When the Apricots Bloom

by Gina Wilkinson

  “I did my best to convince Principal al-Quds to overlook your absence. We have to hope my efforts were enough.” Huda knitted her fingers in her lap. “Where did you go on the day of the march?”

  “Nowhere, really,” Khalid mumbled. “I was hanging around the soccer field, that’s all.”

  “That’s all?” Huda glared.

  “Dad gave me some money for helping to weed the garden, so I bought a kebab and had a cola on Sadoun Street.”

  “That parade was for the president. Participation is nonnegotiable.”

  “But why, Mom?” Khalid clenched his fists. “Why must we parade through the streets, acting all overjoyed, when really we have no choice? Everyone must vote yes or else they disappear, like Professor Hafez.”

  Huda’s heart pounded. Defying her was one thing, the regime another.

  “The authorities take note when people fail to show their loyalty.” She clutched his arm. “Keep your head down and follow the rules.”

  “Like you and Dad?”

  “Yes.” Huda sighed. “Like me and Dad.”

  “So I should take money from the mukhabarat too?”

  Huda flinched as if Khalid had cursed the prophet. She wanted to take him home and scrub his mouth out with soap. The boy snatched a piece of gravel from the ground and hurled it at the lake.

  “Do you think I haven’t noticed all the suspicious chats in the sitting room with Abu Issa and his friend?”

  “Abu Issa? Who told you his name?”

  “He came over one time when you were at work. He asked me if I’d thought about joining the Lion Cubs. He said loyal young men get rewarded by the government.”

  Huda paled.

  “Don’t worry.” Khalid kicked his foot against the ground. “I didn’t tell him that I would sooner die than fight for this government. I didn’t tell him the regime murdered my two uncles and ten thousand other good Shi‘a.”

  “Shut your mouth, Khalid.” Huda’s voice leaped from her throat, wild as a dog. “Have you gone mad?”

  “Me, mad? What about you? You drink tea with the mukhabarat in the morning, then in the afternoon you sneak off to cry over that photo of Uncle Mustafa and Uncle Ali. You know the one—you hide it in your bedside drawer instead of keeping it by the front door where it should be.” He scooped another pebble from the dirt and threw it at the gushing fountains. “What would your brothers think of you and the mukhabarat? May God keep their martyred souls close.”

  His words hit Huda like a punch to the jaw.

  “Khalid, you can’t talk like this. Especially not now.”

  “Not now? Then when?”

  “Have patience, my son.” Huda squeezed his hand. “But for now, I beg you, be quiet, follow the rules, show respect for the government.”

  He scowled. “It’s all lies.”

  “Please do what I say—don’t skip class. Go to school, and profess your love for the president even when you want to bite your tongue so hard it bleeds. Our situation is going to change. I promise you.”

  Khalid laughed sourly.

  “I hope you don’t think the Americans are going to rescue us. We Iraqis must take control of our own destinies.”

  Control our own destiny? Huda remembered her brother Mustafa saying those same words. Fear snaked through her body and left her rooted to the spot. Khalid glanced past her shoulder. Suddenly, he looked much younger, like he was still a little boy.

  “Mom?” His eyes widened. “What’s going on?”

  Huda swung about. A police car sped into the parking lot. The old man had left his booth and was standing in the middle of the road with his hands above his head, like he was appealing to God. Another man ran toward him, clutching a rifle. The two guards by the amusement park rushed toward the police car. Over by Martyr’s Monument, four guards became eight.

  Huda hauled Khalid to his feet and hustled him into the Corolla. More cars lurched into the parking lot. Civilians this time, slamming on their brakes, paying no heed to the white bays painted on the tarmac. Their drivers jumped out and sprinted inside the amusement park. Moments later, a woman hurried though the turnstiles, herding four children before her.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” cried Khalid.

  “Quiet, my son.” Huda stamped her foot on the accelerator. “Put your seat belt on.”

  As they sped toward the exit, she cranked her window down. The old man was still out in the street, wandering in dumbfounded circles.

  “What is it, haji?” she cried. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s insane!” he yelled. “Why would he do this to us?”

