Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  “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 cotton cover over herself. The early morning chill had penetrated her aching body. From the kitchen below, smells of baking bread floated up. For women in the household, work was hardly nine to five. The call to prayer started gradually from the Great Mosque near her house and spread quickly to the minarets of both the Old City and the new until the air was full of the familiar tremulous calls, interrupting and overlapping each other. She had nearly slept through it.

  Her cousin, Zuheyla, who had slept on a thin mufraj mattress near her, must have let her sleep. She was gone now. It had been a sleepless night for both of them.

  Had Elizabeth arrived last night? What a terrible breach of hospitality to not meet her, or even send a driver out with her name on a card. It broke Halima’s heart.

  But her family was now watched by the President’s own security forces. If connections with Elizabeth were known, she would be unable to help. She might even be endangered, herself. Could anyone help, honestly? It felt like the end of the world.

  She rose, did the ritual ablutions, brought out her prayer rug, and appealed to the Divine.

  CHAPTER 8

  A curious thing happens on the Jol—a constant bird-like twitter in the moonlight, a pleasant and companionable noise… At about 3 a.m. the Great Bear appeared for half an hour, wheeling low over the horizon and the Polar star. My companions murmured that they heard footsteps; they made a small clatter of stones, unlike a wild animal… I blamed myself for a camp so defencelessly scattered…

  Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

  The cat was gone when I woke at four to the cacophonous sounds of the call to prayer from every mosque in Sana’a. I lay there soaking it up. Yemeni imams don’t have the studied melodic smoothness of those in Istanbul or Cairo, they shout out the message in syncopated rhythms: Allah huwa akbar…Allah is great. There is no God but God.

  They sound convincing—particularly in the mysterious pre-dawn hour.

  I paused a moment to meditate in my own way. My first thought was of my friend Halima. What could be happening to her? Why did she need me? How could I find her? Perhaps we both needed divine guidance!

  I read some of Freya Stark’s Southern Gates of Arabia, about her 1936 adventures on a donkey following the ancient spice route in the Wadi Hadhramaut in Yemen’s southeast near the Empty Quarter, then fell back to sleep for an hour or two. It was still early when I staggered from the bed to shower with cold water. I shivered, slipped into khaki pants, a dust-colored tee, and a long-tailed shirt and went down to see if breakfast was being served yet.

  It was, and someone else had beaten me to the dining room. The guy in khaki pants and blue shirt from the first row of the plane yesterday sat at a table near the windows, looking out at sunrise on the back garden. “Garden” meant a field where fruit trees and wild green grass mingled with dry golden stalks of sorghum, framed by the adobe wall.

  The mystery man and I nodded politely to each other and said “Good morning.” He had a British accent.

  I took the other window table, my back to the stranger. After ordering coffee, I planned my day. My first goal was to try to contact Halima, though I feared since she hadn’t met me at the airport, the job might be hard. My second goal involved doing some quick research for the Trib backgrounder. There might not be time after dealing with Halima’s problem. I couldn’t imagine what I—an outsider in the closed world of Yemeni society—could do for a Yemeni woman, but I was here to do what I could. Not for the first time, I hoped my age would help. The fifties were quite nice that way.

  I scribbled in my notebook and sipped from a cup of awful coffee—Nescafe, in the land of Mocha, the port on the Red Sea that gave its name to the famous chocolaty coffee of Yemen! I called the waiter over.

  “Do you have any Yemeni coffee? Any Arab coffee?”

  “We have kishr,” he acknowledged.

  Kishr is a tasty drink made from the husks of the coffee beans. Better than Nescafe! “Bring me some, please.” It would have the bite of cardamom.

  As if to make up for the coffee, the smell of spicy ful maddames, broad beans, made my mouth water. And there were pizza-size thin breads baked on the inside of clay ovens which, combined alternately with the beans and with famous Yemeni honey from the storied Wadi Hadhramaut, tasted heavenly.

  The door opened and I glanced up. My erstwhile seatmate, Michael Petrovich! So he was staying here, too. He seemed a bit distracted, but when he saw me, he came right over.

  “Well, hello! Fancy meeting you here!” His eyes held that confidence in his own attractiveness that I’d noticed on the plane.

  Our seat-mate relationship had been friendly and chatty. I’d even say it was flirty, at times, though both of us were wise to the world. Handsome and distinguished-looking, he’d helped lift my carry-on to the luggage rac
k—a sure vote-getter. We’d shared a couple of glasses of wine, one of which he paid for. None of this involves trust, but it had been a pleasant interlude.

