Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  The Brit came through the garden gate and spoke intently with the Arab men before striding back toward the hotel. This guy was no stranger to Yemen. Unlike most Western visitors, he obviously spoke Arabic well. What was he up to? And what could be so urgent?

  With dusk came a repeat of the haunting reverberations of the call to prayer from mosques all over the city. The fourth call, the maghrib. Five all together, all day long. And here, all men went to the mosques in response to every single one, in contrast to the more secular states of Turkey, Egypt, Syria, and Iraq, where Friday noon prayer at the mosque is often considered adequate.

  The tall, scar-faced man looked up from the garden. Had he seen me? Why weren’t those two guys at the mosque, like everyone else? Two Yemenis and a Brit. A strange meeting.

  Before going down for dinner, I locked my door, but not my window.

  “I’ll bring you something, okay?” I told my calico friend. She stretched full-length on the bed and rolled over, inviting me to scratch her ovoid tummy. “Uh, oh,” I said. “You’re going to have kittens, aren’t you? I’ll bring some extra, then.” Having gotten her message across, she blinked her green eyes at me and showed every sign of going back to sleep.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Oh, no, no!”cried Emma… “Let me hear anything rather than what you are all thinking of.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Eating solo in a hotel dining room is a strange experience, particularly in a distant place. You feel alone, yet are preternaturally aware of people around you. This is especially true if you’re the only woman and everyone else is smoking.

  The dry scent of Turkish and Egyptian tobacco wasn’t unpleasant. After ordering spicy fenugreek halwa soup, I imagined myself in a little cocoon of my clothes and my table: loose khaki trousers, long-sleeved shirt, long-tailed jacket, minimal makeup, Mephisto sandals, stained white tablecloth…cozy.

  To fend off a pervading male interest in my presence, I took out Emma for added cover and to complete the cocoon of privacy. While I wouldn’t want to live it, I find the rigid social order of nineteenth century England comforting. Here in twentieth century Yemen, it was echoed by a different sort of social rigidity, where women at home see only the men in their immediate families. More accurately, only men from their families see them. Peering out from the slits in their face cloths, the women wander through the city taking in its wonders, seeing everything, including men. Take off the face cloths, put costumes of the 1800’s England on them, give them parasols—they’d be almost the same. Certainly, from the standpoint of needing to marry to have an identity and place in society they were the same.

  If only I’d hear from Halima!

  When the waiter came with my food, I glanced around. Mr. Khaki Pants sat at the table nearest mine, pushing overcooked peas onto his knife. Not a bad-looking specimen. Craggy features, a little irregular. Blondish hair. Forty-five or fifty, about my age.

  I nodded when our eyes accidentally met, and got a formal little bow—and a thoughtful, crooked grin. Almost as though he knew who I was, or as though we shared a secret. Had he seen me at the window, watching him in the sorghum patch with the two Yemeni men? Was he making fun of my long and apparently intimate conversation with Michael Petrovich on the plane? I squirmed.

  Not with oil, I decided. Oil executives wouldn’t be staying at this hotel. They’d be in the Sheraton up on the hill, or the Taj Sheba downtown. The Dar al-Hamd was for minor government guests, representatives of voluntary groups, and diehard romantics like me. How did the Brit fit in?

  There was a bowl of the famous Yemeni honey—the best coming from the incense area of the Wadi Hadhramaut. It was on every table, a staple like salt and pepper. I drizzled a lot on a piece of uninteresting white Western bread for dessert. Apparently, the good thin bread was made only for breakfast or the noon meal, when the whole country ate copiously in preparation for chewing the afternoon qat and staying awake sleepless for much of the night.

  I‘d asked for my check and put glasses and sundry back in my purse when Khaki Pants stood up. Medium-to-tall, fit.

  As he walked past my table, he smiled and said, “Evening,” in his cultured British voice.

  Some of my best friends are Brits. I flashed a return smile, nodded, and lifted my eyes surreptitiously to the man’s exit.

