“No, it’s not.” Huda stared through the windshield. “My father died when I was little. For a girl, it’s not the same as losing a mother, but it hurts, even today.”

Out on the promenade, a bronze statue gleamed under spotlights: Scheherazade, the fabled storyteller of One Thousand and One Nights. Ally’s mother had written about the statue’s unveiling, and every time Ally saw the graceful figure, she felt a rush of tenderness. It was not just the connection to her mom but that Scheherazade had survived—when so many other statues had been torn down and replaced by tributes to Saddam.

“I’m sorry,” said Ally. “This was meant to be a fun night out.”

Huda glanced at her.

“The great poet Rumi said sorrow sweeps everything out of your house violently so that joy has space to enter.”

Perhaps Huda was right, thought Ally. In the darkened car, childhood losses reached out their hands and greeted each other as friends.

The car trundled by a quiet fish shack set in a patch of grass. There were no patrons at its rickety tables, only an old man roasting masgouf carp over a glowing firepit.

“I read that people used to water-ski right here,” said Ally.

“Oh, yes,” said Huda. “Young people liked to swim and water-ski. Families came to picnic, to take a nice walk, to play badminton. At night, Abu Nuwas Boulevard was the most exciting place. More exciting than Cairo. More than Beirut. There were bars and nightclubs. Fancy casinos too.”

“What about you, Huda? Did you ever go water-skiing on the Tigris?”

“Me? No, never.” Huda pursed her lips. “I was too busy playing blackjack at the casino.”

Ally threw her head back and cackled.

“Oh, yes,” Huda chuckled. “I juggled martinis in one hand, and dealt seven-card stud with the other. They called me the Queen of Diamonds.”

The two women giggled, their merriment echoing through the car. Ally gazed out the window and marveled at how history always managed to repeat itself. Thirty years after her mother, she was here, sharing a laugh with a friend, while Scheherazade kept spinning her tales on the banks of the ancient Tigris.

* * *

Huda maneuvered the Corolla down a narrow street and pulled up by a sturdy gate the mottled green of old copper. Nothing could be seen beyond it, only treetops and a buttery smear of stars.

Ally unbuckled her seat belt. “Shall we go in?”

Huda eyed the gate uneasily. “I’ll wait in the car.”

“Please, come inside. I’m sure you’d be very welcome.” Ally squeezed Huda’s hand. She couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving her to wait out in the car, alone. “When’s the last time you had a girls’ night out?”

Huda ran her hand over her hair. She reached for the interior light, flipped down her visor, and inspected her reflection in the vanity mirror.