The Nightingale. Morgana Gallaway

captain studied the floor and let the moment slide a little too long. Leila glanced back down at her clipboard. Clearing his throat again, he spoke. “Yes,” he said, “we’ve met before, haven’t we?”

      Leila nodded.

      Clearly, the soldier remembered the raid. “Sorry about that. Please, call me James.”

      Leila met his eyes once more. “It was not your fault, I am sure,” she said. “You follow your orders.”

      James nodded. “So you work here now?”

      “Yes,” she said. “I have been here three weeks.”

      “Really? I haven’t seen you,” said James.

      With a lift of her eyebrows, Leila’s mouth twitched in amusement; it sounded like Captain James was on the lookout for pretty Iraqi girls. The impression was unintentional, she was certain, but she could not help smiling again.

      “Sorry—er—I mean, I didn’t know we had a new translator.”

      “I work with the surgeons,” she said. “Here in the hospital. I am on loan from the Al-Razi civilian hospital in the city.”

      “Ah,” said James. He glanced over at the wounded prisoner, who stared back and forth between James and Leila. The prisoner’s brown face betrayed both curiosity and loathing. “Does he speak any English?” James asked, nodding at the wounded man.

      “No,” said Leila. “Not that he has revealed, anyway.”

      “Right,” said James. “I’m supposed to question him. But I think I’ll need your help, if you’re willing.”

      Leila shrugged. “It is my job,” she said, not liking it, but she felt James knew what she meant. It was his job, too. He pulled up two metal folding chairs that rested on the wall for himself and Leila and then turned to the bedridden insurgent. Leila cleared her throat. There was no room for fellow-Iraqi allegiance here; she had a job to do and she would do it well. “What is your name? Ma ismuka?”

      The man said nothing.

      “He is called Hazim,” Leila volunteered, glancing at the chart. “He has not given a family name.”

      “Hazim,” James said. “My name is James.”

      Leila translated this in a staccato burst. Hazim turned his head away.

      “We have treated you of your wounds,” said James, “and given you medicine. We want you to heal, and go in peace. It is a matter of hospitality.”

      Hazim mumbled something in return.

      “He says he thanks you for the treatment, but he has done nothing to be held here,” Leila said.

      “Is he part of the insurgency? Is that how he wounded his leg?” James asked.

      Leila shook her head. “He says the Strykers shot him for no reason.” She sighed. “It is impossible to know the truth.”

      It went like that for about twenty minutes. James asked a question about Hazim’s company or family or activities in Mosul. Leila translated. The answers were vague and contradictory and they had to repeat themselves many times, hoping to catch Hazim with the truth. She wondered if it was Hazim’s guilt or a general coyness that molded his answers.

      At the end of the session, the only solid information was that Hazim was from Tikrit, he’d been in Mosul for five months, and he was visiting a “cousin.”

      “It’s always a cousin,” said James, rubbing his eyes.

      “That is the way of this country.” said Leila. “I have over eight hundred cousins.”

      “Eight hundred!”

      “More on my father’s side,” said Leila. “He is Arab. My mother has a smaller family, and they are Kurdish. Only three hundred cousins on that side.”

      James shook his head in total disbelief. “Are they all first cousins?”

      Leila laughed. “No,” she said. “Just cousins.”

      “Your mother is Kurdish?” he asked.

      “Yes, from Dohuk,” said Leila. “Most of her family is still there.”

      “Huh,” said James, stealing another look at Leila’s face, and she noticed the motion of his eyes. “I think that’s all he’s going to tell us,” James said, regarding their wounded terrorist. A pause hung in the air and then James forged ahead. “Do you translate all the medical terms, then?”

      “Yes,” she said. “I am the translator, and also surgical assistant. My degree is biomedical science.”

      “Oh!” said James, impressed. “Where did you go to college?”

      “The Cairo University,” Leila said. “I graduated last year. But because of the war, and my father, I cannot go back for my doctor’s degree.” She sighed. Pity she did not want, yet her situation was beginning to demand it.

      “Your father?” he asked.

      Feeling bad for weaseling out of his interest, Leila glanced at him, then looked away again. “It is nothing,” she said. “If you are finished here, I must go. The bus takes us back into the city at six o’clock.”

      James barely had time to say, “It was nice to meet you!” and Leila was out the door.