  As he reached the door, two people entered the dining room. One was a young woman in jeans and a sweatshirt. Perfect features. Blond hair. Deep olive tan. Stunning, even with the ubiquitous dust in her clothes and hair.

  Her companion I already knew. No wonder Michael Petrovich hadn’t escorted me to the hotel last night! He clearly had something going already. Something quite young and glamorous, at that.

  CHAPTER 18

  “A cat…seems to have a curious ability to find some place to rest which will put it on display in a pleasing fashion.”

  John D. MacDonald

  Alex Metzger smoothed her green silk caftan around voluptuous hips, lit another cigarette, and looked in the mirror. Having failed for years to trim the curves by diet, she now emphasized them and thought of herself as a living Titian. Dark hair, green eyes, lots of drama. Yes, voluptuous was the word.

  The wait staff in the elegant Taj Sheba Hotel acknowledged Alex’s beauty and importance, albeit with the respectful discretion which she demanded and Indians are so good at. She preferred the Indian staff at the Taj to the Yemeni staff in local hotels. Outspoken and direct herself, Alex found Yemenis disconcerting. They always said just what they thought.

  Or told you nothing at all. Which was just as infuriating.

  Of course, Alex often told people nothing at all. She talked about her jewelry-making business, for which she bought old pieces and copied them to sell. On the other business matter, she wasn’t clear what was being asked. Maybe she would participate; maybe not. Could she learn something at the party Tom was having? Gossip can be such a useful thing!

  It was strange seeing Elizabeth here again. The war weeks had been intense but not very personal. Although getting shot at together can be bonding. Did Scuds count, though? Alex wasn’t sure. Scuds were impersonal and random.

  What was not random was Alex’s real purpose in coming to Sana’a this time. She had something private and personal to clear up. And something else to start. A new identity. Maybe. Whatever its outcome, this trip was to be a game-changer for Alexandra Metzger.

  CHAPTER 19

  Never having met the fellow, I was not sure how he would fare in you-never-know-what’s-going-to­-happen-next-and-it-might-be-scary Yemen.

  Nicholas Clapp, Sheba

  Pretending to read, I watched as my new nodding acquaintance, the Brit with khaki pants, made his way to the door. Michael Petrovich and his stunning accompaniment threaded their way past him. The Brit turned slightly, and then paused to look back at them. Was that a flash of recognition? Yet he hadn’t spoken to Michael at breakfast.

  As Michael and the young woman passed my table, he hesitated a second, then paused to say, “Good evening, Elizabeth! I hope you had a good day?” He didn’t introduce his companion, who seemed to be looking around the room rather than at me.

  The man was incorrigible.

  “My day was fine, thanks.” I gave a quick false smile before diving back into my refuge, Jane Austen.

  They sat down at a table nearby. I signaled for my check.

  The dining room was small. I couldn’t help noticing what people at other tables were up to. Michael and the young woman seemed absorbed in a tense discussion. I tried not to watch, but it was difficult not to catch glimpses of them out of the corner of my eye. How was this rather remarkable couple being received by the rest of the diners? Blondes in the Middle East have a certain cachet, and this one had other attributes as well. Michael was handsome, but he was at least twice her age.

  Yes, the reaction in the male-dominated room was electric. A lot of envy, and some knowing smiles. It didn’t warm the cockles of my heart toward the make-up of men, but I
’m pretty sure I wasn’t jealous. Looks like hers won’t last.

  Michael did much of the talking—but, then, he would. Were the two fighting? Discussing politics? No, it was more personal than that. But none of my business.

  My bill came, so I signed and rose. As I walked out of the dining room, Michael Petrovich stood up, came over, and touched my arm.

  “I wonder if we could plan on talking sometime tomorrow.” His eyes held a question I couldn’t decipher.

  “I’m so sorry, but I expect to have appointments all day,” I said, and headed up the stairs to the second floor. Honestly, the man was too much!

  As I unlocked 217 with the enormous key, I looked over my shoulder.

  The khaki-clad Brit was sneaking—there is no other word—down the dimly-lit hall in the opposite direction. He paused a moment in front of a door, maybe the last one on the left, then tried the knob and went in.

