Читать книгу The Nightingale - Morgana Gallaway - Страница 8

The home of the Rasul family, in the graceful neighborhood just off Sa’d bin Abi Waqqas Street, was as familiar to Leila as her own house. The Rasuls had been friends of the al-Ghanis for decades, and there had been intermarriages between various members of the extended family. Mr. Rasul, a textile merchant, was well established in Mosul and had made his money in the early years by trading with the Baathist party members, the officials, the high commandants. It had kept him out of trouble during Saddam’s reign.

The house was three stories high, of ancient pedigree, with carved wooden screens on the exteriors of the windows and a columned front porch. It needed a fresh coat of paint, but it was swept clean and there was no clutter about it. There was a fig tree in their front courtyard and a screen of creeping vines that absorbed the sound from the road. The surrounding neighborhood was made of old families who had lived in the same place for centuries.

When Naji escorted them to the house that evening, he assumed an attitude of humility when he shook hands with Mr. Rasul. Business was to be discussed in a roundabout way; Leila knew it would take at least four cups of tea for Naji to bring up the subject of stocking carpets in his shop. The niceties had to be adhered to first, the civilizing influence of small talk and pleasantry. Naji was good at socializing and Leila was sure that before they left that night, her brother would have a deal.

“Inside, girls,” Naji said to Leila and Fatima at the front door. The girls removed their shoes and scurried inside to meet their excitable friend.

“Lovelies!” Hala called from the hallway.

“Chocolates and magazines?” Leila said quietly, hugging her.

“Who told you?”

Fatima raised her hand and smiled.

“She was right,” said Hala.

“Hala,” Mr. Rasul’s voice interrupted. “The tea?” He gave her a pointed look; in her excitement, she’d forgotten to help her mother. Leila knew how Hala felt.

“Of course,” Hala said, still laughing.

Naji winked at Leila and Fatima. “Wish me luck,” he said.

“We’ll release a djinn for you,” Leila said.

“Only a good one, little sister, I know how you can be.”

Leila smiled as he disappeared into the sitting room behind Mr. Rasul. For as long as she could remember, Naji had been an ambitious boy, always trying to better himself, perhaps trying to live up to his father’s stern example. For a moment Leila wished he were the current patriarch of the family rather than Tamir. Naji was too pragmatic to be involved in the insurgency. It was Naji’s tales of study groups and debates over coffee at the university in Baghdad that had inspired Leila years ago.

“Oh, I want to study those things, too,” Leila had said to Naji. She was twelve years old, and Naji, home on vacation, was recounting his politics class at Baghdad.

“You’re too little,” said Naji, drinking tea with a raised finger and sunglasses pushed back on his head. “The professors are difficult, always asking questions, you have to be on your toes.”

Tamir glanced at his daughter and smiled. “She has a mind of her own, your sister,” he said.

“Will we send her to university?” asked Naji. Even as a girl, Leila could tell he assumed he would have an equal say in the direction of the family. Leila caught her breath to see if her father minded.

“It would be a shame not to,” said Tamir. “Leila’s grades are much better than Fatima’s.” He patted Fatima’s head as she set down a silver tray arranged with pastries.

“I would rather get married than go to university,” said Fatima softly.

“Universities are good places to meet husbands, though,” said Naji. “The best men go to university.”

“You would say that!” Leila said.

“All of our children should be well educated,” said Umm Naji, entering the room and settling her bulk onto a cushion. “For the girls, it will have a place in their dowry.”

“How mercenary of you, my dear,” Tamir chuckled.

Umm Naji shrugged. “I am practical.”

Leila did not care about practicality or husbands or dowries; she wanted to be like Naji, drinking tea like an adult, wearing jeans and new sunglasses. She picked at her pastry, then brushed her hands rapidly, tugging at a thread on her dress until it began to unravel.

“For heaven’s sake, Leila, stop fidgeting,” said Umm Naji. “I will have to send that dress to the tailor if you keep at it.”

