there, virtually vibrating with excitement. She’d seen an American film where two friends pledged undying loyalty by slicing their hands and mixing their blood. She’d proposed Huda and her do the same, with a few twists of their own.
“I’ve got the honey,” said Rania, in a stage whisper. “What about you?”
Huda rifled through the pockets of her long apricot dress. She produced a small bottle of brown glass, borrowed from her grandmother’s saddlebag. Huda uncorked the bottle and carefully measured out a teaspoon of foul-smelling liquid. Rania’s nose wrinkled.
“Tincture of myrrh,” whispered Huda, before mixing it with a generous glug of honey harvested from the sheikh’s hives.
Next she retrieved a dented tin from the depths of her pocket and scooped out an oily paste made of Palestinian thyme. Its herbaceous aroma of mint and lemon neutralized the stink of the myrrh. Rania peered over Huda’s shoulder.
“Is that it?” she whispered, disappointed. “What about some henna?”
“I knew you’d say that,” said Huda. She untwisted a small scrap of paper and poured a generous pinch of red henna powder into the concoction. It was a waste, really. Thyme, honey, and myrrh were more than enough to do the job, but Rania put great store in henna, ever since the day she met Huda, with her bag of runes and henna-painted feet. Rania grinned with satisfaction as Huda mixed the dye into her salve.
“We should hurry.” Rania glanced over her shoulder. “The cook could come back any moment.”
Quickly, Huda scraped the mixture onto a square of banana leaf, then folded it into a neat package.
“Let’s go somewhere they won’t think to look.”
“Not the stables, then,” said Rania.
“What about the riverbank, over by that stork’s nest we found last year? Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember,” said Rania.
Huda hurried outside, trying to hide her relief. Rania had been away in Baghdad for almost three months—a lifetime for twelve-year-old Huda. She feared Rania would forget all about her, now that she was a student at the prestigious Baghdad Ladies High School. Huda imagined Rania and the other highborn girls trading tips on where to vacation in Britain, or which Paris bakery had the best croissants. Huda had no doubt they ordered them in flawless French.
The two girls hurried past the sheikha’s fragrant rose garden, then the cavernous garage with the family’s collection of shiny motorcars.
“So what did you do for fun in Baghdad?” asked Huda.
“You know,” Rania shrugged. “The usual stuff.”
What was this stuff? wondered Huda. She had no idea what was “usual” for a student at Baghdad Ladies High School, and Rania was more mysterious than ever. As they crept past the stable, a sleek gray mare poked her nose from the window of her stall and whinnied. Huda pulled a floppy carrot from her pocket.
“What else have you got hidden in there?” giggled Rania. “A mother goat? A top hat? A fishing rod?”
“I’ve got what we need for our ceremony,” she said, determined to show Rania that she could be mysterious too.
The mare snuffled the treat from Huda’s palm, and the girls continued on, past the vegetable garden and the sheikh’s beehives. They paused when they reached a wall of tall grass.
“You’re not scared, are you?” said Rania.
; “Of course not.” Huda raised her chin. She might not know how to order breakfast in French, but the wetlands were her domain. “Let’s go.”
Hemmed in by hissing curtains of grass, the two girls followed a narrow goat track to the river. Rania eyed the silty shore nervously.
“What now?”
“Come on,” said Huda, slipping off her sandals and feeling the sand between her toes. “I’ll show you.”
She had to admit, she was enjoying the situation. Rania usually seemed so confident, so adult. In Baghdad, she had celebrated her fourteenth birthday, shed the last traces of baby fat, and returned to the farm taller and more beautiful than ever. Huda felt dowdy beside her, even in her best apricot dress. But at least here, surrounded by rattling cattails and fleets of clucking waterfowl, she was in her element.
“I have one more special item in my pocket,” she announced.
Rania leaned closer. “What is it?”
Huda paused, milking the drama, just like her grandmother did before revealing the signs in the coffee grounds. With a flourish, she extracted a knife from her pocket. The double-bladed jambiya was no machete, less than six inches long from the tip to the base of the buffalo-horn handle. But when Huda held it aloft, the curved blade caught the sun and split it into rainbows.
“This is for our blood oath,” she proclaimed.
Rania’s eyes grew round.
“Where did you get it?”
“It’s Mustafa’s. He won’t notice it’s gone until he and Ali return from hunting ducks. I’ve learned how to do that too, you know. I can balance a spear in my palm, just like my brothers. Soon I’ll make it fly where I wish . . .” Huda trailed off, suddenly unsure if her hunting credentials would impress a student at Baghdad Ladies High School. “I’ve been studying English too, every day.”
“Shall we do this?” Rania glanced over her shoulder. “They might miss me at the farmhouse.”
Huda cut down a thick cattail with the dagger, then used it to mark a large circle in the sand.
When the Apricots Bloom Page 13