The Ambassador's Wife

by Jennifer Steil

  At home, he is only about halfway through A Pocket for Corduroy when Cressida falls silent beside him. He curls around her on his bed, neither of them stirring until early evening prayers remind them of the world and its cares. Cressida wakes first and pats her father’s face. “What’s it all about, Daddy?” she says. “What’s it all about?”

  Groggily, Finn opens an eye. “I don’t know, Cress. What’s it all about?”

  Cressie leans forward so her breath is hot on his face. “It’s about bears,” she says triumphantly. Isn’t it, though? he thinks to himself. Cross to bear. Bear watching. Bear arms. Bear up. Bear in mind. Bear fruit. Bear witness. More than one can bear.

  —

  FINN IS IN the middle of cooking pasta for their dinner when his phone rings. Dax.

  “We need you at the Residence.”

  “Why?”

  “You know I can’t answer that.”

  “I’m cooking dinner.”

  “Forget dinner. This can’t wait.”

  Finn reaches to turn off the gas and put a cover on the pot. “Right,” he says. “I’ll get Gabra to come round and find a taxi.”

  “Don’t you dare go anywhere near a taxi and never mind Gabra; you can bring Cressie. In fact, you must. We’re sending a car.”

  FEBRUARY 14, 2011

  Miranda

  Miranda stares at the car as though it were a mirage. White, crusted in mud, four doors, battered and rusting, it is the most exquisite vehicle she has ever seen. It had taken several phone calls for the women to figure out where she was, how to find her. And now they are—improbably, impossibly—here. Standing together on a relatively unpopulated street corner in the outskirts of the city. For a brief moment, Miranda wonders if she can trust them, but she no longer has the energy for doubt. Besides, Tazkia is running toward her, tackling her in a sweaty, polyester embrace. “Careful!” she says, moving an arm protectively around Luloah. Her mind has suddenly gone numb.

  “Who is she? Where have you been? How did you get out? Were you bombed? Oh, Miranda, I’m sorry—” She covers her mouth with a hand. “Never mind my questions. I’m just so happy to see you. Oh, you’re hurt!”

  “I’m okay.” Miranda’s eyes are dazed, uncomprehending.

  “Come, into the car. We’ll get you home.” Gently, Tazkia touches her shoulder.

  “I don’t quite understand how you happened to be here.” Miranda looks paralyzed, unable to move her legs.

  “Quickly, help her, before anyone sees her,” urges Madina.

  She pushes Miranda and Tazkia toward the car doors, glancing around for any possible pursuers. Nadia moves to the front seat, and Tazkia climbs back in. “I’ll take the baby. How old is she? Where did you find her? I’ll give her back to you once you’re settled. I can’t believe you’re alive!”

  Miranda smiles weakly. “Me neither.” Why is it suddenly so hard? Why can’t she talk to these women she has known for years, women she knows as well as she knows anyone? But suddenly there is just too much to say. It all gets stuck somewhere around her sternum. Except for one question, the only one that matters: “Cressida and Finn?” She is still standing next to the car, unmoving.

  “They are fine, al-hamdulillah. Do not worry. We’ll explain in the car.” Madina gets back out of the driver’s seat. “Come on, habibti,” she says, taking Miranda’s arm. “It’s not safe here.”

  As if to underscore her words, a bearded man is suddenly sprinting toward them. Shouting something undecipherable, he waves his arms. He is dressed in camouflage and black boots. It is possible that he is a soldier warning them to get out of town. Or that he wants a ride somewhere. Or that he is part of a particularly aggressive welcome party. But none of them is in the mood to take chances. Madina shoves Miranda into one side of the backseat as Tazkia emerges from the other. Stepping between the man and the car, she raises trembling arms, clutching her father’s gun.

  “NO,” she says simply. “NO.” The man stops in amazement, staring at the tiny robed creature before him.