“We can afford it,” said Tamir. “Would you like a new dress, Leila?”

“Mmm.” Leila hesitated. What she really wanted was clothing like what Naji wore. “Could I have something else instead?”

Tamir raised his eyebrows. But Leila could tell by the way his mouth twitched that he was indulging her.

“Jeans,” Leila said.

Umm Naji made a startled noise, but Naji and her father both smiled. “You should have a pair of jeans like your brother,” Tamir said. “We are a modern family, aren’t we? Would you like the same, Fatima?”

“A new dress would be nice,” said Fatima, blushing, and they all laughed. The family, together.

As she waited in the Rasuls’ front hall, Leila glanced down at her own abaya, and to her eyes it was drab and old-fashioned. She could hear Naji in the sitting room, his soft voice rolling out the latest news of the al-Ghanis.

“Well,” said Hala Rasul, appearing in the hall with her hands on her hips. “That’s done. Souad and Razan are upstairs, let’s go!”

Hala’s younger sisters were ensconced in her room, already flipping through the shiny magazines, and Leila settled on the floor with crossed legs. Hala’s walls were covered with film posters, pictures torn out of magazines of Arabic pop stars, a board filled with snapshots of Hala, her sisters, her family, and several of Hala and Leila in their days at the girls’ school in Mosul. Leila grinned when she saw a section of American movie stars in beautiful dresses.

Leila picked up one of the Arabic-language magazines and flipped through it. “I like that one,” she said, pointing at a blond actress in a low-cut red dress.

“I wish I could wear a dress like that,” Hala sighed.

“The stares would not be worth it,” said Fatima.

“Not if I lived in the West,” said Hala. “I could wear whatever I want.”

All the girls fell silent for a moment. Leila thought again about how her father had once encouraged her to dress as a modern girl. It seemed like a different lifetime.

The boxes of chocolates were depleted one piece at a time, and the magazines were discussed from all angles. Leila’s watch, a simple leather band strapped on her wrist, ticked away the hours and when she thought to check the time, she gasped. It was past curfew.

Just then a knock sounded on the door. “Sister?” It was Naji. Leila and Fatima glanced at each other and shrugged.

“I’ll talk to him,” Leila said, standing up and stepping outside the door. “Naji?”

“It’s past curfew,” he said.

“I know. What do we do?”

“We’ll have to stay here for the night,” said Naji.

Leila suppressed a smile. What fun. She and Hala and Fatima and the others would get no sleep, laughing and gossiping. It was an adventure to be trapped.

Stay the night, they did, and the girls were deep into a giggling midnight conversation when the Americans came.

Leila had darted out of Hala’s room for a glass of water when she heard the rumble of vehicles outside, the shouts of soldiers. She froze. Hovering in the hallway and peeking out a window, she watched as two armored Humvees roared up to the house. The lead vehicle crashed through the metal gate, rending it to the side in a twist of broken metal, and the other idled outside. Waiting.

Leila heard the front door splinter open but stood frozen in the hallway as the shouts of soldiers echoed through her friend’s house. “Get down! Get down!” From below there were more voices, the soft protests in Arabic, the terse chatter of Americans, a disagreement. They were looking for something. Leila dashed back to Hala’s room. The trilling strains of pop music filled her ears and she closed the door behind her, hand tight on the cold doorknob.

“Sister, what is it?” Fatima asked.

There was no time to explain and so Leila just sank down to the floor, on her knees; a few seconds later the door opened and all five girls screamed. The room became a melee of waving hands, of black weapons pointed in their faces.

“Al yed! Al yed! Hands up!” one of the American soldiers shouted at them. “Marid or Mahmoud?”

Leila’s heart pounded, and with a few deep breaths she tried to calm herself as the American soldiers pushed farther into the room. She was aware that her hair was uncovered, but she also knew the Americans would not think of it as shamefully as Iraqi men would, if they noticed at all. In America, all the women showed their hair, at least according to the movies she saw on ArabSat television.

