“My darling, it’s not you,” said Rania hurriedly. She didn’t want Malik catching sight of Hanan. Along with keeping the conveyor belt of presidential art humming, he’d also ingratiated himself into Uday’s clique, and they were always on the lookout for innocent young women. “This is important. I want you to go to your room.”

“But I haven’t finished my—”

“You cannot be seen or heard. Understand?” She snatched up a canister of tea. “Please, do what I say, and afterward we’ll go shopping for a new dress you can wear to the Alwiyah Club.”

Hanan lay down her spoon. Steel clinked against porcelain.

“I don’t need a new dress,” she said quietly.

“Good girl. Hurry now.”

As Hanan tiptoed out the door, Rania noted the counterfeit smile on her daughter’s face. It looked very much like the one she saw on her own face sometimes. Sorrow stabbed her side. What was she teaching her daughter? How to appease the cruel? How to keep the corrupt happy? She waited until she heard the creak of Hanan’s footsteps overhead, arranged the tray of tea, then put her hip and shoulder against the kitchen door and pushed it open. Malik blocked her way.

“What on earth?” Rania startled. Glasses rattled on her tray. “I asked you to wait in the garden.”

“I wanted to take a look inside the gallery, in case something caught my eye.” Malik rested his hand against the cracked plaster of the hallway and made a show of admiring the family photos on the wall. “What’s this? No photo of our nation’s beloved president?”

“It’s being . . . reframed. The roof sprung a leak and the backing got wet.” Rania tipped her head toward the hall rug with its faded roses and turtle doves. “See, the water left a stain.”

“I can’t stay long,” said Malik, “so forget about the tea.”

Rania bit her lip. Refusing to take tea was a blatant insult, but she was happy to bear the slight if it meant Malik would leave sooner. Through the square of stained glass in the front door, she could see his colleague pacing back and forth.

“The good news, my dear Rania, is that I’ve come to commission a painting.” Malik straightened his tie. “I need a portrait of the president and his sons—for Father’s Day.”

“What a lovely idea.” Rania’s lie trotted out like an obedient dog. “Would you like me to prepare a list of artists who may be suitable?”

“I already have someone in mind,” he replied absently, still peering at Rania’s family snaps. “Did you know that we recently invited a German journalist to Baghdad? He visited your gallery, yes?”

The teacups rattled again.

“That’s true.”

“Well, that ignorant barbarian toured our Museum of Presidential Art and wrote a most unflattering review. Ostentatious, he said. Can you believe such a thing?”