  A gunshot echoed in the distance. Huda thought she saw a cloud of dust advancing from the west, but maybe it was fear drifting across the city, smelling of cold sweat, honking horns, making grown men bellow for their children and women pray for God’s mercy.

  “Go home. Lock your doors.” The old man clutched his bald scalp. “It’s a presidential amnesty—every thief and murderer in Iraq is out on the streets.”

  * * *

  Huda marched Khalid through the front door. The house was quiet. The television was off in the sitting room.

  “Go to your room,” she said curtly. “I will call for you after I have had a chance to talk with your father about a suitable punishment.”

  “But, Mom—”

  “No argument, Khalid. Understand?”

  He slunk to his room and pulled his door shut. Huda checked the locks on the front door and the windows, then hurried through the kitchen. Abdul Amir was outside at the patio table, nursing a can of beer. The jut of his chin said he was spoiling for a fight.

  “You won’t believe the news.” She sidled out the back door. “The authorities have emptied the jails. All the inmates are out on the streets.”

  “That’s madness.” Abdul Amir bumped his knee as he lurched from the bench. Three empty beer cans wobbled atop the picnic table.

  “The ticket seller at the amusement park said the president wanted to thank the people for his election victory. Murderers, rapists, thieves—they’re all walking free,” she said. “How could he think this would make us happy?”

  “As if we don’t have enough to worry about.” Abdul Amir downed the rest of his beer in one large gulp and stomped toward the kitchen. “I’ll check the locks.”

  “I took care of it. I fastened all the windows too.”

  Abdul Amir paused. He made a noise halfway between a sigh and a growl and continued into the kitchen. He returned a minute later with a fresh beer and that furious set to his jaw.

  “You’ve taken care of everything already? Then I guess there’s no point in me doing anything.” His laugh was as rough as a burr. “Everyone knows, Huda always does it better. First you were the star pupil at secretarial school and then the model employee. And when your pathetic husband loses his job, you get an even better position working at an embassy.” He flung his arms wide. Beer leaped from his can and splashed on the pavers. “How come everything always goes your way?”

  Huda took a step back.

  “Come now, Abdul Amir. What sort of talk is this?”

  “I used to think you were blessed, all these gifts falling into your lap one after the other. Now I realize it’s all because you know how to work the system.”

  “Me?”

  “How else could a barefoot village girl like you end up with air-conditioning, a refrigerator, a television, and still have enough money left over to buy baklava and paint her toenails a different color every week?”

  “That’s not fair.” Huda jammed her hands on her hips. “This is the beer talking.”

  “The beer?” Abdul Amir croaked out a laugh. “Did you notice I am once again back to drinking Turkish dishwater? No expensive Amstel for me.”

  Huda glanced at Khalid’s window. The curtains were drawn.

  “What has got into you?” she whispered.

  “I met with Abu Issa today. I had information I figured was worth at least six cold Dutch beers and a
box of sweets for you.” Abdul Amir wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Abu Issa said you’d already given them much better information about that stuck-up bitch Ally Wilson. He laughed and told me to ask my wife for an allowance.”

  Abdul Amir hurled his can at the gathering dusk. It cartwheeled past Huda, spraying ribbons of beer, and clattered against the back fence.

  “Abdul Amir, calm down.”

  The phone rang inside the house.

  “Where’s the money Abu Issa paid you?” said Abdul Amir. “What have you done with it?”

  “I don’t have any money.” Huda prayed he hadn’t found the stash of bills in the tea canister at the back of the pantry.

  “You’re saying Abu Issa is lying?”

  “He is mukhabarat. He wants us to lose trust in each other. It makes his job easier. And if he can humiliate a decent man, more fun for him. I don’t—”

  “Mom?”

  Khalid materialized at the kitchen door.

  “Mrs. Wilson is on the phone.”

  Huda pressed her hand to her forehead. Amid the chaos, she’d almost forgotten about the journalist who called Ally a former colleague. Surely the mukhabarat would want to know more.

  “Tell Mrs. Wilson I’ll call her back later.”