Her next thought was that her father was going to kill her. It was bad enough that their visit had accidentally gone past curfew, stranding them. After Naji decided they would stay the night, he had called their father’s mobile to explain the situation. Such news sounded better coming from a trusted son. Tamir was upset, but as long as they were home first thing in the morning, the girls might avoid punishment.

It was just Leila’s luck that the Americans had burst in with their suspicious guns pointing back and forth. There were only two of them, but it seemed like more.

Leila registered the ridiculous strains of the latest Najwa Karam song out of Lebanon, still warbling along in the background as though nothing was wrong. She made herself look up, keeping the fear out of her eyes, and again her breath was stolen.

The tall American soldier looked straight back at her. He had dark hair, judging by his eyebrows, and sky-blue eyes set in a strong face. The eyes were kind, but somehow cold. He might be fair to her, but no more generous than that. He was handsome, too, and Leila instantly hated herself for the thought. Right now it should be easier to see Americans as brutes, without honor or decency.

“Marid or Mahmoud?” repeated the other soldier, a large pale man with a big nose.

There was nothing then, except for Najwa Karam’s singing.

“Someone turn that off!” Hala said from her corner. Fatima, who was closest to the CD player, reached over and pressed the Stop button. The silence was worse, and Leila imagined the whole room must be able to hear the pulse of blood through her veins. What would the Americans do? And what would Father do when he heard?

Leila gulped and decided to speak. “Why are you here?” she asked in her lightly accented English.

The handsome American looked at her again. “Are you a member of the Rasul household?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I’m a visitor. We did not mean to stay past curfew.”

The big man said again, “We’re looking for the cousins, Marid or Mahmoud Rasul. Are they here?”

The girls were silent.

“Can you translate?” the handsome one asked Leila.

“Yes,” said Leila. She switched to Arabic and faced Hala. “They’re looking for your cousins Marid and Mahmoud.”

Hala shook her head. “I don’t know!” she said. “Ask my father, I do not know! I have not seen those cousins since I was seven years old.”

Leila looked back at the Americans. “Hala says she does not know, and she hasn’t seen those cousins since she was a small girl.”

The Americans sighed together. “Are there hiding places in the house?” said the big man.

Leila translated this into Arabic, and Hala shook her head again. “Only the pantry, downstairs next to the kitchen. We do not hide people here. Marid and Mahmoud are not here.”

“She says only the pantry,” said Leila in English. “They are not the kind of people to hide cousins.”

“That’s what they all say,” said the big pale man. He had a swagger about him, a grumbling arrogance that made Leila fearful. Another unwelcome feeling floated to the surface: Leila was glad the other one, the handsome one, was there. Fastened on the front and center of his grayish brown combat uniform was the double-bar insignia of a captain. An officer.

“Well, they’re not in here, Ike,” said the blue-eyed captain. He turned to Leila. “We need you all to stay in this room. We’re going to be searching the house, and it’s safer if you stay put.”

Leila nodded.

“Asaf, sorry for the intrusion,” he added. He paused, as though about to say something more, but then he marched out of the room, followed by his companion.

Leila’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Oh!” She hugged Fatima tight, then Hala. “They say to stay here. They say sorry.”

“Thank goodness!” said Hala, tying her light brown scarf about her long hair, a few minutes too late.

“Why do they want Mahmoud and Marid?” asked Souad, Hala’s younger sister.

“They think they might be insurgents,” said Leila.

“I don’t know why they targeted us!” Hala said. “We’ve never done anything wrong!”

“I think there are things that our fathers and brothers do not tell us,” Leila said, with a glance exchanged with Fatima. “These are dangerous times.”

“You don’t need to tell me that,” said Hala. Her hands were pressed to her sides, trembling. “My Omar is dead, remember?”

“We’re sorry, Hala,” Fatima said, patting Hala’s hand for the dead fiancé.

