When the Apricots Bloom

by Gina Wilkinson

  “I’ve done what you asked.” Rania tucked her bag under her arm. “There’s no need for us to meet again.”

  For weeks, she’d been dreaming of the moment she could bid Huda goodbye. She was surprised when regret flicked in her chest like a fish swishing its tail.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Huda’s big eyes were flat with exhaustion. She looked like her grandmother after she’d read too many coffee cups. The crowd pushed them deeper into the alley, toward a busy corner where the path divided into two. Huda veered left, Rania right.

  “Do one last thing for me.” Huda’s voice rose above the din of hagglers and hawkers’ bells. “Tell Hanan that I will pray for God to grant her happiness.”

  A lump formed in Rania’s throat. She tried to reply, but like swimmers caught in a riptide, the two women were swept away. Rania drifted past stalls selling dried dates, walnuts, and pistachios. Vendors called for her to stop and taste a fig or a lick of wildflower honey. The thought of food made Rania sick, but the smoke of the kerosene lantern had left her throat raw. She ducked into a teashop and ordered a glass of lime tea.

  “Numi basra?” The old man behind the counter rinsed a glass and set it on a saucer. “How many sugars?”

  Rania held up three fingers. It would need to be very sweet to wash the bitterness from her mouth. She perched on a stool at the entrance to the shack. When the old man delivered her istikan, she didn’t wait for the steaming tea to cool. Rania’s scalded tongue gave her an excuse for the tears in her eyes.

  A barefoot boy squeezed through the crowd. His hair was matted, but unlike the child who led them to Khan Murjan, he had brown eyes, not green. Rania wished their little guide would pass by again. Perhaps she’d take him to buy a leg of roast chicken, then he’d have meat to go with the bread and yogurt he’d promised Huda he’d buy instead of sweets. She sipped the tea and searched the crowd for those emerald eyes. Kareem strolled by.

  Rania slapped down a few dinar and hurried from the tea stall. She caught up with Kareem out on the street, not far from where she’d parked her car. He glanced up and down the sidewalk.

  “We shouldn’t be seen together.”

  “Why not?” said Rania. “We have plenty in common. Like Huda said, my ancestors have a boulevard named after them, and yours have a statue on a square.”

  “Had a statue.” Kareem frowned. “It’s been replaced.”

  “Come.” Rania ushered him around the next corner. “One of my relatives keeps a pharmacy here, although I don’t think he’s had a customer since 1995.”

  The power was out when they arrived at the pharmacy. Ropy cobwebs hung in the windows. Rania wondered if her cousin had finally given up on his business, but the front door was unlocked, so she slipped inside. She found him out back in his office, snoring in a rocking chair. He could rest easy, knowing if thieves visited his pharmacy they’d find nothing of value. His shelves were bare.

  Rania left him sleeping, returned to the front room, and locked the door.

  “Where is your little friend, Huda?” Kareem brushed a cobweb from his sleeve. “Or should I call her your blackmailer? It’s quite the Greek tragedy you two have going on.”

  “I don’t think I’ll see her again. Unless her son doesn’t get a passport.” Rania ran a finger along the counter, leaving a line in the dust. “Tell me, what game are you playing with her?”

  “Game?” Kareem blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m surprised you agreed to meet with us. What’s in it for you?”

  “I had a visit from our mutual friend Basil. The way he told it, this was a chain of dominoes ready to topple. Huda was going to betray you, then you’d give up Basil. He’d do the same to me, and so on. Obviously, I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “Please explain to me, why is the cleric involved?” Rania drew herself up tall. “And how dare he tell me to cover my hair? This is Iraq, not Saudi Arabia.”

  “I agree with you. The head scarf should be a woman’s choice.”

  “The president may be the devil,” whispered Rania, “but at least he recognized that women deserved equal recognition under the law. Once, we were the envy of all our Arab sisters. Now men like the cleric have convinced him to cut back women’s rights.”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” Kareem sighed like a teacher badgered by a know-it-all student. “I understand your concern.”

