while she prepared the tea leaves and cardamom. Beatrix sensed that something was unsaid. The girl was putting on a brave face, but there was something that she wanted to talk about.
Beatrix would normally have thanked her and left. She should have done just that. There were things to do, and the world wasn’t standing still. Duffy wasn’t indulging himself with a hard luck stor y, s he could be certain of that. He must have seen her, and now every second that passed meant that he was eroding the advantag e th at she had over him. There was nothing that could be done about that. There was no profit in her being found all the way out here, unprepared, unready. It made sense for her to hide out for an hour or two until she had found a way to get a message to Faulkner. Then she would bring the fight to him.
“Where are your parents?”
“I don’t have any,” she said as she worked.
“What do you mean?”
Beatrix heard the faintest quiver in her voice. “They are dead.”
“What happened?”
“My father died during the war. He was a soldier. The Americans bombed his tank. There is a road from Basra that heads to Baghdad. A lot of traffic that day. Many tanks. The Americans sent bomb after bomb. Many men were killed. I was a baby. My mother told me what happened. I do not remember him.”
“And your mother?”
“She was shot.”
“By who?”
“The security men. She was one of the ones they killed. The shooting at the office of the oil company. Did you hear about that?”
“Yes, I did. A little.”
“There was a big protest. Bigger than today. Angrier. Many people complaining that jobs were going to foreigners and not local people. My mother complained for my brother.”
“Were you there, too?”
“At the back. I saw.”
That was why she had been returning. She wanted justice, and there was no other means to get it for a twelve-year-old girl.
Until now, perhaps.
That was it. Beatrix realised why she wasn’t able to leave. It was safest to stay; that was part of it, but it wasn’t all of it. There was something of Isabella in the young Iraqi girl. The same age, give or take. The same stoicism. Abandoned, just the same. Her own sense of guilt, buried just beneath the surface, couldn’t be ignored. She couldn’t leave her now without knowing if she could help. Money, perhaps. She had plenty.
“You said you had a brother?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“The security men arrested him. He wouldn’t leave my mother when they told everyone to move away. They hit him in the head with their rifles and took him away.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“I do not know for sure. There is a building where they say they keep their prisoners. Perhaps there.”
“Has he been charged?”
“I do not know. I do not understand what is involved. He has done nothing wrong. I hope they will release him. But I have not seen him since they took him away.”
Beatrix was humbled by the little girl’s grace and composure. She had been orphaned, and now her brother had been arrested, too. There was no one to help her. How had she buried her mother? Had she been able to? How had she managed to do anything?
“Do you have any other relatives?”
“Not in Iraq. We have an aunt and uncle in Kuwait. But I have never met them.”
She had been put through a terrible experience that would have crushed most people, and yet here she was, trying to maintain what was left of the family home, waiting patiently for her brother to be released. But what if he wasn’t released? The riot would be characterised as inspired by insurgents. That would be the story that they would tell. And what if he was implicated in that? What if he met with an accident while in custody? What if he was disappeared? Juntas had been using those tactics to keep the people under the yoke for centuries.
“You said you were a journalist, Beatrix.”
Beatrix regretted that she had lied to her now. “Yes,” she said, because what else
Beatrix would normally have thanked her and left. She should have done just that. There were things to do, and the world wasn’t standing still. Duffy wasn’t indulging himself with a hard luck stor y, s he could be certain of that. He must have seen her, and now every second that passed meant that he was eroding the advantag e th at she had over him. There was nothing that could be done about that. There was no profit in her being found all the way out here, unprepared, unready. It made sense for her to hide out for an hour or two until she had found a way to get a message to Faulkner. Then she would bring the fight to him.
“Where are your parents?”
“I don’t have any,” she said as she worked.
“What do you mean?”
Beatrix heard the faintest quiver in her voice. “They are dead.”
“What happened?”
“My father died during the war. He was a soldier. The Americans bombed his tank. There is a road from Basra that heads to Baghdad. A lot of traffic that day. Many tanks. The Americans sent bomb after bomb. Many men were killed. I was a baby. My mother told me what happened. I do not remember him.”
“And your mother?”
“She was shot.”
“By who?”
“The security men. She was one of the ones they killed. The shooting at the office of the oil company. Did you hear about that?”
“Yes, I did. A little.”
“There was a big protest. Bigger than today. Angrier. Many people complaining that jobs were going to foreigners and not local people. My mother complained for my brother.”
“Were you there, too?”
“At the back. I saw.”
That was why she had been returning. She wanted justice, and there was no other means to get it for a twelve-year-old girl.
Until now, perhaps.
That was it. Beatrix realised why she wasn’t able to leave. It was safest to stay; that was part of it, but it wasn’t all of it. There was something of Isabella in the young Iraqi girl. The same age, give or take. The same stoicism. Abandoned, just the same. Her own sense of guilt, buried just beneath the surface, couldn’t be ignored. She couldn’t leave her now without knowing if she could help. Money, perhaps. She had plenty.
“You said you had a brother?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“The security men arrested him. He wouldn’t leave my mother when they told everyone to move away. They hit him in the head with their rifles and took him away.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“I do not know for sure. There is a building where they say they keep their prisoners. Perhaps there.”
“Has he been charged?”
“I do not know. I do not understand what is involved. He has done nothing wrong. I hope they will release him. But I have not seen him since they took him away.”
Beatrix was humbled by the little girl’s grace and composure. She had been orphaned, and now her brother had been arrested, too. There was no one to help her. How had she buried her mother? Had she been able to? How had she managed to do anything?
“Do you have any other relatives?”
“Not in Iraq. We have an aunt and uncle in Kuwait. But I have never met them.”
She had been put through a terrible experience that would have crushed most people, and yet here she was, trying to maintain what was left of the family home, waiting patiently for her brother to be released. But what if he wasn’t released? The riot would be characterised as inspired by insurgents. That would be the story that they would tell. And what if he was implicated in that? What if he met with an accident while in custody? What if he was disappeared? Juntas had been using those tactics to keep the people under the yoke for centuries.
“You said you were a journalist, Beatrix.”
Beatrix regretted that she had lied to her now. “Yes,” she said, because what else
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