Leila was sorry for her friend’s loss, but Hala was better off for not marrying Omar Habibi, she thought. If Hala had married him, then she could expect more raids by the Americans, dragging off her new husband in shackles under a dark hood. Omar could not wait for the paradise of martyrdom, and let him have at it, thought Leila.

The five girls, two al-Ghanis and three Rasuls, stayed in the room as instructed by the American soldiers. The night took on the feel of a secret slumber party, with the girls crammed in together and chattering away in the afterglow of excited terror. Each had stories to tell of friends or family and her own encounters with the Americans.

An hour later, someone knocked on the door, and the girls scrambled to put on their head scarves. “One minute!” Hala called. “All right!”

The door opened. It was Mr. Rasul, looking shaken. “The Americans have gone. They found nothing.”

Leila wondered if that meant there was nothing to find, or if the cousins were still hidden somewhere in the compound.

“What happened when they came in here?” Mr. Rasul asked.

“There were two soldiers,” said Hala. “They just came in and asked if we knew where Mahmoud and Marid might be. We said nothing, that we did not know anything.”

“Huh,” said Mr. Rasul. “You were without your hijab?”

“No, sir.” Leila spoke fast. “We’ve been wearing our scarves all evening. The Americans did not see us out of state.”

Hala shot her an astonished glance, but did not say anything.

“Good,” said Mr. Rasul, nodding. Leila wasn’t sure if he believed her, but for his own peace of mind he would clearly not pursue the point. “Hala, the al-Ghani family are our guests tonight. And keep the music down.”

“Yes, Father.”

When Mr. Rasul closed the door behind him, Souad breathlessly said, “Leila, I can’t believe how well you lie!”

“She does it all the time,” said Fatima.

“I learned at university,” Leila said. “Whenever I had a late assignment or missed a lecture…it pays to come up with little white lies. It’s not to hurt anyone.”

“Still, you’re so calm,” said Souad. “I wish I could do that! That way Father would never guess how I glance at Rashid.”

“Isn’t he Kurdish?” Fatima asked.

“Mm-hmm,” Souad sighed. “He has light eyes. So exotic!”

When Leila went to sleep in the ladies’ guest bedroom next to Fatima that night she, too, dreamed of light eyes. Blue ones, the color of the deep sky on a summer day. When she awoke the next morning, she remembered her strange thoughts in the night, but chalked them up to the American raid.

She and Fatima were out of the Rasul house at daybreak, munching on figs and leftover flatbread for breakfast as they walked. It behooved them to get home as soon as possible. Naji walked behind them with dark circles under his eyes, as though he had not slept.

“Were the cousins really there, Naji?” Leila asked.

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “It is impossible these days. No one tells the truth; everyone has secrets. Even kin and tribe.”

“What should we tell Father?” Fatima asked.

Naji cleared his throat. “The truth,” he said. “Let me do the talking. And Mr. Rasul said you had your veils on when the American soldiers came upon you upstairs?”

“Yes,” said Leila. “And they were only there for a few seconds. No threat from women.”

“They don’t know you, Leila,” Fatima said, low enough so Naji couldn’t hear.

“Father will know of the raid already,” said Naji. “Just tell him what you told me. There is nothing to it. It doesn’t concern you, anyway.”

“Yes,” said Leila. She threw out her arms. “None of this is to do with us.”

“Leila…” Naji said.

“Sorry.”

At home, Tamir al-Ghani stood in the doorway waiting for them. His whiplike arms crossed over his tall figure and his face was stern. It gave him a look of spiritual emaciation, no room for humor or mercy. Leila had already made up her mind that the best tactic would be to play helpless, and let her father comfort her over those evil Americans. She tried to look as bewildered as possible. Fatima she could count on, since the elder girl was genuinely frightened.

“Father!” Leila exclaimed, running forward.

Tamir broke his crossed arms to embrace Leila, patting her on the back as she put on a good show of shaking. “There, there,” he said. Next was Fatima’s turn, and she, too, hugged their father. “Naji,” said Tamir.

