Farouk’s plump wife was waiting inside the foyer, all brassy-blond highlights, crimson nails, and leopard print. Amal purred like a fifty-year-old kitten and kissed the air beside Ally’s ears. Her heels click-clacked as she led the way to a sitting room. At the threshold, Ally faltered. A larger-than-life Saddam Hussein stared at her from a painting above the mantel.

The president was decked out in a white suit with wide lapels, like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Instead of a disco ball, white doves circled above his head. Ally choked down her surprise. She didn’t know where to look. At the ostentatious fountain splashing in the corner? At the mural of the Swiss Alps that covered an entire wall? Or at a second presidential portrait—a toga-clad Saddam in a Roman chariot, elbow bent like an archer’s, shooting rainbows at the sky?

Amal emitted a screech, and a maid scurried into the room. She set a tray of tea on a low table with four naked brass nymphs for legs.

“Is Miriam here?” said Ally. “I haven’t come at the wrong time, have I?”

She’d arrived at the gate full of contrary emotions: excitement, fear, longing for the mother she never knew. Now she felt absurd, sipping tea while Saturday Night Saddam boogied over the mantel. A voice inside her whispered, Is this really happening?

“My sister doesn’t get many visitors these days.” Farouk frowned. “You should know, she’s a little eccentric.”

“Eccentric?” Amal raised one ruthlessly plucked eyebrow. “Be honest, she’s crazy. It runs in the family.”

Farouk’s features darkened.

“Not you, habibee.” Amal patted his cheek. She turned to Ally and whispered conspiratorially. “It’s only the women in his line who are crazy. Lucky he only has one sister, or we’d need a bigger house to keep them all.”

“There’s plenty of space,” grumbled Farouk. “My sister has a room on the upper floor and a small studio on the roof terrace.”

Amal rolled her eyes. “That scrap heap? I’d like to—”

“You’d like to what?” A skinny woman with close-cropped silver hair strode into the room. “Grind up Michelangelo’s David to make a marble counter for your kitchen?”

While Amal reminded Ally of a pampered house cat, her sister-in-law looked more like a scrappy feral, the hairless type, without an ounce of fat to smooth her wrinkles. Miriam bared her teeth in a caustic smile.

“Or perhaps you want to melt down Rodin’s Thinker for bracelets and earrings?”

“Farouk!” cried Amal. “Tell your sister she can’t talk to me like this.”

“Ladies, please.” Farouk raised his hands. “We have a guest.”

“Actually, she is my guest.” Miriam crooked her finger at Ally. “Please, follow me.”