The Ambassador's Wife (28 page)

Miranda turned to him and smiled. “I have a feeling I should have asked you earlier more about what this involves…”

“The FCO gives lessons. If I had met you before I came out here, you could have had classes.”

“And now I have to wing it.”

“You'll be fine. As long as you learn to suppress your strident, feminist political opinions.” Miranda swatted him with her bouquet, sending jasmine petals showering to the ground.

“Do I have to learn how to play bridge or garden or anything?”

“Mah-jongg. And I'm afraid you'll be required to host coffee mornings.”

“As long as they don't interfere with my gym routine.”

“One of the sacrifices I am sure you'll gladly make for love.”

The music changed and Sally began plucking out the initial notes of “Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms” on a guitar. Finn reached over and brushed a petal from Miranda's hair. “Last chance to make a run for it.”

She sighed. “You had better be worth it,” she whispered, as they took their first unsteady steps across the springy turf of the garden that was only ephemerally their own.

Miranda

And now here she was, modestly attired in an ankle-length dress and linen blazer, buckled into the backseat of her own car, heading to the home of the Mauritanian ambassador for her first HOMSA meeting. She had her own driver now, a slender nineteen-year-old who was the son of one of the guards. Altaf was polite, courtly, and like few others in this country, a cautious driver. This was the crucial quality for Miranda, given that traffic laws were mere suggestions and most drivers plowed through intersections without a glance to either side. There were no child car seats, a fact that alarmed Miranda even though she did not yet have a use for one. But when she saw a mother driving with an infant in one arm, or a small boy kneeling on the front seat with his face pressed to the windshield, she wanted to chase down the drivers and thrust the statistics on child fatalities on the road into their reckless hands.

Miranda had told the staff she would be back in time for lunch, just in case she was ejected from the meeting before anything had been served. But why was she expecting unkindness? These women were diplomatic spouses. At the very least they would
fake
kindness. She wished Marguerite could be there, but Marguerite had to host a lunch for some visiting French dignitaries. Miranda wondered how many of the wives knew about Vícenta, knew about her former
life. The Western ones probably wouldn't care, but would the Arab ambassadors' wives? Or would they secretly be plotting to have her burned at the stake for perversion? Suddenly, she realized she didn't care. Wasn't there enough in the world to worry about without fretting about the approval of ambassadors' wives? Besides, chances were that any Westerner who knew about Vícenta would be discreet with that knowledge. The stakes were too high.

She had barely reached the top of the steps when the front door swung open to admit her. A smiling Filipina woman showed her down the vast, carpeted front hall and into a gilded
diwan
. Almost everything—mirrors, framed paintings, pillows, sofas, plates propped up on little gold stands, ceramic jugs, glass coffee tables—was trimmed with gold. Miranda was surprised that the enormous flat-screen television didn't have a golden frame. Olamide, the Mauritanian ambassador's wife, a woman nearly as wide as she was tall, rose to greet her in a rustle of rayon, kissing her cheeks. Miranda tried to remember if they had met before. A few others were already settled on the cushions. Miranda recognized Chrysantha, the wife of the Egyptian ambassador, and was introduced to Adinda, the wife of the Indonesian ambassador, and Alena, the wife of the Palestinian ambassador. They smiled and greeted her warmly. “We haven't had a wife of the UK ambassador in a while,” said Chrysantha. “We weren't sure you were getting the invitations. We are happy to have you, Madame Fenwick.”

“I'm happy to be here!” Miranda smiled brightly as she tucked her bare feet underneath her on the cushion. She resisted the urge to correct her name. She hadn't changed her surname when she married Finn, and she had no intention of doing so. Nor would she ever claim the title Mrs. Besides the fact that it made her feel middle-aged, she felt strongly that a title should not betray marital status. Ms. would do nicely, as it had done for most of her life. Finn had no objection, but envelopes still regularly arrived addressed to Mrs. Finn Fenwick. No sign of Miranda at all in that name; it erased her utterly. It was maddening, but there were battles more worthy of her time.