  Madina is back in the driver’s seat. The car stutters to life. “Tazzy, get in,” she yells. Keeping her gun pointed at the man, Tazkia backs toward the car and climbs in. Rolling down the window, she hangs the gun outside the car. It could have been the jolt of the car moving forward, or the press of Tazkia’s excited fingers, but as they pull away, the gun fires, sending a bullet into the dust behind them.

  “Enough, Tazzy,” says Madina. “Don’t give them a reason to come after us.”

  Reluctantly, Tazkia pulls the gun into the car. When she turns to her left, she finds Miranda backed against the door, her arms tight around the child.

  “It’s all right, Mira,” she says, soothingly.

  “Put it away,” says Nadia. “You’re scaring her.”

  Tazkia scrabbles around in her bag for the metal box.

  “The safety,” murmurs Miranda.

  “What? I have a box.”

  “Fix the safety first.” Miranda points to the gun without touching it, showing Tazkia how to slide the safety into position. Once the gun is secured, Tazkia returns it to the box and slips it into her purse.

  Miranda realizes she has been holding her breath and exhales. They are moving. Moving! Her heart twitches with cautious joy. There are still so many miles between her and her daughter, her love, so many checkpoints, armed vehicles, so many men. Luloah has fallen into a stunned silence, staring around her with wide eyes.

  “Her name is Luloah,” Miranda eventually says softly to Tazkia. “Her parents are gone.” That is all they need to know, for now. But Tazkia cannot be silent, not even for a moment. She has question after question after question. Miranda answers her as well as she can, but she has questions of her own. How did they happen to find her? How had they known where to go? Where were Finn and Cressie? The women interrupt each other, anxious to reassure her about her family and to tell the story of the drawing and Madina’s helpful series of boys. Miranda struggles to take it all in. She doesn’t want to talk anymore; she wants to close her eyes and let their voices wash over her, let them wash her into sleep.

  “Your Arabic has got much better, by the way,” says Tazkia, impressed. Miranda is startled. She hadn’t realized she was still speaking it. Has she always spoken to her women in Arabic, or did she teach classes in English? Why can’t she remember? She wants to ask them but doesn’t want them to think she has lost her mind.

  A few miles before they cross the first checkpoint, Madina pulls over. “I hate to do this, Miranda, after everything you’ve been through, but we can’t risk them seeing you. We’ll have to put you in the trunk until we’re past.”

  “Wait,” says Nadia, fumbling in her bag. “Wait, no, I have…” She pulls out a plain black abaya, hijab, and niqab. “She can wear these. They’ll be too short, but they won’t see that in the car.” Miranda breathes a sigh of relief. She wasn’t anxious to get into another confined space. Handing Luloah to Tazkia, she steps out of the car to change.

  “Keep the veil down over your eyes,” says Tazkia. “You have very American eyes.”

  Miranda almost laughs. “Don’t worry, habibti,” she says. “I’m not particularly in the mood to take any more risks.”

  They let Madina do the talking, and with each checkpoint Miranda’s hopes rise. When they reach the pass, they find it slightly easier to cross, the mud having been tamped down by a succession of other vehicles. Still, they all must get out again to push, save for Miranda, who stands in the sludge looking bewildered, clutching Luloah in her arms. The baby sleeps for most of the journey, lying across her lap and Tazkia’s. As they near the last checkpoint before Arnabiya, Tazkia leans close. Nadia and Madina are talking together in the front. “The paintings,” Tazkia whispers. “They are gone.”

  It takes a moment for this to register with Miranda. “No, Taz!”

  “Yes. I’m sorry to tell you now but I think you should know. Finn took me to get them and they were gone.”

  “But no
one had the key but—”

  “Finn found yours. But he says security also has one. Did you know this?”

  Security? Mukhtar, she thinks. But no. Mukhtar was up north, near her. And then it occurs to her…but no. Surely Norman would have had no reason to go into the Residence. But maybe there had been a drill? Her exhausted brain spins.

  “Are you safe at home? Does anyone know?”

  “Not yet. I don’t think so. I can’t leave home.”

  “I know.” She squeezes Tazkia’s hand. “We will help,” she says.

