Over the years, Rania had become skilled at fending off the mukhabarat’s inquiries. She knew how to distract, flatter, and feign ignorance, how to smile even when fear bubbled in her stomach. She could always find a way to casually mention that one of the city’s thoroughfares bore her ancestral name. Her family’s wealth might be gone, but she was a sheikh’s daughter, and that still carried some weight. In the rare case that didn’t work, she’d produce her Presidential Arts Award with its dollop of bloodred wax. The sight of his signature always brought the interview to a quick close.

Tonight, however, Rania could feel a migraine coming on. She didn’t want to have to stay up late, performing verbal gymnastics and dropping names for some mukhabarat brute, just because one of the diplomats drank too much wine and indulged in wild talk. Still, the bills weren’t going to pay themselves.

“Rania, there you are.” Gunter broke away from the gaggle of diplomats and hurried toward her. “Please allow me to introduce you to a newcomer to Baghdad.”

He steered her toward a young woman—the diplomat’s wife from Mutanabbi market.

“It’s so wonderful to see you again,” said Ally. As the conversation continued, Rania noticed her sipping nervously on her wine and glancing over her shoulder toward the gate.

“You probably find it boring here, Ally, without a job to keep you busy,” said Gunter. “Did you know that Baghdad has an international school? There aren’t any foreign children left, but there are some very bright Iraqi students. They always need teachers. What’s your background?”

“My background?”

“What did you do before you came here?”

“She already said she’s a diplomat’s wife.” The Nigerian ambassador sipped pomegranate juice. “My own wife tells me it’s a full-time occupation—entertaining official guests, running the house, training the cook to make dishes the proper way.”

“You didn’t bring her to Baghdad?” said the Frenchman.

“I brought the cook instead,” he replied archly. His colleagues chuckled and swigged their drinks.

Ally shifted uncomfortably.

“Would you like to see some paintings?” Rania whispered in her ear. “I can give you a tour of my little gallery.”

“I’d love that.” Ally smiled gratefully. She glanced over her shoulder again. “But do you mind giving me a few minutes? I just need to duck out to my car.”

“Of course.” Rania gestured to the side door, where light from the gallery spilled in a long rectangle across the grass. “I’ll wait for you inside.”

Ally appeared a few minutes later, still looking vaguely perturbed. Rania took the young woman’s elbow, and they began to circle the whitewashed room, keeping in step, as if they were ladies promenading by the river.

“Are you an artist too?” said Ally. “Do you paint? Or did you create that sculpture in the garden?”