It was the journalists in the West who brayed about Saddam Hussein’s evilness; it was the journalists in Iraq who fed the flames of anti-American hatred. Without the constant chatter of the press, Leila thought something might be accomplished.
She did not look twice at the gray-mustached American, or his armed, privately hired bodyguards.
Instead, Leila went to the Afdhel Baqqal, the “Best Grocer” shop. It was owned by her mother’s cousin Khaled and thus the flour and rice were always a few dinars cheaper for the al-Ghani family. She stepped across the muddy drainage ditch, taking care of her shoes, and ducked inside the low entrance to the store.
“Al-salaam alaykum,” Leila said.
Khaled, hunched in a lazy posture behind the counter, returned the greeting and asked after her parents.
“They are well,” she replied.
“Good, good,” said Khaled. “And Fatima?”
Leila smirked. Khaled was engaged to her older sister, Fatima, and had been for five years while he earned enough money to marry. It was set in stone, yet Khaled insisted on acting as though he courted Fatima. “She is also well,” said Leila, occupying herself by inspecting a row of imported goods. “Skippy…” she read aloud.
“Ah!” Khaled jumped up. “We get this from America. It is called peanut butter. You should try some, I only charge three thousand dinars for it. The other shops ask much more. Your sister will like it!”
“Maybe next time,” said Leila. She read the rest of the peanut butter label in English. She was proud of her English. At the university in Cairo, classes had been conducted in English and Leila discovered a natural affinity for the language. It was not as expressive as Arabic, but had greater clarity, especially in terms of science and government—and those were subjects that interested Leila.
“I hear your cousin on your father’s side is coming to town,” Khaled said. “The doctor. What is his name?”
“Abdul,” said Leila, running her fingers along the clean plastic cases of bottled water. “Or, Abu Mohammed, if you like.” Abdul the doctor was older, thirty-five, and had a son named Mohammed, hence his title of Abu. His wife had died three years ago in childbirth, resulting in the stillbirth of their second son. The man was on the prowl for a new wife to take care of five-year-old Mohammed. Leila figured Khaled was worried this other cousin might snatch away his fiancée.
“He is still widowed?” Khaled persisted.
“Yes,” she sighed. “Still widowed. Probably he will marry Fatima.” A look of alarm crossed Khaled’s face, and Leila almost giggled at his expression. “I am not serious!” she said. “Fatima is intended for you, cousin, and everyone knows it. Don’t worry.”
He scowled. “You go too far with your jokes, cousin Leila,” he said.
Leila just smiled. “Can I get three kilograms of flour, please?” she asked.
Khaled nodded, but was slow in measuring the flour. He handed the cloth bag to her with a surly glance, which improved a small measure when Leila unfolded her bills to pay him. She thanked him for the flour and settled the large bag into the crook of her arm for the walk home. By the time she wormed her way out of the market, it was nearly eleven o’clock. It was best to get back; Father would want his meal prepared, and Mother and Fatima would need help chopping tomatoes.
Instead of taking the more direct route, Leila circled the outside of the marketplace once and took a spur road that ran at a diagonal to the shiny black asphalt. It was a peculiarity of hers, never taking the same way coming as going; a friend at the university had called her obsessive-compulsive. It was difficult to argue in the safe, cloistered environment of Cairo University, but in Mosul this habit felt like prudence, not eccentricity.
Her intuition proved itself worthwhile as she came out onto the new paved road. An American convoy roared by just as she stepped out, and Leila waited for them to pass. She held a fascinated dread for the wide-slung American vehicles, with their thick armor and fifty-caliber machine guns swinging about from the top. This group was likely from the American base in Mosul, Forward Operating Base Marez, from which daily patrols originated.
They went fast as they passed by the spur road and Leila averted her eyes from the convoy when it got close. It would not do to be seen gawping at the Americans and making eye contact with strange men. The Quran prohibited gazing between unmarried men and women, and as for gazing between Iraqis and Americans…Leila could just imagine the trouble. Best to stare at the space in front of her feet as she walked. The growl of the petroleum-fueled engines faded and Leila coughed. The air was tinged with exhaust.
As she walked the rest of the way home, her mind turned over the presence of the Americans. They drove with their windows down and popular music blaring, cigarettes dangling from fingertips and eyes concealed behind fashionable reflective sunglasses that wrapped around their heads. They wore electronic gear to excess, looking half machine with wires and antennae sticking up from their helmets. They gave out chocolate bars. Flashing toothy smiles and thumbs-up to every kid they passed by, the Americans seemed like creatures from another planet. In the first year after “hostilities” ended (Leila felt like laughing at that particular declaration, in retrospect) the soldiers interacted more with the local people, or so her family had told her, but after the Iraqis’ insurgency began, the Americans retreated into their technology. The sooner the Americans left, the better it would be for everyone. Leila did not like trouble.
The al-Ghani family’s home was large, with five bedrooms, two sitting rooms, the kitchen, and even a bathroom with a porcelain toilet. Ever since Leila’s older brother, Naji, had moved out to his own place with his wife, it left the house with four inhabitants, all with their own bedroom. It was a luxury for which Leila was grateful. The house was surrounded by high walls, with a metal gate that faced the street.
It was this gate Leila slipped through with her package of flour, and she took off her shoes at the front door before going inside. Her flat brown leather slippers joined the pile of tennis shoes and sandals heaped outside the door. Clad now in her stockings, she came into the blue-tiled entrance hall.
“Mother!” she called. “I’m home!”
“In here,” came the reply. Leila peeked her head inside the kitchen to find a large pot of water boiling on the gas, and a basketful of tomatoes waiting to be chopped. “Ah, there you are,” said Umm Naji. She bustled into the kitchen from the small storage pantry carrying a load of potatoes. “You took a long time.”
“No longer than usual,” said Leila. “The market was crowded, and Khaled wanted to talk about Fatima.”
Umm Naji’s face glowed at the mention of the betrothal. “Yes, yes,” she said. “I think maybe this is the year they will marry. If all goes well, inshallah.”
“If God wills,” Leila echoed. “Shall I peel the potatoes?”
“Yes, yes,” Umm Naji said. She sat her large frame down on a stool in front of the boiling pot, and brought out a knife with which to peel the potatoes. “You chop the fruits, I will do the rest.”
Leila sighed. She preferred peeling potatoes. Tomatoes, especially these soft ones, always got away from her in a big mess of seeds. Mother had her ways, though, and it did no good to try and switch jobs around. “I saw an American convoy on our road,” she said. “Going fast.”
Umm Naji snorted. “Better not mention it to your father.”
“I wouldn’t,” Leila said. She added quietly, “He might tell his friends.”
Umm Naji looked up and glared at Leila. “Don’t speak of such things,” she said. “What your father does is his business, and we must not hold opinions about it.”
“Speak for yourself,” Leila mumbled.
Several moments of silence followed as Leila chopped tomatoes with a sharp serrated knife. Her father’s political opinion was a sore subject. He clung to the old ways,