  Tazkia looks at her, a new solemnity in her eyes. “I don’t think you can,” she says.

  —

  MIRANDA WANTS TO go straight to Finn and Cressie in the Old City, but the girls want to take her to the Residence. “You’ll be safer there,” they say. “They can come to you there. There are guards.” Miranda thinks of Mukhtar and wonders how safe the Residence really is.

  “You can’t drive up to the door,” she reminds them. “Just let me out near Baskin-Robbins. I’ll walk from there.”

  The women are reluctant to drop her so far from the Residence, but they know they won’t be able to get through the security gates at the entrance to the neighborhood. “We will wait here until you get inside and call us,” they say. “Don’t forget.”

  It is nearly sunset when they reach the outskirts of the city. Touched with rosy gold light, even the poorest boxy brown house radiates beauty. Miranda leans her forehead on the glass, hungry for the familiar sights of the president’s mosque, the broken pavements, the bowling alley, the Huda grocery store, the spice and nut shop, and finally, Baskin-Robbins.

  When she steps out of the car, her legs nearly give way. They are stiff and numb from the hours of travel. None of the women have eaten; they didn’t want to lose time by stopping. Luloah has eaten a chocolate bar that Madina had in her purse but is doubtless hungry as well. Tazkia kisses Luloah’s cheeks, hands her out to Miranda, and climbs out after her. “Will you leave?” she suddenly asks anxiously.

  “Will you go back to England?”

  Back to England? Miranda has never lived there. Finn has a small studio apartment in Putney that they use on their infrequent visits. But they haven’t gotten around to talking about another home, a permanent home where they will live in the distant future, after Mazrooq. They had each assumed that there would be plenty of time. Surely Finn would have other postings before they would have to pick a country to call home.

  “I am not going anywhere,” Miranda says. “Not anytime soon.” The women kiss her quickly and get back in the car.

  “We’ll wait here,” Madina reminds her. “But don’t take forever, I have to pee.”

  Miranda walks slowly, Luloah perched on her right hip. It feels like they have been walking slowly together for a long, long time. Miranda has no idea what day it is; she forgot to ask the women. There are so many things she has forgotten to ask. Few cars pass. She rounds the corner near the British Club, and suddenly she can see the Union Jack, raggedly waving from the top of the Residence.

  Tears prick the backs of her eyes as she turns left and sees the gates up ahead. With the last of her strength, she shifts Luloah in her arms and knocks on the metal door in the gate. She has rarely had to knock. The guards always swung open the door before she even got there, having seen her approach on their CCTV screens. But the man who now opens the gate does not look familiar. He is young, slightly chubby, with his dark hair slicked back. He stands there in the doorway, wary. “Aiwa?”

  “Salaama aleikum,” she begins. “Ana Miranda…” She isn’t sure what to say after that. I live here? But does she, anymore?

  The young man stares at her, taking in her filthy clothing, her bandaged hand, the child, his face slowly opening. “Antee Miranda?” he says in disbelief. “Miranda zawjat as-safir?” Miranda, wife of the ambassador?

  “Aiwa, zawjat as-safir.” She is limp with relief.

  “Hadda Miranda! Miranda zawjat as-safir!” the man cries, swinging open the gates. There is a shuffling in the adjacent guardhouse, and suddenly Miranda is surrounded by Finn’s guys. They look for a moment as though they might actually hug her but stop themselves, rushing at her with extended hands instead. A barrage of questions assault her. Where has she been? How did she get here? Is she all right? Where is Mukhtar?

  Then they notice the child. “Meen at-tufl?”

  Luloah tightens the grip of her arms around Miranda’s neck, looking fearfully at the men.

  “Hiya Luloah,” she says simply.

  Finally one of the guards thinks to ring the house. A moment later a small blond woman flies down the steps and into the garden. “What on earth?” she says, stopping short and staring at Miranda. “You’re alive!” Then, “You are Miranda? Finn’s Miranda? You don’t look much like your photo. But then of course one wouldn’t expect—”

  “I think so,” Miranda answers. Celia frowns slightly, and Miranda realizes that she has spoken in Arabic. But the English words just won’t come. They have rusted and gotten stuck somewhere. Fear of discovery has tamped them down deep.

