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