“Oh, no, I bought that sculpture many years ago,” said Rania. “I just dabble, a little sketch here and there, but nothing of any great import. I try to support artists and match them with a buyer. And, as you can see, I host events in the garden from time to time.”

Ally paused by a painting of three galloping horses: all slanting lines and geometric shapes in shades of orange and gray. Sharp-edged storm clouds pressed at their backs. Rania eyed the short biography pinned beneath the artist’s work: Hassan Ghraib, born 1985. He wasn’t much older than Hanan. Rania’s heart ached. Was this what peace looked like to her daughter’s generation?

“Gunter told me the theme of the exhibition was peace,” said Ally, as if reading her mind.

Rania arched an eyebrow.

“Do you see peace in this work?”

The young woman blushed. “I don’t know anything about art.”

“Forget about your head,” said Rania. “What about your heart?”

Ally eyed the stampeding animals.

“I don’t see peace in this at all. Quite the opposite.”

“I agree,” said Rania. “Peace is a convenient theme for an exhibition, but for many Iraqis, especially our youth, it is an alien concept. It shouldn’t have to be this way.”

Ally glanced at her curiously. Rania was surprised too. She didn’t normally share opinions like that with strangers, foreign strangers. But the young woman had an unguarded quality, an openness, that reminded her of Hanan.

The door to the garden swung open.

“Look who I found by the gate.” Gunter hustled a short woman into the gallery. She raised her hand to her eyes, as if blinded by the light.

“Huda!” cried Ally. “There you are. Please, let me introduce you to Rania Mansour.”

Rania froze. She’d imagined this moment so many times: what she would do and say. Now, her mind went blank. Huda lowered her hand. Her eyes were flat as a pond.

“We know each other,” she said coolly.

“You do?”

Rania forced a smile onto her lips.

“Yes, we’ve known each other since we were children.” She reminded herself to breathe, but the past had sucked all the air from the room.

“That was a long time ago.” Huda turned her cheek and eyed the galloping ocher horses.

Rania’s heart beat faster. She could manage the mukhabarat’s questions about foreigners in her garden. Huda was different. How could Rania explain their connection? And what if the mukhabarat interviewed Huda? What secrets might she spill? Rania felt the high wire sway beneath her.

“Ally, why don’t you show Gunter the painting you liked?” she said quickly. “I would love a moment to catch up with Huda. Please, excuse us.”