  “You understand?” Rania growled and dug her cigarettes from her bag. “Then why have you teamed up with the cleric?”

  “Right now, we can’t afford to pick and choose our allies. The cleric has a strong network.”

  “But he doesn’t want democracy—he wants a regime of a different kind. One where men have all the power. He wants Iraq to be the sort of country where a woman can be stoned to death because she had the misfortune to be raped.” Rania jammed a cigarette between her lips. “It’s madness.”

  “We must be practical. Most of the opposition fled to Britain and the United States long ago. Nowadays, men like the cleric have the numbers and the resources. We need to join forces.”

  “To replace one system of repression with another?”

  “As I said, they have numbers. But don’t forget, we have the brains. The politicians in Washington and London listen to us. Do you think they want to deal with the clerics? No, of course not. When the regime falls, they will help us end up on top.”

  “Come on, now.” Rania lit her cigarette and dragged the smoke deep into her lungs. “The Americans don’t care about us.”

  “Perhaps. But they do care about oil. Once the sanctions are lifted, we can sell it to them at a much better price than the Saudis. They get cheap oil. We get freedom. To achieve our goals we need to use both the cleric and the Americans.”

  “You know what they say, lie down with dogs, rise with fleas.”

  “Calm down,” said Kareem. “You’ve done what was needed to keep your friend happy. You don’t need to be involved any further.”

  “That brings me back to my original question.” Rania blew out a long stream of smoke. “What game are you playing with Huda? And why are you interested in the diplomat’s wife?”

  “The foreign woman means nothing to us. She is just a means to test your friend’s loyalty.” He chuckled dryly. “If the foreign woman was an American, or even a Briton, it’d be a different story. Especially if we need to prod Washington into action.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kareem checked his watch.

  “We’re wasting time with hypotheticals. Forget it.” He peered through the dirty window. “Look, it’s useful to have someone like your friend on the inside, a double agent.”

  “Huda is no James Bond.”

  “She has a stiff spine. She is resourceful. Obviously, she is prepared to lie when needed. And blackmail too. She seems very well qualified.”

  “Huda is a good person at heart.” Rania’s fingers rubbed against her scarred thumb. “She lost her two brothers to the cause, and she can’t bear the thought of losing her son.”

  “God willing, she’ll get his passport and everything will work out fine.”

  “Don’t play games with her.”

  “Stay out of this, Rania.”

  A floorboard creaked in the back office. Her cousin was awake. Kareem swiftly unlatched the door and slipped outside.

  Her cousin staggered from the back of the shop, groggy with sleep.

  “Rania?” He wiped his glasses. “Is that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me.” Rania pressed her hand to her temple. “I’ve got a terrible headache.”

  “Let me take a look on my shelves, dear.” The chemist shuffled behind his counter. “I might have a sachet of aspirin. Let me check. I have a feeling I sold it last year.”

  * * *

  Hanan grabbed Rania’s sketchpad from the kitchen table and used it to fan a cloud of cigarette smoke out the window.

  “Mom, you’re producing more pollution than al-Dora refinery.” Her no
se wrinkled. “We need a big chimney stack. You can sit under that whenever you feel the need to smoke. It’s not good for the health, you know.”

  “I should be glad my daughter has such good sense—at least in some areas.” Rania ground her cigarette into a chunky ashtray. “Happy now?”

  “Of course I’m happy. I’m back home in Baghdad.” Hanan rummaged through the refrigerator and pulled out an egg. “Can I cook this? It’s the last one.”

  “Please, eat it. I just sold a painting for Leith, so he’s bringing me another three dozen eggs.”

  “You’re taking commission in eggs?” Hanan rolled her eyes. “You can’t pay in omelets at the Alwiyah Club.”

  Rania clambered from her chair and set a pot of water on the stove.

  “A few of my friends still have membership. I’m sure one of them would be happy to host us at the club before you leave for—”

  “Before I leave?” Hanan’s eyes doubled in size. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, darling, school starts soon. Your grandmother will come to take you back to the farm.”

  “No way. I told you I’m not going back.”

