The Ambassador's Wife (47 page)

“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.

M
IRANDA 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?

“WAKE 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.”

“You can
talk
! You're talking!” Miranda was crying and laughing, looking up at Finn, who took one of her hands between his. Only when he felt its rough texture did he notice the bloody bandage.

“I do smell,” she said to him in Arabic, her teeth chattering.

“How could you possibly think I care?”

Miranda's forehead abruptly creased. “Where is Luloah?”

“Who?” He wondered why she was still speaking in Arabic.

Dr. Jay walked in then, just as Negasi appeared from the kitchen, a small, gray-skinned girl in her arms.
“Umi!”
the child cried, stretching her arms toward Miranda.

“Negasi!” Miranda smiled at their housekeeper through her tears. “That's Luloah.”

“Madame,” said Negasi, coming to hug her. Then Teru and Desta and the gardeners and Tucker and Dax were all there, reaching for her, crying and laughing and crowding near. Luloah began to wail in Negasi's arms.

“I fed her some banana and yogurt,” she told Miranda. “Is that all right? She was hungry.” Miranda reached up and took the child from Negasi, rocking it against her breast. As she hummed and murmured in Arabic, slowly her body stilled. Dax and Tucker retreated, promising to return later.

Finn knelt by his wife, euphoria and confusion fighting for dominance. Miranda looked suddenly alarmed. “Finn, can you call Tazkia? Tell her I am here and safe?”

“I'll call people later, sweetheart, when you're resting.” He put a hand on her hair, gritty and oily under his fingers.

“No, no. It was the women who brought me. They're waiting. Please, just call?”

The women? Finn stood and pulled his mobile from his front pocket, searched for Tazkia's number. “She's here,” he said simply when Tazkia answered. “You brought her back?”

“We thought the Residence would be safest. Is it okay? She is fine?”

“Is it
okay
? Tazkia, it is the most fantastic thing in the world.”

Dr. Jay, the UK-trained Indian doctor who treated all embassy staff, waited quietly at the edge of the room, clutching a large black case. She didn't normally make house calls, but this was hardly a normal circumstance. It was Celia who finally dispersed everyone, reemerging from upstairs to shoo the staff back to the kitchen. “You can all talk with her later,” she said. “But what Miranda needs right now is quiet. And a doctor.” She led Finn and Miranda upstairs to their old room, where Dr. Jay could examine her. Miranda protested leaving the girls downstairs. “I need to see my daughter,” she said. “And Luloah will be terrified.”

“They can come up in a minute,” Finn promised.

“You should examine Luloah too,” Miranda said as Dr. Jay prodded her swollen ankle. “She's malnourished I'm sure and could have god knows what else.”

“Actually,” said Dr. Jay, who until then had hardly uttered a word, “before I bandage her hand and ankle, why don't we get her into the bath? The child too. They need to be cleaned.”

After injecting Miranda with a painkiller, the doctor retreated downstairs for a cup of tea in the kitchen while Finn filled a bathtub with warm water and bath salts. Miranda lay still on the bed, looking up at him with exhausted eyes as he carefully undressed her. Had her shoulder bones always poked up in little triangles like that? It frightened him to see her so thin. The skin over her ribs was pale, bruised, and covered with tiny red bites. There were more on her legs and stomach and arms. Some were swollen and infected-looking. Dark hair covered her calves and armpits. One ankle had doubled in size, and what had happened to her hand? Only when he unwound the strip of bloody cloth from her palm did she stir, whimpering as he pulled the last bit from the gaping hole in her left hand. He fought back nausea and tried to smile reassuringly. Questions fought their way to his lips, but he was afraid to overwhelm her, to somehow accidentally aggravate her condition. If she had some kind of posttraumatic stress, and she probably did, he couldn't remember how he was supposed to act with her.