  “Are you sure?” Khalid’s gaze flicked nervously between her and Abdul Amir, who’d stalked off and was glaring at the columns of burning gas. “She sounded sort of upset.”

  Huda closed her eyes wearily.

  “Go tell Mrs. Wilson I’ll be with her in a minute.”

  Huda hovered for a moment at the edge of the lawn, hoping the old Abdul Amir might miraculously return, take her hand, and point out a new flower in the garden bed. As she turned to go inside, she noticed weeds had sprouted in the grass at her feet.

  * * *

  The Corolla jerked to a halt outside Ally’s gate. Huda scrambled onto the sidewalk. Cars raced around the traffic circle, honking furiously, their headlights carving tunnels in the swirling dust. Ghassan cracked open the gate.

  “What’s going on, Ghassan? Ally said you have some sort of family emergency.” Huda glanced past his shoulder. Ghassan’s wife was in the doorway of his hut, wiping her eyes with her abaya. “You must have heard the news. They’ve opened all the jails.”

  “I know, believe me. My wife has been at Abu Ghraib. Her younger brother was sent there two months ago for stealing a car. She had the sense to come home when she couldn’t find him, but my mother-in-law is still out there. She’s vowed to check every jail in Baghdad.”

  “Doesn’t she realize it’s not safe?”

  “The boy is her youngest. Her baby. I need to go find her.”

  “But if you leave, who’s going to stand guard here?”

  Ghassan shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

  The front door rattled, and Ally pried open the door. Huda glanced at Ghassan.

  “Please wait a couple of minutes while I talk with Ally.”

  She made her way inside reluctantly. In addition to the telephone lines, Ally’s house was sure to be bugged. She prayed the girl wouldn’t say anything stupid.

  “Is Ghassan’s wife okay?” Ally locked the door behind her. “I couldn’t understand everything he said, but I think her brother has gone missing.”

  Huda wasn’t sure if it was the light of the low-hanging chandelier, but Ally seemed a little feverish. Her eyes glowed too brightly.

  “I told Ghassan if he needed to go, I’d be okay, but honestly, I’m a little nervous.”

  Ally paused. She glanced at the chandelier and then eyed the television. Huda realized that she too must suspect someone was listening in. She wasn’t as naive as she appeared. Not by half. Ally lowered her voice.

  “Is something going on?”

  “Ahh, well . . .” Huda tried not to be obvious, but habit took over, and she too scanned the lights, lamps, and air-conditioning vents. “The government has decided to make a prisoner amnesty. It’s a reward for the president’s victory in the election.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All the inmates have been freed.”

  Ally’s jaw unhinged.

  “All the prisoners are out? Now? Roaming the streets?”

  “Where’s Mr. Tom? Isn’t he back from his trip up north?”

  “A meeting got pushed back till tomorrow morning. He decided to stay an extra night.” The girl kneaded her hands together. “When he hears about this, he’ll freak out.”

  “As any husband—” Huda stopped herself. She didn’t want to be heard criticizing the president’s gift to the people. “In that case, Ghassan must definitely stay here tonight. He can’t leave.”

  “I don’t think I can make him stay, not if . . .” Ally trailed off. She turned to the window and gestured at its thick bars. “This place is like Fort Knox. I’ll be safe in here, right?” She hugged her arms around her chest. “Right?”

  Huda stared at the floor and wondered, Were the mukhabarat copying down their conversation, recording the knock of the wind against the windows and the frantic honk of the traffic outside? Did they analyze the silence too, that rose now and ran its chilly fingers along the women’s spines?

  * * *

  Abdul Amir emitted a rumbling snore. Huda squinted at the clock on her bedside table. The neon dial read 1:15. She sighed, slipped out of bed, and padded down the hall to Khalid’s bedroom. He lay motionless on his narrow bed, Chewie tucked tight under his arm. Huda watched his chest rise and fall beneath his pajama top. Tears welled in her eyes, so sudden it frightened her.