  “This is not negotiable.” The buzzer sounded at the gate. “That’s probably Leith now.”

  “Or maybe it’s that sculptor who owes you money,” muttered Hanan, “with a bowl of last week’s tabbouleh or a chunk of moldy cheese.”

  “Very funny, my dear. Now put your egg in the pot. The water is almost at a boil.”

  Rania hurried outside and peered through the crack in the gate. Two men waited on the sidewalk. New buyers? she wondered. From the fine cut of their business suits, they could be sanction busters who smuggled in cigars and Johnnie Walker for the regime. Plenty of black marketers had moved into the neighborhood. They paid cash for historic mansions, demolished their roman columns and latticed balconies, and put up brick boxes with central air-conditioning in their place. Most of the time, they couldn’t tell Chagall from Charlie Brown. But they didn’t pay with eggs either.

  “As-salaam alaikum.” Rania heaved open the gate. “Welcome to my gallery.”

  The men turned. One of them stepped close, as if to embrace her. Rania dodged backward.

  “My dear Rania.” The man chuckled throatily. “Still as lovely as always.”

  “Malik?”

  Another well-fed chuckle escaped his lips.

  “I would have called, but your telephone isn’t working. If you like, I can send someone around to check the wiring. We’ve got some fellows lounging around at the Ministry with not enough work to do.”

  “What a lovely surprise.” Rania lied smoothly. “I haven’t had anyone from the Ministry of Culture stop by in quite a while.”

  Once upon a time, the Ministry had been a valued patron: commissioning new artworks, building museums, even ensuring old poets got a decent pension. Like everything else, it had withered from war and sanctions—except for the Division of Presidential Works, which continued to pump out gilded statues and gold-leaf portraits that would make even the vainest caliph blush.

  Malik cocked a finely groomed brow.

  “Are you going to invite us in?”

  “Of course.” Rania’s laugh tinkled like broken glass. She waved them toward the garden. “Please, make yourself comfortable while I fix some tea.”

  She hurried to the kitchen. Hanan glanced up, spoonful of egg halfway to her mouth.

  “What’s wrong? No moldy cheese?”

  “Go to your room.”

  “Mom, it’s a joke!”

  “My darling, it’s not you,” said Rania hurriedly. She didn’t want Malik catching sight of Hanan. Along with keeping the conveyor belt of presidential art humming, he’d also ingratiated himself into Uday’s clique, and they were always on the lookout for innocent young women. “This is important. I want you to go to your room.”

  “But I haven’t finished my—”

  “You cannot be seen or heard. Understand?” She snatched up a canister of tea. “Please, do what I say, and afterward we’ll go shopping for a new dress you can wear to the Alwiyah Club.”

  Hanan lay down her spoon. Steel clinked against porcelain.

  “I don’t need a new dress,” she said quietly.

  “Good girl. Hurry now.”

  As Hanan tiptoed out the door, Rania noted the counterfeit smile on her daughter’s face. It looked very much like the one she saw on her own face sometimes. Sorrow stabbed her side. What was she teaching her daughter? How to appease the cruel? How to keep the corrupt happy? She waited until she heard the creak of Hanan’s footsteps overhead, arranged the tray of tea, then put her hip and shoulder against the kitchen door and pushed it open. Malik blocked her way.

  “What on earth?” Rania startled. Glasses rattled on her tray. “I asked you to wait in the garden.”

  “I wanted to take a look inside the gallery, in case something caught my eye.” Malik rested his hand against the cracked plaster of the hallway and made a show of admiring the family photos on the wall. “What’s this? No photo of our nation’s beloved president?”

  “It’s being . . . reframed. The roof sprung a leak and the backing got wet.” Rania tipped her head toward the hall rug with its faded roses and turtle doves. “See, the water left a stain.”

  “I can’t stay long,” said Malik, “so forget about the tea.”

  Rania bit her lip. Refusing to take tea was a blatant insult, but she was happy to bear the slight if it meant Malik would leave sooner. Through the square of stained glass in the front door, she could see his colleague pacing back and forth.

