clothing that resembled what I might have worn when I was a teenager — loose khaki trousers and a button-down shirt. There was nothing particularly ladylike about it, although the way she moved in her boyish clothes seemed feminine. Today, however, she’s wearing blue jeans that are tighter, like the way the women dress in music videos. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with a deep V along the collar. I haven’t seen a woman dressed like this, in person that is, since our time in England, when Mum used to nudge me in the shopping centre and whisper to me about how inappropriately the young women were dressed. I try to block out her voice grating somewhere between my ears.
And then I realize that Sam has already been telling me what she’s been doing since I last saw her, and I haven’t heard a word she’s said.
“Anyway,” she looks at me and blinks twice, then stretches out a hand much the way the merchants do when they want you to look at their fruit. “Why don’t we have a coffee out by the pool?”
I follow her out of the atrium to the courtyard, towards the big murky mass of the swimming pool. She doesn’t wait for me to open the door, and when I try to hold it open while it’s already in mid-swing, she exhales a small laugh.
We sit on the white plastic chairs at a table in the sun, and I wonder why she would choose a table without an umbrella, without shade. I remember that on the rare sunny days in Birmingham, young people with white skin would sit in the park, their faces turned skywards. In England, even a slight suntan was a source of pride. Here, of course, it is frowned upon. Only labourers who must work out-of-doors get suntanned, my grandmother once said, and women especially want to be lighter, not darker.
Sam plonks her notebook on the table, and this seems to define the way she touches things around her. She does not place objects, but lets go of them and allows them to fall — her bag on to the chair next to her, her sandals on to the concrete ground. She looks at her watch and raises her hand to catch a waiter’s eye. “Wow, it’s almost ten,” she says. “We’ve got an interview at twelve with the INC.”
“We...we have an interview? Today?” I am embarrassed by how slow I must sound, but I am confused. “I thought you wanted to tell me more about the position first.”
“Oh, right.” Her mouth drops open, her lips coated by something shiny. “We forgot to talk money, didn’t we? Would a hundred dollars a day be okay?”
“A hundred dollars a day?”
“Well, I could maybe go up to $125, but that’s really the most I can do.” Sam reaches into her bag and pulls out a thin electronic gadget that is the same size as the grocer’s receipt book which tracks my family’s monthly bill. She puts the tip of her fingernail to the screen, I expect, in order to clean off the dust. But instead, I see she is curving her index finger in different directions, creating tiny black letters on the screen.
“You write on it with your finger?”
“Well,” she smiles without looking up at me. “You’re supposed to use a stylus, but God knows where I left mine.” I focus on the grey screen and I think I can make out the words, though upside down: ask M about money. And then she presses the green button and the words disappear. “I can’t remember anything if I don’t put it into my palm,” she says.
I nod. If I were to write anything at this moment, I’d make calculations about what my savings might look like a month from now, because in one day of working for Samara Katchens, I can make more than what I earn in a month of teaching at Mansour High School.
“Sorry, what is the INC?”
“Oh.” She looks surprised. “The Iraqi National Congress. Ahmad Chalabi’s group?”
“Yes, yes of course,” I say, though there isn’t any reason I would have known the name Ahmad Chalabi, had my father not mentioned it
And then I realize that Sam has already been telling me what she’s been doing since I last saw her, and I haven’t heard a word she’s said.
“Anyway,” she looks at me and blinks twice, then stretches out a hand much the way the merchants do when they want you to look at their fruit. “Why don’t we have a coffee out by the pool?”
I follow her out of the atrium to the courtyard, towards the big murky mass of the swimming pool. She doesn’t wait for me to open the door, and when I try to hold it open while it’s already in mid-swing, she exhales a small laugh.
We sit on the white plastic chairs at a table in the sun, and I wonder why she would choose a table without an umbrella, without shade. I remember that on the rare sunny days in Birmingham, young people with white skin would sit in the park, their faces turned skywards. In England, even a slight suntan was a source of pride. Here, of course, it is frowned upon. Only labourers who must work out-of-doors get suntanned, my grandmother once said, and women especially want to be lighter, not darker.
Sam plonks her notebook on the table, and this seems to define the way she touches things around her. She does not place objects, but lets go of them and allows them to fall — her bag on to the chair next to her, her sandals on to the concrete ground. She looks at her watch and raises her hand to catch a waiter’s eye. “Wow, it’s almost ten,” she says. “We’ve got an interview at twelve with the INC.”
“We...we have an interview? Today?” I am embarrassed by how slow I must sound, but I am confused. “I thought you wanted to tell me more about the position first.”
“Oh, right.” Her mouth drops open, her lips coated by something shiny. “We forgot to talk money, didn’t we? Would a hundred dollars a day be okay?”
“A hundred dollars a day?”
“Well, I could maybe go up to $125, but that’s really the most I can do.” Sam reaches into her bag and pulls out a thin electronic gadget that is the same size as the grocer’s receipt book which tracks my family’s monthly bill. She puts the tip of her fingernail to the screen, I expect, in order to clean off the dust. But instead, I see she is curving her index finger in different directions, creating tiny black letters on the screen.
“You write on it with your finger?”
“Well,” she smiles without looking up at me. “You’re supposed to use a stylus, but God knows where I left mine.” I focus on the grey screen and I think I can make out the words, though upside down: ask M about money. And then she presses the green button and the words disappear. “I can’t remember anything if I don’t put it into my palm,” she says.
I nod. If I were to write anything at this moment, I’d make calculations about what my savings might look like a month from now, because in one day of working for Samara Katchens, I can make more than what I earn in a month of teaching at Mansour High School.
“Sorry, what is the INC?”
“Oh.” She looks surprised. “The Iraqi National Congress. Ahmad Chalabi’s group?”
“Yes, yes of course,” I say, though there isn’t any reason I would have known the name Ahmad Chalabi, had my father not mentioned it
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