my travel-weary, apprehensive state, I wasn’t about to sleep. I was ready to open the door when the tea guy knocked. I took the tray from him and said, “Shukran.”
As I sipped the lukewarm beverage, the Halima question lay heavy on my mind. What could be the problem? And why would she need my help? I unpacked and threw things into the drawers of the small dresser. Underclothes, long-tailed shirts. New York Times crossword puzzle book. Freya Stark’s classic exploration tale, The Southern Gates of Arabia. Khaki pants and a black pair, for dress-up. Rough silk jacket and a couple of big scarves. Modesty is the best guide to a woman of any age traveling in Yemen.
Since my editor, Mac Snyder, had been so nice about letting me come two weeks earlier than I’d intended to leave for another assignment in the Middle East, I gave him a call. He picked right up.
“Mac, I made it.”
“Um hmm.” Mac’s unenthusiastic response didn’t fool me. He was distracted with work, but we were pals from way back. “I’m glad to hear your voice,” he said. Definite relief on his end.
“Sorry I left in such a hurry.”
“Well, it better be good.” No doubt he was thinking of deadlines and who would write stories he needed to assign.
“It’s a matter of a friend,” I said. “Someone needs me in Sana’a.”
“I know, I know. So you said.” Not unfriendly, but Mac’s tone was weary. “I’m inking you in on at least one Sunday feature. And keep your eyes open, of course. Never know when something will blow up in Yemen.”
“Sure, but you don’t have to put it quite that way.”
This brought a chuckle from Mac.
I continued. “I’m planning to do some backgrounders. I expect to head to Egypt on schedule, in two weeks.” Inshallah, I added to myself. God willing.
“Well, unless something like war happens, please do. Goddammit, I need some copy!” His voice softened. “You know how impressed the Pulitzer people were with your coverage of the civil war the last time. Even with the grief it brought you.”
His mention of the war brought my heart into my throat for just a moment. “I love Yemen, Mac. All that stuff could have happened anywhere.” Not precisely true, but I wanted to put his mind to rest. I also hoped to put my own mind at rest.
Like others who hadn’t been there, Mac didn’t understand that, to me, Yemen is a world down the rabbit hole, a medieval Narnia. A kaleidoscope of color, sound, and fantasy. A place that draws me like a spider web—glittery, sticky, unforgiving. Once you’ve been in Yemen, you can never quite escape it.
“I’ll do backgrounders,” I assured him. “You know, about the fabulous architecture, the mountains, the whole exotic place. Independent mountain folk. Mysterious women. Armed warriors.” I warmed to my pep talk as the words poured forth.
“And armed terrorists,” he mused. Always looking on the bright side, Mac was sitting at his desk on a Washington afternoon while we were in the midst of night here.
Still, he had a point. Rumors were just beginning in well-read circles that terrorists who used to be our allies in Afghanistan against the Soviets might be a threat to America now that they had declared jihad against infidels.
“Yemen doesn’t feel dangerous when you’re here,” I assured Mac.
“Just one thing, Elizabeth.” His voice sounded remote. “I don’t want the Trib to be making any news with you over there. I don’t want any demands for ransom, any Embassy complaints that we’re mixing in the CIA’s business. I don’t want to see any bruises, broken bones, or gunshot wounds when you get back. Okay?” His worry was touching.
“Why, Mac Snyder. I’m surprised at you. You know you can trust me to take care of myself.”
He tried to laugh but just harrumphed. We both hung up.
My connection severed, I missed Washington for a moment. Almost-bare trees along 18th Street; skies looming gray over pedestrians in sober suits with umbrellas. The smell of rotting leaves. So Washington. So far away.
Yes, I was an alien. I rinsed off the plane ride and donned my nightgown. It would take Emma tonight for me to read myself to sleep. I felt rather alone.
Suddenly, that loneliness eased. With a brief meow of greeting, a handsome calico cat curled itself around windowsills to enter my room and reached a paw out for a bite of the uninteresting biscuit that had come with my tea. Demand is more the term. When I tried to break the biscuit to offer it, the cat sliced decisively with her claws, knocking it out of my hand.
“Okay, kitty,” I said, impressed she hadn’t scratched me. She nibbled delicately, and I left the window open enough for her to leave when she wished.
I was asleep long before I finished drinking the tea. My last waking thought was that, despite the chill air coming in from the open window, my feet were not cold. Something warm and furry had curled up on them and was purring.
I had a friend.
CHAPTER 6
The desert, I’ve found, is a good place for the curious, for even on a short walk you can expect the unexpected, a glimpse of something you’ve never seen before… It’s the desert—open, apparently lifeless, with few places to conceal anything—where secrets, perhaps the best secrets, are to be found.
Nicholas Clapp, Sheba
Tom Reilly often took advantage of his status as a foreigner to go out at night. For one thing, it kept the short working morning followed by the long lunch and qat hours sacred. For another, soldiers usually didn’t accost ferengi, even during curfew hours. The code of Arab hospitality held even in those situations.
And what could a foreigner do that would affect Yemen in any basic way? Tom enjoyed the casual attitude most Yemenis had toward guests, even if the guests stayed on far past their invitation.
Sometimes he wondered what they thought of him, really. He had lots of qat friends. But were they friends behind his back? Yemenis were irreverent and always joking. Did they joke about him?
Fortunately for his purposes, Tom’s business dealings had not aroused much curiosity in the capital. That would have been most inconvenient.
On this evening, Tom Reilly plunged ahead into the narrow alleys of the souq, not looking left or right. He had a man to meet about a dog.
CHAPTER 7
“We don’t have to show the world what Islam is any more,” Zafran declared. “We have to show people what true Islam is.”
Victoria Clark, Yemen, Dancing on the Heads of Snakes
Halima rolled over as moonlight hit her face, faint red, blue, green through the colored glass arch above one of the windows in the mufraj. For a moment, her natural optimism tried to emulate the moon.
Then hellish reality hit her again. Ali. Dear, mischievous, naïve Ali. What had he done? Why had he brought the family to this dreadful pass?
Halima pulled the handspun