  Huda crossed to Khalid’s window and peeked through the curtain. Ally was in the garden, rocking back and forth in the swing seat, watching the flames of al-Dora. She’d been right—Ghassan could not be convinced to stay. Huda couldn’t leave her alone, not with thousands of criminals newly freed from their cells, so she’d phoned Abdul Amir to warn she was bringing the young woman home with her. He’d retreated to his bed, and stayed there, reading the sports section, until his six Turkish beers lulled him to sleep. He’d been snoring ever since.

  Huda crept from Khalid’s room, tiptoed through the kitchen, and slipped out the back door. A hoot of laughter drifted over the fence, followed by the salty-slick aroma of lamb roasting on a spit. Three doors down, the Rani family was celebrating.

  Ally clambered to her feet.

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Me too.” Huda waved her back into the swing seat. “Sit, sit. We can keep each other company.”

  “How’s Abdul Amir’s migraine?”

  “He’s all right, my dear.” Huda ferreted through the pocket of her dressing gown for a pack of cigarettes and made much ado of flicking the flint on her lighter, nursing the tiny flame, all so she could avoid eye contact while she lied. “It usually takes him a day to recover, so he may be a little blurry-headed tomorrow.”

  Huda sat on a bench by the orange trees. The moon fell through the quivering leaves and dappled her skin with shadows.

  “I’m sorry I’ve put you out,” said Ally. “Tom is sorry too.”

  “Well, he must attend to his duties.”

  “His embassy duties?” Ally smirked. “What about his manly duties?”

  Huda smothered a laugh.

  “You tell me. You’re the one bringing it up.”

  “What’s that?” Ally cupped her hand to her ear. “Did you say, getting it up?”

  Huda laughed out loud. “Who knew diplomats’ wives were such brazen hussies.”

  “How dare you.” Ally stuck her hands on her hips and feigned offense. “I’m not a sleazy diplomat’s wife. I’m a high-class Russee hooker. Just ask any man driving by. He’ll tell you.”

  The women tittered like sparrows.

  “In all seriousness . . .” Huda blew out a stream of smoke. “How is the pay for a high-class hooker? I need some extra cash.”

  Ally cackled and collapsed sideways onto the swing set. Huda doubled over, shaking with laughter. You’re hysterical, a voic
e inside her snapped. Don’t forget—Abu Issa will want answers. Huda’s laugh petered out. If she had to pry into Ally’s past, best to do it here, in the garden, with their words camouflaged by the rustling leaves and the music from the al-Ranis’ party.

  “Someone called the embassy today, wanting to speak to you.”

  “Me?” Ally sat up straight. “Who was it?”

  “A journalist.”

  “Really?” The word sidled slowly from Ally’s lips.

  “He works with your friend, Peter Francis.” She peered at the young woman on the swing, but it was too dark to read her eyes.

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “He said you used to work with Peter Francis.” The sour taste of betrayal rose in Huda’s mouth—even though she had done worse to Ally, ten times over. “A former colleague, that’s what he called you.”

  “Thanks for letting me know.” Ally feigned nonchalance. “Did I mention that Tom asked me to thank you? I’m glad I called him. He’d just heard about the amnesty himself.”

  Huda frowned. Did Ally really think she could dismiss her questions so easily?

  “What did the journalist mean by former colleague? Are you a journalist?”

  “No, of course not,” said Ally quickly. “I was a secretary.”

  “A secretary?” Huda almost laughed out loud.

  “That’s right.” Ally folded her arms across her chest. “But in Australia we call it an executive assistant.”

  “Then why did you put ‘housewife’ on your visa form?”

  “You checked my visa form?”

  “Of course not.” Huda withdrew deeper into the moon shade of the orange tree. “I handle the paperwork for all the embassy visas. I remember yours said ‘housewife,’ that’s all.”

  “My, what a good memory you have.” Ally sighed, long and loud. “The truth is, I got laid off almost six months before I filled out that form. Budget cuts, my boss said.” She stopped rocking in the swing seat and kicked her heel against the lawn. “I tried to find another job, but there wasn’t anything out there. After months of looking for work, I didn’t feel I had the right to call myself anything but a housewife.”

  Huda couldn’t picture Ally as a secretary, but part of her story had a vague ring of truth. She prayed the explanation would satisfy Abu Issa. At the al-Ranis’, someone turned up the stereo.