  “The good news, my dear Rania, is that I’ve come to commission a painting.” Malik straightened his tie. “I need a portrait of the president and his sons—for Father’s Day.”

  “What a lovely idea.” Rania’s lie trotted out like an obedient dog. “Would you like me to prepare a list of artists who may be suitable?”

  “I already have someone in mind,” he replied absently, still peering at Rania’s family snaps. “Did you know that we recently invited a German journalist to Baghdad? He visited your gallery, yes?”

  The teacups rattled again.

  “That’s true.”

  “Well, that ignorant barbarian toured our Museum of Presidential Art and wrote a most unflattering review. Ostentatious, he said. Can you believe such a thing?”

  “He must be a fool. Blind too. There’s no other explanation.”

  “As you know, our leader is a sensitive soul. So he wants something even more refined than usual this time. He wants an artist with a delicate touch.”

  “We have plenty of talented artists who would be honored.”

  Malik ran his eyes up and down her slender form.

  “He wants you, Rania.”

  Silence sucked all the air from the hall.

  “I don’t do that anymore,” she stuttered.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I put my paints away long ago.”

  Malik laughed curtly.

  “In these hard times, few can afford to retire. Besides, the opportunity to paint our dear leader should renew your inspiration.”

  He returned his gaze to the photos on the wall. Rania flinched as he ran his fingers over a picture of Hanan in her school uniform.

  “Your daughter is the very image of you, Rania.” Malik stroked the thin wooden frame. “Our president enjoys meeting with Iraq’s new generation. You should bring her to the palace. His sons would like to meet her too.”

  “I can’t.” Rania clutched the tray tight. “She stays with her grandmother now.”

  “In Basra?” Malik perked up. “Did you know Uday is building a new palace there? It’s going to cover all of Sinbad Island. I’m sure he would love to have your daughter at his housewarming party.”

  Rania stood very still, tea and sugar pot perfectly balanced, and calculated the paces needed to reach the gun in the hall closet. It was her husband’s old service revolver, hidden on the top shelf under a stack of sc
arves. Malik gave her an oily smile and slid a bulging envelope from his jacket pocket.

  “This deposit should help to prevent any more water leaks.” He laid the envelope on her tray. “I’ll stop by soon with the next payment, and you can show me your progress.”

  Malik let himself out the front door. Rania remained in the hall, eyes locked on the envelope as if it was a venomous snake or a severed head—even though it was well known the president preferred to send heads home in boxes, not on trays.

  CHAPTER 14

  Ally found Hatim at his usual location outside the Karadah souk, leaning against the hood of his timeworn Volkswagen Passat, chatting with the other drivers waiting for customers to emerge from the market.

  “My Australian friend!” He straightened up and waved his lanky arm. “You need a ride?”

  Ally skirted toward him, past stalls laden with bunches of fragrant parsley and peppery arugula. Hatim loped to the far side of his car and opened the passenger door for her.

  “Did you remember to bring me that recipe for kangaroo stew?” He slid into the driver’s seat. “My wife promised to make a big vat this weekend.”

  “Darn, I forgot.” Ally played along. “How about I give you the recipe for emu pie instead?”

  “Emu is too spicy,” Hatim dead-panned. “It gives me indigestion.”

  Ally giggled and fastened her seat belt.

  “How’s your wife?” she asked. “Is she back teaching?”

  “Yes, the new term started, so she’s busy in the science lab.” Hatim carefully steered the Passat away from the curb. “She has a few rowdy students this year. She says it will be a miracle if they don’t set the classroom alight with their Bunsen burners.”

  “And your little girls?”

  “Ruby and Hela have just started grade one.” Hatim flipped down his sun visor and passed her one of the photographs he kept pinned underneath. “What do you think?”

  Ally examined the shot of Hatim’s six-year-old twins in their school uniforms: blue pinafores over white shirts, jaunty red scarves tied at their necks.

  “They get cuter every time,” she said.

  “The other day, Ruby drew a design for the world’s biggest castle. She said she will build it herself one day.” Hatim beamed. “She takes after her father, you see.”