was talking about her morning at the nursery. She laughed about one of the boys in her class, but Leila knew it was a hard job. More of the children at Fatima’s school were orphans these days. So many parents were hesitant to send their children out of the house anymore.
When Umm Naji poked her head in with a gesture toward the sitting room, Leila and Fatima stood to retrieve the meal tray. The sisters reentered the room and retreated with the tray, bringing it back to the kitchen. They sat with their spoons and ate the remains of the lunch. Leila had a small portion of yellow potatoes and the few bits of leftover chicken. It had grown cold, but she was hungry now and it did not matter.
“Do you want to read the newspaper?” Fatima asked, procuring the day’s print from her handbag. “I picked it up for you.”
“Thank you!” said Leila, reaching for it. She didn’t believe much of what she read, but sometimes there were good tidbits in the papers. She loved reading the opinion columns if only to disagree with them. She scanned the headlines in Arabic, full of body counts and talk about the new Iraqi constitution. It was a ludicrous tangle.
“Will you do my hair for tonight?” Fatima asked. “Hala and her two sisters have invited us over. They have new magazines from Dubai and I heard that Hala has some chocolates, too.”
Leila’s eyes widened. “Have you asked Father?”
“He said yes three days ago….” Fatima paused. Their father’s moods changed like the wind these days. “And Naji has promised to escort us. He wanted to visit with Hala’s father.”
“Good,” Leila said. If Naji was escorting them, it should be all right. Their older brother owned a furniture shop, the largest in Mosul. He was respected in their community, and more important, Naji was respected by their father. They would be home from Hala Rasul’s house before dark, anyway. The Americans had imposed a curfew and only the desperate would defy it. Curfew meant no one was allowed out in the streets during certain hours; if anyone made the mistake of not being home in time, they were liable to be picked up or shot by an American patrol. Even though it was for their own protection, the citizens of Mosul felt like unwanted visitors in their own city.
Their father’s guests stayed all afternoon, and it was four o’clock before the group of hard-eyed men departed. Tamir moved to the inner courtyard for the sunshine, where he sipped his ninth cup of tea of the day, and Leila took the opportunity to approach her father.
“Father?” she asked. Leila had shed her head scarf when the guests left, leaving her shining hair loose in the crisp October air. Tamir had always been proud of his daughters’ good looks, and Leila wanted to capitalize on that now.
“Yes?” he said.
“How is your day?” She sat next to him on the stone bench.
“All right,” Tamir said. He stroked his graying beard with one hand, a familiar habit that reminded Leila of better times when she was young, and he would set her on his lap and read out of books. Tamir glanced at her with olive-brown eyes. “I don’t like you going to the market alone.”
Leila tried not to frown. If he was feeling overprotective, she could forget about going to Hala’s. “Well. Perhaps you could come with me sometime?” she suggested.
“Perhaps,” said Tamir.
A moment of silence followed, during which Leila rehearsed the best way to ask her father for permission. A crow settled on the edge of the roof, cawing at the humans below. Leila glared at it. She hated crows; they were bad omens. “I hope Fatima gets married soon,” she said. If she approached the subject of a visit to Hala’s from an oblique angle, Father might acquiesce against his will.
“Khaled will be good for her,” Tamir said. “I wish he might have more political conviction, though.”
“Not everyone can be as active in the community as you are, Father.” Flattery always worked.
“Hmm. Yes.”
“Naji is coming by this evening,” said Leila.
“Is he?” Tamir asked, adjusting his thin frame to catch more sunshine. “My bones are cold,” he complained.
“Yes, Naji is coming,” Leila said. “He is taking Fatima and me to the Rasul house, remember? He wanted to talk to Mr. Rasul about selling carpets in his shop.”
“You and Fatima?”
“Hala has invited us to visit, while Naji does business with her father.”
“Hmm,” said Tamir. “You will be home before dark?”
“Of course.”
“Naji is a good businessman,” said Tamir. “Expanding into carpets is good.”
Leila let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She could go to Hala’s after all, and read the glossy magazines from Dubai. A smile threatened to break across her features, but she held it in check until she told Fatima.
Chapter 2
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