  Still, he’d dropped me as we got off the plane, let me take a taxi into Sana’a alone. There was nothing even remotely gentlemanly about that and it didn’t deserve great friendliness.

  “Good morning,” I said, casually.

  “May I sit down?”

  There wasn’t much I could do about it. My smile was cool as I moved my purse off the other seat. But after a few pleasantries, I excused myself. There was much to do. And my pride had been nicked a little by the inattention last night.

  He seemed to read my thoughts. “How about lunch? I can be available at your convenience.” His tone caressed.

  Michael certainly sparked my curiosity. But I had to learn what I could about Halima’s situation. Perhaps I could kill two birds with one stone.

  “Do you happen to know a little Italian restaurant downtown called Caffe d’Italia? It’s run by a friend of mine, Nello.”

  “I do. Yes. And of course everyone knows Nello. He’s an institution in Sana’a.”

  I hesitated for a moment, arguing with myself. “I will see if I can have lunch there.” And with a little wave, I was off.

  The khaki-clad Brit watched me leave.

  When I got back to my room, I found a piece of paper stuck under the door. It was an envelope marked with my name. Who knew I was here? Halima had been the only one I told, and this wasn’t her writing. I tore it open to see a brief scrawl: “Welcome to Yemen! How about a drink tomorrow at the Taj Sheba with someone you know? Be at my house at 6 o’clock. Remember the way? Tom.”

  Tom Reilly that would be. Journalist friend—or rather, another acquaintance from my stint here during the civil war. Apparently his information network stretched to the hotel. Well, of course it would. He’d lived here forever.

  But the Taj Sheba. Yes. I liked the idea of experiencing one of the new hotels, too. While the Dar al-Hamd had charm and history, it couldn’t be called luxurious. The smell of dust pervaded every nook. I rang Tom to ask how he knew I was here. A servant speaking good English said he wasn’t home, so I just RSVPed on the drinks.

  My body ached, and my eyelids felt heavy. How should I contact Halima? I must step with care. Women in Yemen are rarely alone, even in an enlightened family like the al Shems. They’d allowed her to study abroad and become one of the few female intellectuals in the country, but they were still bound by the rules of the society. Also, some member of the household could be involved in the current crisis, whatever it was. Still, I had to call. A woman answered in Arabic.

  “Hello? This is Elizabeth Darcy. May I speak with Miss Halima?” I threw in a few Arabic words, but I’d never been good in the language and was rusty, at best. A long pause ensued. I heard women’s voices in the background, then footsteps running toward the phone.

  “Elizabeth? You’re here? Oh, thank Allah, you are here!” Halima’s voice dropped to a whisper. “But I can’t talk to you now. I will contact you when I can.”

  “Halima?”

  Like a ghost, she was gone.

  CHAPTER 9

  She thanked us for our poor wishes with a gratitude for the kindness of words alone, which one is apt to forget after an absence from Arabia, and went her ways uncomplaining, a sad and gentle soul.”

  Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

  Halima’s heart pounded in her chest after the call from Elizabeth. Had anyone heard? By “anyone,” she meant her father, or government wire-tappers.

  Not that she feared her father. Sheikh Abdullah was, on the whole, the kindest of men, and someone who wanted equality for the women in his house. Since the death of Halima’s mother two years ago, the sheikh had been morose and had refused to marry again, though society—meaning the friends who came to chew qat with him every afternoon—had urged him to do so.

  It had, as happens more often than one might think in an arranged-marriage situation, been a love match.

  Zuheyla had answered the phone and was breathless with questions. “Who is Elizabeth? Is she your American friend? Do you think she can help us?” Zuheyla had an enormous vested interest in Ali’s affairs, as they were engaged to be married. And, perhaps because Ali had a role model like Sheikh Abdullah, they were also in love. As daughter of Abdullah’s younger brother, Zuheyla was the ideal bride for Ali. Tribal barriers need not be addressed in such a case.

  But would such a wedding ever happen? The household lay under heavy apprehension that it would not. And the bigger question was, would Ali live to see his twentieth birthday?

  “I must see Elizabeth as soon as possible,” Halima told Zuheyla. “She may be our only hope.”

  CHAPTER 10

  But, and there is no end to but,

  Even if you see that the wind is calm.

  Calm, do not suppose it is calm;

  No doubt the powerful will make heads roll

  And return the people to their senses.

