The Girl from Baghdad by Michelle Nouri Read Free Book Online

she cooked, as if the music had the power of transmitting her love into the dishes. She made meatballs with grapes, and chicken cooked in spicy sauces, flavoured with a pinch of cumin. She cooked garbanzo beans in a separate pot, served hot, accompanied by bamiye , orokra, little vegetables similar to zucchini, which were stewed together with the sauce and mutton.
    My little sisters helped her, mixing bran grain with parsley, garlic, onion and wheat, to make tabule salad. Even if Linda always wound up making a little bit of a mess, cooking together was a great way to while away the time and was our present for Dad.
    The sound of the car stopping at the gate was enough to make us shout with joy. My mother let us climb on the mountain of packages he had brought, as they distracted us so she would finally be able to hold tight to my father; her tall, strong, devoted prince. I couldn’t believe another man of his calibre could exist.
    Among his many arrivals home, one in particular stands out in my mind. Dad had three big packages in his hand, one for each of us. Klara rushed to him immediately. Mum, who was holding baby Linda in her arms, put her down and let her stagger towards Dad with her uneasy steps. We seized the presents and went to the rug in the living room, anxious to open them.
    â€˜Hey! You don’t even have a kiss for your baba?’ Mum protested. Dad, after having hugged her, came and sat by our side. He helped Linda open her box, which was as tall as her.
    â€˜It’s the most beautiful doll in the world!’ Klara exclaimed raising her marvellous doll in the air.
    Mine was identical and looked like a real baby. It was wearing rompers, had little fisted hands, and cheeks as soft as a newborn’s. I turned toward Dad and, without letting the doll go, smothered him with kisses. ‘Thank you, Baba! It’s wonderful! Look, Mum, this baby is just like Linda!’
    Everyone turned to look at Linda playing with the toy; they were practically the same size. She continued staring at it, puzzled. Then she pointed at her doll and asked, ‘Does it cry?’ We all started laughing, even if Linda was right; the three dolls looked so much like real babies that it wouldn’t have been a surprise if they had burst into tears.
    â€˜These dolls must be tired,’ Dad said seriously. ‘They had a long trip. You should make a nice bed for them and put them to sleep.’
    â€˜Don’t they need to have something to eat?’ Klara asked thoughtfully.
    â€˜They already ate on the plane,’ Dad assured her. I looked at him dubiously, but he winked at me and smiled as he started extracting other packages from a bag. Then he stood up and left us alone, following Mum into the kitchen. While my sisters continued unwrapping their gifts, I looked up at my parents. Dad squeezed Mum tightly to him, glad to have her in his arms again.
    After dinner, Dad turned on the television and the expression on his face changed, becoming terriblypensive. He’d been reacting like that for a while when he saw the stories about the impending war. It seemed like a big, ugly situation.

    The mood at the evening parties that our parents attended was changing. When the adults started speaking of politics, soldiers and war, us children knew to stay away. But I was still too young to understand what was really going on.
    Two years earlier, in the autumn of 1979, Khomeini’s troops in Iran had kidnapped the staff of the American embassy, keeping the entire world on tenterhooks. In 1980, the political situation was worsening and, by the end of the year, the conflict started to directly involve Iraq. One evening around that time, as soon as the news started, Mum and Dad turned up the volume and told us to be quiet so they could hear what the journalist was saying. He spoke of an attack, of a war between Iran and Iraq. He repeated the words ‘war’, ‘soldiers’ and ‘bombs’