Before she had time to say anything else, another group of women arrived: Algerian, Malaysian, Omani, Kuwaiti, Lebanese, Cuban, and
Russian. The women kissed each other and chattered away in a variety of languages, mostly Arabic. Miranda felt small and a bit lost, but she didn't mind. It underscored what she already sensed, that she was a spectator more than a participant. The Spanish ambassador's wife arrived last, impeccably dressed in a Calvin Klein pantsuit and chiffon scarf. She sat next to the bottle-blond Russian wife, and the two immediately began complimenting each other's outfits and complaining about their respective staffs. “I asked Fana to make deviled eggs stuffed with salmon filling for the party last week,” the Spanish wife said. “And instead of mixing the salmon in with the yolks and the rest of the filling, she stuck a chunk of it on top! I mean, the cookbook has
photos
. She could
see
that the salmon should have been pureed with the rest of the filling. I was
mortified
when she brought around the tray.”

“Well, our Kayla puts my stockings away in a different drawer every time she washes them. I can never find anything when I'm hurrying to dress for dinner,” answered the Russian. “And why does it take a week for clothing to return from the laundry to the dresser? The washing machine only takes forty minutes!” Both women sighed. “It's always something, isn't it?”

“You can't ever relax, not for a minute. Now I don't just hand Fana recipes, I explain them to her and then try to check on her every few minutes to make sure she hasn't done something idiotic. Like stick canned tuna on top of the salads instead of fresh tuna steaks. Which she has done.”

“It's funny, isn't it? People think, ambassadors' wives, we have it so easy.”

“I know—my friends back home think we live like royalty.”

Miranda listened incredulously. “But we
do
live like royalty,” she interrupted. “Other people wash our clothing, make our meals, polish our shoes, mix our drinks, serve our guests. It's true that we have to pick menus, host a few teas, tell a few people what to do—but then, so do queens, no?”

The Spaniard and the Russian turned to stare at her with hardening eyes. So much for making new friends. Miranda wondered if over time she would develop the same sense of entitlement, the same nitpicking complaints about the people who worked to make her life
as effortless as possible. Would a lifetime of privilege soften her body and sharpen her tongue? Silently, she vowed vigilance against this peril.

To her great relief, further conversation was forestalled when Chrysantha clapped her hands to call the meeting to order. She began by passing around sheets of paper—in Arabic and English—detailing where the proceeds from a charity luncheon would go. The money would support two organizations. One was a home for children with cerebral palsy, the other was a home for blind women. “Many children, they are forced to lie on the ground because they have nowhere to sit,” said Chrysantha. “The money will buy for them things they need.” Miranda was instantly queasy with concern for the children and chastised herself once again for not having come to a meeting earlier. She would visit this home for children with cerebral palsy, she promised herself. She would find a way to help.

She was distracted from her self-flagellation by the angry voice of the Omani, Alya. In a torrent of Arabic, she was chastising Chrysantha for something. Or so Miranda gathered from the few words she understood. It seemed a bizarrely outsized response to an announcement of charitable intentions. Several others joined the fray, and soon everyone was shouting. Amazed, Miranda tried to follow what was happening, but the Arabic was too fast for her. She looked helplessly at Adinda, whom she knew spoke English.

“Stop!
Khalas
, you are making me frightened,” Adinda told the women. “And switch to English; not everyone understands Arabic.”

“Yes, English please,” said Stefania the Russian, who spoke no Arabic. While Miranda also wanted to understand what was going on, she noted that the majority of the women in the room spoke Arabic. It was hardly fair to expect everyone to use English when there were only a handful of people who spoke it. Not to mention the fact that they were, after all, in an Arabic-speaking country.

Eventually, it became clear that Alya was criticizing Chrysantha for not having invited all of HOMSA to go to these organizations and see their conditions for themselves. Apparently, she had visited with just a few of the other wives. Alya thought they should all have a chance to visit the organizations before any decision was made.

“Everyone was notified,” Chrysantha protested. “I sent a fax!”

“I did not get a fax,” said Adinda.

“You see?” said Alya. “The rest of us did not know.”

“It is not my fault if your fax machine does not function. Most embassies, they have a fax.”

The conflict escalated until the women were once more shouting across the room. Miranda watched in fascination. It seemed such a ridiculous debate. Why couldn't they all just go visit the places this week and then make a final decision, if more people wanted to see them? Why yell at each other? Were they not supposed to be diplomatic wives? Were they utterly unschooled in the gentle art of persuasion? This was not the meeting she had envisioned.