  I yawned and entered my room. I was too tired to speculate about him or anyone else any longer.

  The cat—my cat—waited for me. I chucked her under the chin and scratched behind her ears. “Your name will be Mrs. Weston,” I told her. The persona of Emma’s companion, who married and had a baby and was always consolation to the headstrong and self-involved Emma would suit this new companion of mine.

  CHAPTER 20

  Emma’s first resolution was to keep her father from the knowledge of what had passed, aware of the anxiety and alarm it would occasion; but she soon felt that concealment must be impossible.

  Jane Austen, Emma

  My sleep was the murky, half-dream kind that doesn’t refresh. The mysterious Brit became Mr. Knightly, lecturing Emma on selfish behavior. Emma, who looked like the young woman—California Girl—from the dining room, ran around pulling black burqas off Yemeni women to see if one of them was Miss Taylor, now Mrs. Weston. Tossing and turning on the thin mattress, barely covered with a short and narrow sheet, I felt the night would never end.

  My only comfort was my own Mrs. Weston, her fur soft beside me.

  Bright morning sun poked insistently at my eyes through flimsy curtains. Loud voices echoed in the hall, accompanied by footsteps that thudded and clicked down the tile-covered floor. At first, I thought I might doze through it. Not possible. I rose, then tied my Travel Smith robe over my nightgown, turned the key in the lock, and peeked out the door.

  A mass of turbans, futhas, and wiry bodies crowded the end of the hall where the Brit entered a room last night. Among them were a few white-suited hotel employees, calling in vain for order.

  I retreated, splashed cold water on my face, donned sandals, jeans, and long-tailed shirt, and automatically finger-fluffed my hair as I sailed into the hall.

  As the only woman in the group, I benefited from the natural chivalry of Yemenis. They made way for me. I took one look and gasped. Nearly gagged.

  Michael Petrovich still wore the dust-laden, expensive clothes he’d had on last night, but his gray eyes had lost their intent, ambiguous look. They’d lost any look whatsoever.

  The man who’d shared my plane ride, with whom I’d laughed and joked, with whom I’d had lunch, had stopped laughing forever and would never invite anyone to lunch again. Michael lay on a rattan mat on the floor, a jambiya sticking out of his midsection. A sticky pool of blood spread under his body. Piles of vomit gave the room an even more unpleasant odor.

  I felt a doomsday thud in my own midsection and fought off nausea. An inconsequential thought almost made me laugh: The ugly rust-colored stains didn’t go with his stylish shirt.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Oh, no,” said he, “it would be the extreme of imprudence. I could not bear it for Emma! Emma is not strong…”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  I was pushed, gently and politely but unmistakably, by my fellow voyeurs so they could see better. Death is always interesting. Always mysterious. Yesterday a man was in the hotel; he spoke, he walked, he thought, and he ate breakfast with one woman, dinner with another. Today, a body exists, lifeless, its soul departed. The roomful of Yemeni hotel employees stood quiet for a moment.

  I had a surrealistic memory of Michael’s even white teeth, his smile, his charm. One day there. The next, not. The combination of vomit and blood on the rattan carpet caused a wave of nausea. A strong mint smell that might have been pleasant at other times couldn’t compete with the stench of bodily fluids.

  At such moments, it matters not who the person was. That person is no longer. We all think of ourselves. Somehow, somewhere, we will end like this, more or less. Death unites us. But when it’s someone we know, even slightly, who has left life without warning, the impact is numbing.

  I ran back to my room, grabbed a notebook, straightened my shoulders, and reluctantly returned to the murder room. I hadn’t been sent to cover murder, but if it occurred right outside my room, I had to report on it. Those are instincts and duties that don’t go away.

  With my return, the group of hotel employees’ chatter subsided into hushed awe. They’d seen me at a breakfast table with this man. I’d known the victim. I had become as interesting as the corpse.

  My window of opportunity to stay on the scene would soon close. I pushed my way back into the room. Knowing Michael Petrovich made this hard to do. I rather hoped that the scene I’d glanced at a few minutes earlier had been a mirage, that Michael wouldn’t be dead, after all.