  Traditional Yemeni poetry translated by Steven C. Caton, “Peaks of Yemen I Summon”

  Since I couldn’t talk to Halima by phone, I decided to check in on the organization she’d founded to help empower women while also conserving history. Friends of Yemen was Halima’s baby. She’d even defiantly kept it open during much of the civil war. Woman power would not be stopped by a little thing like war.

  I also had to start gathering material for Mac back at the Trib.

  As I stepped out of the small hotel lobby, a thin man with a scar on his face watched as I asked for a taxi. An old Chevy pulled up and the driver opened the door. I could swear the taxi driver and Scarface exchanged a look. Paranoid already? You just got here!

  Before stopping at Friends of Yemen, I had some shopping to do. I would be prepared to shroud my identity with a body-concealing balto, as well as a burqa to mask the face. It might help to protect Halima in some way. The taxi driver seemed a little put out that I wasn’t going where I originally told him, but stopped where I told him to, at a shop near the Dar al-Hamd.

  I got out of the taxi and moved to pay the driver, but he said, “No. I wait.”

  “No. I don’t need you to wait.”

  “No charge. I wait.” The man’s face was impassive as he spoke—not characteristic of most Yemenis, who are full of drama and poetry except during the catatonic late-afternoon state after chewing qat.

  I shrugged and entered a shop that had black gowns draped all over its front, looking like scarecrows blowing in the breeze. Inside it smelled of the incense women use to smoke their hair. I selected a shapeless black balto made from some indestructible synthetic fabric that would be sweltering in the sun. They also had the black headscarf to wrap around the hair, and the face piece, the burqa, to tie in back.

  The shop-owner was jovial as I tried it all on, clearly enjoying my Yemenization. “Now you look like a real woman!”

  “Americans can be women, too,” I said, trying to keep the sharp edge out of my voice. “I’m just trying to fit in.”

  “No, no,” he insisted. “You look beautiful dressed as a real woman.”

  Since “real” women in Yemen are covered from head to foot, with just eyes peering out a small slit, how on earth could he tell? Our cultural gap was showing. To the shopkeeper’s dismay, I didn’t emerge from his shop with my new outfit. I had him make a bundle of the clothes and walked back out into the street. I must not be seen to have a balto and burqa if I wanted to use them later to my advantage.

  The taxi driver had, indeed, waited. Was I being watched? And if so, by whom? I wanted privacy, both for my sake and for Halima’s.

  There’s not a lot one can do in this situation, but again, I played the woman’s card. I ducked back into the alley where I’d bought the balto. This shopkeeper was a man accustomed to dealing with the vagaries of women. I stepped in and asked if I could put on the black outfit I’d purchased. He was delighted. No doubt he thought his manly opinion had chan
ged my mind.

  This time when I went out, I floated into formation with other black forms and went farther down the street, where I could find a different taxi. My original guy wouldn’t get paid, at least by me. Well, that was just too bad. I’d offered.

  The second taxi driver, who had not given me even a look in my black disguise, dropped me off at Tahrir Square, where I darted down a pathway leading toward the Old City, heart thudding. If only I could catch a glimpse of Halima. I needed to know she wasn’t being held hostage. Our phone conversation had rattled me.

  No luck. The Friends of Yemen office was closed, with a big padlock on its front door. It looked as though it had been closed for a while. Halima must be in a lot of trouble. She wouldn’t leave the girls who depended on her any more than a mother would leave her child.

  Three years ago, Nello had first sent me to Friends of Yemen to meet Halima.

  “Go see Professor Halima,” Nello had said. “She knows everything. She has an organization near here.”

  I’d followed Nello’s directions to the Friends of Yemen office. A small open door between a cloth shop and a vegetable seller led directly from the sidewalk to an inner stone stairway. The sign was in English and Arabic: ‘Friends of Yemen, Saving Our Country’s Heritage.’

  Upstairs, there was a closed door. On hooks outside, black baltos had been piled. I knocked tentatively, and a young woman’s voice answered. “Min? Who is it?”

  “I would like to see Professor Halima,” I’d said.

  At the sound of my female voice, the door opened and I was ushered in. Several women sat at desks. Most wore the modest scarf-like jilbab covering hair and coming around under the chin. A couple were fully-veiled like most Yemeni women. An air of proud efficiency filled the cramped but immaculate room. Even in time of war, they were here, doing something useful. The room smelled feminine—a touch of perfume mixed with the sprig of lavender placed on each desk.