Intriguingly, most of the women addressed their comments directly to Miranda, as if pleading their case with her. They overestimated her understanding of Arabic, barraging her with proclamations and questions, to which her only response was to smile and shrug her shoulders. When phrases were translated into English, the women glanced at her to check that they had said them correctly. She was, after all, the only native English speaker.

Finally, after another incomprehensible burst of Arabic, Chrysantha hauled herself to her feet and stalked out. A few women made a show of begging her to stay, but no one actually stood up to stop her.

After this, things descended into chaos. No one seemed to know how to properly hold a meeting. “Who is our vice president?” Olamide asked. “Don't we have a vice president?”

“Adinda,” Stefania offered.

“No, I am the treasurer!” said Adinda.

“Adinda should be the vice president!” said another.

“No,” said Adinda, laughing. “I don't even have all the information I need to do my job as treasurer!”

Nothing was resolved. No one proposed a way to go forward. No one suggested a plan of action. Miranda might have suggested one, just to get things moving in some sort of clear direction, but she wasn't sure that her first meeting was the best time to try taking the reins.

Olamide abruptly stood and began shepherding the women into
the other room. Bewildered, Miranda followed the others into a dining room full of white-clothed tables. A buffet table was heaped with food: cheeses, meats, salads, and breads. Miranda wished she were home, eating alone with
ARTnews
.

“Eat, eat!” said Olamide kindly, taking her arm. “You can sit by me.” Feeling trapped, Miranda scooped a few spoonfuls of salad onto a plate and perched on one of the chairs. She sat quietly, listening to the other women speak in Arabic, trying to follow the conversation. She caught the words for children, home, and sick. Noting her confusion, Adinda took pity on her and translated. “We're going to an orphanage next week,” she said. “We go every Tuesday to visit the children.”

“All of you?”

“No no, just a few. Otherwise it is too much for the children. Too many people.”

“Of course.”

“This Tuesday, it is just Marguerite, but she could use company. Do you want to go?”

“Yes, please! Would that be okay?”

“Of course! You can see the babies and then the older children. They are in a separate area.

“For an orphanage, it is not too bad,” continued Adinda. “It will only half break your heart.”

NOVEMBER 19, 2010

Finn

It is an unusually quiet Friday afternoon in the Old City when Finn sets off from the house, Bashir at his side. Cressie is home with Gabra, who has strict instructions to allow no visitors until their return. Tucker will also check on them, as he still does several times a day, in addition to the hours he spends organizing Celia's protection. Finn doubts that Tucker ever sleeps; if work didn't keep him awake, guilt would. He cannot forgive himself, holds himself personally
responsible for Miranda's loss. Despite the bright sun, a chill has settled into Finn's bones. He has done his best to make himself inconspicuous, dressing in a long white
thobe
and suit jacket, a black-and-white scarf tied around his head. Yet inevitably, people stare as he and Bashir weave their way through the maze of streets toward the Grand Mosque, where Tazkia's brother Hamid is to meet them. Finn received the text from Tazkia yesterday. The girls needed to speak with him, but they had to be careful. Would he please meet Hamid at the mosque? He would take Finn to a place where it was safe.

Finn holds out no real hope, but he is not in a position to turn down any offer of assistance. His local network has not yet turned up even a rumor of Miranda's whereabouts. Or those of the other women. Or of Mukhtar. From the various embassies, there has been only silence.

As they approach the mosque, Finn scans the crowd. He hasn't met Tazkia's brother before, but he knows it won't take long for the boy to spot him. He is easily the tallest, palest, and lightest-eyed person for blocks. Dozens of men loiter near the mosque. Friday afternoon prayers have come and gone, and most of the men are on their way to a quiet place to gossip over miniature cups of sticky-sweet tea. A diminutive, dark-haired youth flicks his cigarette into the street and stands abruptly from where he has been squatting on a stoop with a friend. His outfit matches Finn's, with the addition of a decorative dagger dangling from a thick leather belt. He smiles, gestures to Finn to follow him, and swiftly disappears down a side street.