“What happened?” Tamir said as they went inside to the sitting room. “Were the cousins found?”
Leila paused, watching Naji.
“The Americans came, and broke the front gate with their vehicle,” said Naji. “They searched the house, but nothing was found. They left after about thirty minutes, empty-handed. No other damage was done, no injuries, and the women were even veiled at the time. It could have been much worse.”
“We’re all just a bit shaken up,” added Fatima.
“Nothing permanent,” said Leila.
Tamir lounged back in his chair, looking down at the back of his hand. “Yet you would not have been involved at all, had you been home before curfew! Now the name of al-Ghani is associated with insurgency.”
Leila refrained from rolling her eyes. If Tamir al-Ghani was not chin deep in the insurgency already, she would eat her head scarf. “I didn’t give our name,” said Leila. “I just said we were visitors.”
Her father ignored her. “They know your name?” he asked Naji.
“They asked me directly. I’m sorry, Father. But I told them I owned the furniture shop.”
“He’s hoping to get business.” Leila smirked.
Her father and brother ignored her. “Was there any recognition of your name?” Tamir asked.
“No,” said Naji. “The Americans came and went. They found nothing, they know nothing.”
“Hmm,” said Tamir.
“Father, may we be excused?” Leila asked, grasping Fatima’s hand.
“Yes, yes,” he said, not even looking at the girls anymore.
Their mother met up with them in the hallway, embracing both girls and fussing over them. They needed a change of clothes, she said, and a cup of tea. Leila agreed with the cup of tea; she had not slept enough the night before. She would need her energy for tomorrow, for her job interview with the head of pediatrics at the Al-Razi Training Hospital. She’d been looking forward to the interview for weeks.
As they sat on the floor in the large kitchen, taking turns kneading dough and drinking tea, Umm Naji was more interested in the affairs of the Rasul household than of the American search. “How is Hala doing?”
“Fine,” said Fatima. “Better, I think. She is a lovely girl. She will find another man to marry her.”
“Let us hope not one of the mujahideen,” said Leila.
“Hala would do well to get married soon,” said Umm Naji. “After all, she’s Leila’s age. Soon she will be old goods.”
Leila sighed. Her mother would never quit. If Leila ever did marry, as soon as she had daughters Umm Naji would next be plotting for their betrothal. Leila loved her mother, but ever since she returned from the university a year ago it seemed as though Umm Naji’s primary emphasis was on marrying off her daughters, rather than supporting their ambitions as she once had. It was the war. Every tiny step of progress was so easily erased, the ebb tide taking away the castles of dreams that Leila built in her head.
“Mother, I don’t think Leila is old goods!” Fatima said. “I’m two years older and I’m not married.”
“Yes, but you are engaged! You have prospects, Fatima.”
“I have prospects,” Leila muttered. “My mind and my goals. I’ll be more successful than any old man around here.”
Umm Naji sighed as she wrapped her fat fingers around the small glass of minted tea. “Leila, you know I want you to be a doctor, and show the world all your ideas. But I want you to be protected. What if your career does not work out, if the violence gets worse and we are all impoverished? Then where will you be?”
“I’ll move somewhere else,” said Leila. “I think you’ve been listening to Father too much.”
“Your father does what is best for his family and his country,” Umm Naji said, leaning back as though to end the conversation.
Leila slammed her cup of tea on the tile floor. “I’m going upstairs,” she said.
Leila’s bedroom was simple. She was by nature a tidy person, and kept the room free of clutter. A low narrow bed covered by a patterned duvet occupied one corner, and a row of heavy curtains covered the two windows set in the wall that overlooked the private inner courtyard. Leila’s pride and joy was the bookcase, filled with texts and novels, and her desk with its pleasant tasseled lamp and stacks of medical journals. It was the desk that Leila went toward, and she leaned on it with her hands and took a deep sigh.
She was not discouraged. If anything, the disregard of her father and the disapproval of her mother served to crystallize her ambition. She held a university degree in biomedical science, two years of extracurricular training in a Cairo medical center, and more importantly, she held hope for her future. Leila wanted to become a research doctor. She wanted to use her expertise to aid the refugees, the impoverished, the forgotten. She wanted to invent a new drug, or discover a new cure, and work in a shining laboratory. There was much to do with life, and based on the situation in Iraq, men were not to be trusted with the important things. To marry a typical Iraqi man, who would expect her to cook and clean for him, to stay home and raise his sons, would mean putting her own dreams on the back shelf.
She knew the Quran regarded family life as the highest pursuit for a woman, but Leila’s interpretation was more liberal. At the university in Cairo, there were plenty of women who did not marry, or who had husbands and a career alongside. She figured that Allah, praise be upon Him, preferred that Leila use her talents to help people, not to clean some man’s kitchen.
Leila sank down into the chair in front of her desk and brought out a Robin Cook novel, written in English. It helped her language skills, especially with medical terminology. She put a pair of tiny earphones into her ears and pressed the Play button on her CD player. The album was a pirated copy and not the best quality, but it was good enough. The blast of American rap pounded into her head and Leila found the beat appropriate for her mood. With the earphones, her family never had to know what kind of music she secretly preferred.
She read straight through to the lunch hour, and when Fatima knocked on her door at noon, Leila put aside the book with reluctance.
“We’re starting the pastries for cousin Abdul’s visit,” said Fatima. “Mama wants you to make the rice and mutton for Father’s lunch.”
“Yes, sir,” said Leila.
Fatima just looked at her.
“Sorry,” said Leila. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“Oh, Leila.” Fatima stepped inside the room and gave Leila a hug. “You know Mama doesn’t mean what she says. You’re so beautiful, you could wait until you were fifty years old and men would still want to marry you!”
“Fatima.” Leila smiled at her sister. “Sometimes I think you’re the only one who loves me anymore.”
“They love you,” Fatima said, linking arms as they walked down the stairs to the kitchen. “It’s just…the war….”
“I suppose,” said Leila.
The pot with the mutton was already boiling when Leila entered the kitchen, and she set to work making the rice and slicing small bits of onion to put in the stew. On the table, her mother and Fatima made the dough for the baklava treats. The dough was paper-thin and fragile, laid out in great sheets and then rolled up and put in the refrigerator for preservation. Leila hoped there were no power cuts between now and Abdul’s arrival the next day. The refrigerator situation was iffy, and Umm Naji kept hinting to Tamir that he might procure a petrol-fueled electric generator for their home.
“You girls will be happy to see little