  “I’m Celia,” says the woman, switching to Arabic herself and reaching out a hand. Miranda shifts the child to take it. “Let’s get you inside. You must be exhausted. I’ll ring Finn. Who is the child? Never mind, come, come…”

  But Miranda cannot move. Her feet are fixed to the ground. “I’m,” she starts. “I am…” The Residence wavers like the picture of a faulty television. She sees Celia’s pink, open mouth as she reaches toward Luloah, and then she sees nothing at all.

  FEBRUARY 14–15, 2011

  Finn

  Finn sits on the edge of the bed, looking down at his wife. There she is, curled on her side on the floor, close enough to touch. He could reach out and run his fingers across her rib cage. He could touch the short, springy curls of her hair—though he now knows better than to try. Still. She is here. Alive, relatively unharmed, his. She is home. Well, home? He is confused as to what will happen first. The Office wants her out, back to London, as soon as humanly possible. He can withdraw from post early, Wilkins had said on the phone when he rang to tell them. He and Miranda could come back to London so she can get whatever trauma counseling she needs and he can work on the Mazrooq desk until another posting comes up. “You won’t be penalized for leaving early,” Wilkins had said. “It’s not as if you decided to allow your wife to be kidnapped.”

  Finn had hedged. He knew better than to make any promises before speaking with Miranda. And yesterday—today?—was not the time. There was so much else, too much else. He and Cressie had arrived at the Residence to find Miranda unconscious on the sofa in the front room. His heart had stopped before Celia quickly reassured him. “She just fainted, Finn. She’s okay. She’s fine. Looks a little banged up but essentially fine. I’ve rung Dr. Jay.” Finn knelt down by Miranda’s head. “I’ll leave you,” said Celia, retreating to the stairs.

  He looked at his wife. Thin, filthy, shorn of her thicket of hair. He reached a hand toward her face, wanting to touch her, before thinking the better of it. He didn’t want to startle her. Relief rippled through his body, releasing, finally, the tears.

  “Is that Mummy?” For a moment, he had forgotten Cressida, so shocked had he been by the sight of his battered wife. She stood behind him, her fingers gripping his shirt.

  “Yes, sweetie, it’s your mummy. She’s a little sick right now, but she is going to be just fine.” Cressida looked doubtful. She stared at her mother, not moving.

  “You can touch her if you want, give her a kiss. I think she’d like that.” Cressie leaned past her father to get a better look. “She smells,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Why does she smell funny?”

  “She’s been lost, habibti. We will have to talk to her to find out what happened.” His heart lurched. He was terrified of what she would have to tell him. She didn’t look as though she had been tortured, but you couldn’t always tell. How bad was the damage?

  “WA
KE UP, MUMMY!” bellowed Cressida, clapping her hands.

  The sound of her voice and the tiny hands coming together near her ear snapped Miranda upright, her eyes wide and wild. With a cry, she pulled her knees to her chest, rocking back into the safety of the sofa. Staring at her, Cressida backed slowly away. “Not Mummy,” she whispered.

  Finn knelt next to his wife, careful not to touch her. “It’s me, Mira, it’s me.”

  A moment later Miranda’s eyes cleared and registered his presence. “Finn?” she said, reaching out tentative fingers to touch the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Yes.” He sat there, grinning at her like a fool. She smiled back, as her body began to quake. The tremors started gently and then took hold until even her filthy skirt and blouse were shuddering—whether with relief or fear, he wasn’t sure. “You’re safe now,” he said, laying a hand gently on her knee.

  She just looked at him and shook her head, her eyes filling. “Not ever,” she said. It was then she finally saw her daughter. “Cressie!” she said, reaching out a trembling hand.

  But the girl continued backing away to the safety of her father.

  “You got lost,” she said accusingly. “And you smell.” She turned to Finn. “Something wrong with smelly lady.”