she hoped that Tamir al-Ghani had been fair when he could. Besides, those days were over now. At least, everyone had thought them over, until those horrible, insulting pictures came out of the American prison. It made Leila think there was no such thing as a good government.
After the Abu Ghraib pictures, her father had started staying out late at night and getting mysterious phone calls, sometimes shuffling odd guests through the house. He became angry. His bad temper simmered around the house. He attended mosque more than ever before, and sometimes the imam came for supper. Leila listened in on the men’s conversation from a hiding place behind the wall where there was a loose brick. She heard talk of insurgency, of the noble cause of al-Qaeda in Iraq, of something called Ansar al-Sunna, of using cell phones in dangerous ways, of how the Americans might be hurt. She heard her father grumble about the occupation and the lies of the West. The imam always spoke of the Quran, quoting the hadith, the sayings of the Prophet, and advocating a return to strict Muslim law. When they were together, the men’s voices grew louder and angrier, and Leila heard more of “the new Crusade” and the “final battle against the Western invaders.”
Leila twisted her mouth, focusing on chopping the last of the tomatoes. She did not believe in such anger; all she wanted was to be free, open, fashionable. She hated the way Father had become since the Americans arrived. It was like walking on eggshells with him, and where Leila had once enjoyed talking politics with him, now he was a different man. He was hard and strict and bitter.
“Get the oven going, Leila,” her mother said. “I’ll make the dough for the bread.”
Leila nodded.
“Tomorrow we’ll start making the delicacies for Abdul’s visit,” said Umm Naji with a new lift in her voice. “We’re all looking forward to that.”
Leila made a noncommittal noise in her throat. She was not looking forward to cousin Abdul’s visit. Ever since Fatima had let slip that Leila wanted to go to postgraduate school to study medicine, Abdul spoke to Leila in patronizing tones and kept hinting that he could teach her about being a doctor.
“It’s too bad about Abdul,” Umm Naji said. Her eyes darted over to Leila. “He still…needs a wife.”
Leila raised an eyebrow. “Not again, Mama.”
“I am just making a suggestion,” Umm Naji said. “You are twenty-three, Leila! You must get married sometime. It will be shame for our family if a beautiful girl like you cannot find a husband.”
“If I married Abdul,” Leila said, “I would never get to be a doctor. I would have to take care of a five-year-old who wasn’t even mine, and probably have more babies, besides. It’s not modern.”
“Modern. Bah,” said Umm Naji. “In times like these, we need what works. You are a little girl, Leila. You have no understanding of these things—”
“First I’m an old woman at twenty-three, now I’m a little girl. Make up your mind, Mother,” Leila snapped.
“Shhh!” Umm Naji gestured toward the kitchen door.
Leila turned to see her father filling the door frame. She stood straighter. “Baba!” she said.
“When is lunch ready? I have brought guests,” Tamir said.
“Soon, sweet,” Umm Naji said. “The bread will take only thirty minutes.”
He nodded, turning away to go back to the men’s sitting room.
“Guests, always guests,” said Umm Naji when he was out of earshot. “That man is more popular now than when he was a judge!”
“I think these are a different sort of guests, Mama,” said Leila. “Where is Fatima?”
“She had to work this morning,” said Umm Naji. Leila’s sister Fatima, elder by two years, worked at a local kindergarten as a child-minder. In days past, it would have been unnecessary for an al-Ghani daughter to work, but with Tamir out of a steady job they needed more income to keep up the house. Leila herself was looking for a job in the local hospital in Mosul; one of the nurses said she might be able to start as a medical technician. “Fatima will be home any minute,” Umm Naji said.
On cue, Leila heard the front door open and her sister’s light footsteps enter the house. “Hello,” Fatima said, coming into the kitchen.
“Khaled says hello.” Leila grinned at her sister. Fatima blushed.
“Leila is in a mood today,” said their mother.
“I am not,” Leila said.
Fatima removed her head scarf to reveal dark brown hair with dyed light streaks. She sat down and began slicing the peeled potatoes into thin discs. “How is Khaled?” she asked in soft tones.
“Making money,” said Leila. “He is selling Skippy peanut butter now. I think you will be able to marry soon.”
Fatima blushed again. “I hope so,” she said. “I spoke to Hala Rasul today. You remember how she was engaged to Omar, the youngest son of Mr. Habibi? You remember how he was involved with a group against the Americans and was killed four months ago? His little brother was shot in the leg last night. He’s in the hospital.”
Umm Naji clucked her tongue and shook her head. “I don’t understand these times!”
“I do,” Leila said. “Omar was a hothead. Hala told me he was always going to mosque and talking against the West. Fatima, at least Khaled is a sensible man who has his eye on the future! He would never join the mujahideen. He is too busy running his shop.”
“You’re a lucky girl, Fatima, to have a sensible fiancé,” Umm Naji added, shooting Leila a glance of regret. “Or a fiancé at all.”
Leila groaned, standing up quickly.
The kitchen was silent for a long moment. Fatima looked between her mother and her sister. She gave Leila a sympathetic look. “The potatoes are ready,” she said.
The women occupied themselves with finishing the preparation for the noon meal: boiled potatoes with chicken and onions, fresh-baked flatbread, salad of chopped tomato and cucumber. Umm Naji brought out the large, round metal plate and set it atop the big pot, flipping it upside down to serve the food. The platter would be enough for at least five men, and Fatima and Leila carried it out to the sitting room together. Before leaving the kitchen, Leila made certain her head scarf covered her hair and she smoothed down her dress. Her father’s guests were conservative types.
The sitting room was large and elegant, covered in Qom carpets that had been in the al-Ghani family for centuries. The furniture was low to the floor, and five men lounged on the cushioned divans along the walls. Tamir al-Ghani presided from his favorite seat, and with a rapid beckoning motion instructed his daughters to set the platter on the small round table in the middle of the room.
Leila stole a glance at the guests. They were all about her father’s age, in their forties or fifties, and had a hard look about them. There was no congenial conversation among them; Leila decided they were strategizing. Leila and Fatima set the tray down and retreated in quiet modesty as Umm Naji brought out the finger bowls of water and the utensils.
“I did not recognize any of them,” Leila hissed to Fatima back in the front hallway.
“Neither did I,” said Fatima. “But there are many new faces in town.”
“That’s true,” said Leila. After the American offensive against the insurgents in Fallujah to the south, most of the jihadists had fled under civilian cover. For reasons unknown to Leila, they had chosen Mosul as their new center of operation against the American occupation. It must have been sheer bad luck, she decided. It brought further violence to her lovely city—police stations were besieged and bombed; markets were sprayed with gunfire; and it was only a matter of time before the mujahideen took up their primary shelter in the mosques and holy places, forcing the Americans to come after them there. She suspected the men in the sitting room were part of these problems.
As