“Father,” said Naji, also embracing him with a hug and a double kiss. “I’ve brought our girls home safe. It was not as bad as it sounded, I think.”

“What happened?” Tamir said as they went inside to the sitting room. “Were the cousins found?”

Leila paused, watching Naji.

“The Americans came, and broke the front gate with their vehicle,” said Naji. “They searched the house, but nothing was found. They left after about thirty minutes, empty-handed. No other damage was done, no injuries, and the women were even veiled at the time. It could have been much worse.”

“We’re all just a bit shaken up,” added Fatima.

“Nothing permanent,” said Leila.

Tamir lounged back in his chair, looking down at the back of his hand. “Yet you would not have been involved at all, had you been home before curfew! Now the name of al-Ghani is associated with insurgency.”

Leila refrained from rolling her eyes. If Tamir al-Ghani was not chin deep in the insurgency already, she would eat her head scarf. “I didn’t give our name,” said Leila. “I just said we were visitors.”

Her father ignored her. “They know your name?” he asked Naji.

“They asked me directly. I’m sorry, Father. But I told them I owned the furniture shop.”

“He’s hoping to get business.” Leila smirked.

Her father and brother ignored her. “Was there any recognition of your name?” Tamir asked.

“No,” said Naji. “The Americans came and went. They found nothing, they know nothing.”

“Hmm,” said Tamir.

“Father, may we be excused?” Leila asked, grasping Fatima’s hand.

“Yes, yes,” he said, not even looking at the girls anymore.

Their mother met up with them in the hallway, embracing both girls and fussing over them. They needed a change of clothes, she said, and a cup of tea. Leila agreed with the cup of tea; she had not slept enough the night before. She would need her energy for tomorrow, for her job interview with the head of pediatrics at the Al-Razi Training Hospital. She’d been looking forward to the interview for weeks.

As they sat on the floor in the large kitchen, taking turns kneading dough and drinking tea, Umm Naji was more interested in the affairs of the Rasul household than of the American search. “How is Hala doing?”

“Fine,” said Fatima. “Better, I think. She is a lovely girl. She will find another man to marry her.”

“Let us hope not one of the mujahideen,” said Leila.

“Hala would do well to get married soon,” said Umm Naji. “After all, she’s Leila’s age. Soon she will be old goods.”

Leila sighed. Her mother would never quit. If Leila ever did marry, as soon as she had daughters Umm Naji would next be plotting for their betrothal. Leila loved her mother, but ever since she returned from the university a year ago it seemed as though Umm Naji’s primary emphasis was on marrying off her daughters, rather than supporting their ambitions as she once had. It was the war. Every tiny step of progress was so easily erased, the ebb tide taking away the castles of dreams that Leila built in her head.

“Mother, I don’t think Leila is old goods!” Fatima said. “I’m two years older and I’m not married.”

“Yes, but you are engaged! You have prospects, Fatima.”

“I have prospects,” Leila muttered. “My mind and my goals. I’ll be more successful than any old man around here.”

Umm Naji sighed as she wrapped her fat fingers around the small glass of minted tea. “Leila, you know I want you to be a doctor, and show the world all your ideas. But I want you to be protected. What if your career does not work out, if the violence gets worse and we are all impoverished? Then where will you be?”

“I’ll move somewhere else,” said Leila. “I think you’ve been listening to Father too much.”

“Your father does what is best for his family and his country,” Umm Naji said, leaning back as though to end the conversation.

Leila slammed her cup of tea on the tile floor. “I’m going upstairs,” she said.

Leila’s bedroom was simple. She was by nature a tidy person, and kept the room free of clutter. A low narrow bed covered by a patterned duvet occupied one corner, and a row of heavy curtains covered the two windows set in the wall that overlooked the private inner courtyard. Leila’s pride and joy was the bookcase, filled with texts and novels, and her desk with its pleasant tasseled lamp and stacks of medical journals. It was the desk that Leila went toward, and she leaned on it with her hands and took a deep sigh.