  He was, though. He lay there, pale and wasted, eyes open, face twisted. And a couple of flies had started buzzing around some highly unappetizing vomit. An interesting, if disgusting, combination of smells. Blood, of course. Vomit. Something else—mothballs, maybe? Minty. And left-over alcohol. I walked over and gently closed the wide-open eyes, getting approving looks from the Yemenis. A tea cup lay tossed behind the bed. It still had mint leaves in it. Probably cardamom, too. Don’t touch.

  I swallowed and focused on a check-list. First, the murder weapon. Was Michael killed with the jambiya? How much blood that would involve? Surely more than this. Would the curve make the knife more deadly? Would it reduce the amount of blood? Could this be a murder by someone known and trusted? Did he die here or was he moved? Was the jambiya evidence of a Yemeni perpetrator? A message to someone? A complete red herring?

  It didn’t make sense. A Yemeni jambiya left in a Westerner’s body disturbed the natural order. Jambiyas are revered, passed from father to son. In the normal course of life, jambiyas are used only for dancing at weddings, honor killings in case someone from another tribe offends your women or family, or self defense. Cold-blooded murder doesn’t fall into those categories.

  Rather desperately, I tried not to think of this man’s charming smile and teasing on the plane. Oh, for more medical knowledge!

  I glanced around the room again. One drinking glass on the little table beside a Black Label whiskey bottle. Empty. Normal water glass? I reached for it. No. Fingerprints.

  In the distance, sirens warned that my time in the room was limited.

  The hotel employees watched as I checked the scene, their faces showing their surprise and admiration (or disgust?) that a female would remain with a dead body. Yet because I acted purposefully, they treated me as their leader.

  A small contingent of police strode into the room, scattering the Yemeni employees. They looked no-nonsense.

  Memories of three years ago gave me a jolt to the solar plexus. That dark day I had very nearly disappeared into the depths of a Yemeni jail, or possibly just disappeared. I’d learned there are good cops and bad cops. And I’d learned there are far worse things than being ignored in a male-dominated society. You can be taken seriously as a woman—especially if you are reporting inconvenient truths.

  They gestured for me to leave, but then one hesitated and pulled me aside. He spoke some English and carried a notebook.

  “You are who, please?” The policeman’s tone was hard, but his eyes held something like regret. Perhaps because he had to question a woman. His suspicious looks alone made me feel guilty.


  “My name is Elizabeth Darcy. I am a guest in the hotel.”

  “And you, you knew this man?”

  Not much use to lie. “I met him on the plane two days ago as we both arrived.”

  “And why you are here now?” Suspicion deepened on his face.

  “I heard noises and came to see.” I sounded unconvincing. But the combined shock of seeing Michael’s murdered body and of being questioned by Yemeni police unnerved me.

  “You will be here today?” It wasn’t really a question.

  I nodded. “I will not leave Sana’a. May I leave the hotel?”

  “We talk to you first. In one hour. Be here. Please.” Again, this wasn’t a request, but I appreciated the policeman’s politeness.

  Shaking, I went back to my room and took a quick shower. The cold water tried to bring me out of my shock, but didn’t quite succeed.

  The cat came in through the window and I found comfort in caressing her silky fur. I needed a friend. She indicated by half-purring and meowing that she was happy to see me, though a little disappointed I didn’t have food for her.

  “In a bit,” I promised.

  I went down to the dining room to get a cup of coffee and something for the cat. I had no appetite. This time, I didn’t complain about the Nescafe. On every side, the staff’s eyes were trained on me. I grabbed some bread and cheese for the cat and the cup of coffee for me and fled up the stairs.

  Halfway up, I met the Brit coming down, apparently for breakfast. I stood to the side and stared rudely. What hints could I gather from his demeanor? Did he look guilty? What had been his business in Michael’s room last night?

  He looked at me and smiled, just a slight lifting of the lips that didn’t reach his eyes. “Good morning.”