She was not discouraged. If anything, the disregard of her father and the disapproval of her mother served to crystallize her ambition. She held a university degree in biomedical science, two years of extracurricular training in a Cairo medical center, and more importantly, she held hope for her future. Leila wanted to become a research doctor. She wanted to use her expertise to aid the refugees, the impoverished, the forgotten. She wanted to invent a new drug, or discover a new cure, and work in a shining laboratory. There was much to do with life, and based on the situation in Iraq, men were not to be trusted with the important things. To marry a typical Iraqi man, who would expect her to cook and clean for him, to stay home and raise his sons, would mean putting her own dreams on the back shelf.

She knew the Quran regarded family life as the highest pursuit for a woman, but Leila’s interpretation was more liberal. At the university in Cairo, there were plenty of women who did not marry, or who had husbands and a career alongside. She figured that Allah, praise be upon Him, preferred that Leila use her talents to help people, not to clean some man’s kitchen.

Leila sank down into the chair in front of her desk and brought out a Robin Cook novel, written in English. It helped her language skills, especially with medical terminology. She put a pair of tiny earphones into her ears and pressed the Play button on her CD player. The album was a pirated copy and not the best quality, but it was good enough. The blast of American rap pounded into her head and Leila found the beat appropriate for her mood. With the earphones, her family never had to know what kind of music she secretly preferred.

She read straight through to the lunch hour, and when Fatima knocked on her door at noon, Leila put aside the book with reluctance.

“We’re starting the pastries for cousin Abdul’s visit,” said Fatima. “Mama wants you to make the rice and mutton for Father’s lunch.”

“Yes, sir,” said Leila.

Fatima just looked at her.

“Sorry,” said Leila. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“Oh, Leila.” Fatima stepped inside the room and gave Leila a hug. “You know Mama doesn’t mean what she says. You’re so beautiful, you could wait until you were fifty years old and men would still want to marry you!”

“Fatima.” Leila smiled at her sister. “Sometimes I think you’re the only one who loves me anymore.”

“They love you,” Fatima said, linking arms as they walked down the stairs to the kitchen. “It’s just…the war….”

“I suppose,” said Leila.

The pot with the mutton was already boiling when Leila entered the kitchen, and she set to work making the rice and slicing small bits of onion to put in the stew. On the table, her mother and Fatima made the dough for the baklava treats. The dough was paper-thin and fragile, laid out in great sheets and then rolled up and put in the refrigerator for preservation. Leila hoped there were no power cuts between now and Abdul’s arrival the next day. The refrigerator situation was iffy, and Umm Naji kept hinting to Tamir that he might procure a petrol-fueled electric generator for their home.

“You girls will be happy to see little Mohammed,” said Umm Naji, referring to cousin Abdul’s five-year-old son.

Fatima smiled as she rolled another sheet of dough. “He’s such a cute child.”

Leila said nothing but nodded in agreement, pretending to love the little fiend. Mohammed was on her bad side ever since his last visit, when he unraveled her favorite scarf with his tiny, monstrous little hands. To be fair, that was three years ago. Leila was not opposed to children, but she never cooed over them the way Fatima did.

They finished with the dough and started dressing the whole lamb for roasting. Tamir had brought it home yesterday from the butcher’s shop, a child-sized bundle dripping with blood. The lamb would be spiced with rosemary and sage, rebundled, and left to marinate in its juices.

The rice was measured, the spices inventoried, and the dough for flatbread prepared ahead of time and put in the refrigerator. At seven in the evening, the women took a break to have makeshift chicken shwarma, cutlets of leftover chicken wrapped in flatbread with yogurt and cucumber. After that, Leila took her leave from the kitchen and went upstairs to review the material for her interview the next morning.

The head of pediatrics at the Al-Razi Hospital was a woman doctor by the name of Amina Dahbawi. Leila had introduced herself to Dr. Dahbawi upon her return from Cairo University and expressed an interest in gaining work experience. It paid off three weeks ago, when Dr. Dahbawi sent her an e-mail requesting further interviews. If Leila made a favorable impression, she might be hired. Leila wanted more experience in surgery or physical therapy, but Dr. Dahbawi was the highest-ranking female doctor in Mosul. It would be inappropriate for Leila to approach one of the male doctors, so it would be upon Dr. Dahbawi’s recommendation that Leila be transferred to one of the other stations.

It was the sole opportunity in Mosul that Leila could think of. With every day bringing new bombings, injuries, and shootings, it would give Leila an experience of practical hands-on healing as well as humanitarian effort.

Butterflies flew into her abdomen as she got into bed that night. Leila did not sleep well for the second night in a row, tossing and turning over the events of the day to come. Cousin Abdul was arriving. She had to bake bread. She had to go to the hospital and talk to the doctors; would they laugh in her face? Had the recent events at the Rasul house been real or imaginary? Had Leila dreamed up the past day? Did she miss her interview? Leila’s mind turned in turgid circles of nonsense, creating a half-asleep insomnia that prevented deep dreaming.

Leila got herself out of bed at seven in the morning and dressed in a professional black pantsuit, her only set of business clothes. She chose a contrasting dark taupe color for her head scarf, modest but of good quality. She took a folder with her résumé and university transcripts, and letters of recommendation from the staff at the university medical center in Cairo where she had interned. Leila rifled through the pages, triple-checking the contents; she could not think of anything else she might need.

With care, she packed her large square leather handbag with the folder, some cosmetics, a small bottle of water, and her on-the-go first aid kit. It paid to be prepared on the dangerous streets of Mosul. She would call a taxi to take her to the hospital, although cars were not necessarily safe; with her dressed as a professional woman, there was the chance she might be snatched and held for ransom. The insurgency did not seem to care who they targeted, American or Iraqi or Martian, so long as they wreaked havoc.

She arranged the taxi with a cousin named Sami, who was a driver. His small white car smelled funny but was clean, which was more than could be said about many taxis. She almost made it out the door.

“Leila!” her father’s voice echoed through the front hall.

“Father, I have to go!” Leila said, as the taxi horn sounded outside. “Remember? My interview at the hospital?”

“I don’t remember,” Tamir said, narrowing his eyes.

“I told you, Father, a week ago,” said Leila.

“Your cousin Abdul arrives today. Your mother needs your help here. Reschedule the interview.”

Leila’s eyes widened. This could not be happening. It was her chance, now or never, and her father wanted her to reschedule? “Father, I can’t. They’ll hire someone else.”

“Leila, I don’t like the idea of you working at the hospital. All those men, strangers, foreigners…”

Leila was frantic, but knew she couldn’t let him hear that in her voice. “It’s mostly children, Father, who’ve been burned or shot! Young people! Besides, don’t you want your family to be upstanding in the community? If I work at the hospital, it will only add prestige to our name. It’s a humanitarian effort.”

Tamir was silent. He took in Leila’s fine tailored suit and leather handbag.

“Please, Father? There’s no guarantee I’ll even get the job. It’s just an interview. I’ll be back well before lunch, and I’m going in Sami’s taxi.”

“Unescorted?”

“This is Iraq, Father! We are progressive, you’ve said it many times. We are not Saudis.”

“The Saudis,” grumbled Tamir. “Nothing but trouble.”

“Right. And they don’t let their women out of the house. I follow the Iraqi way. Your way, Father.”

Tamir paused, and for the second time in two days Leila held her breath for permission. As Allah is my witness, I want to move away from home, she thought to herself.

“Fine,” said Tamir. “If you are not back before noon—”

“I will be!” Leila said, before her father could set a more concrete threat. “Thank you! Wish me luck!”

She was already out the door before Tamir could say anything further.