Deadline Yemen

by Peggy Hanson

  I met no eyes with my own, of course, but could hear tittering from whatever groups of men were not comfortably ignoring my presence. It didn’t feel threatening, and my Arabic wasn’t good enough to understand the precise comments. Just as well. I cloaked myself in a psychic cloud of oblivion, every bit as effective as the black baltos of my female Yemeni counterparts who from time to time floated down the street in groups. I wanted them in some of my photos, but pretended to focus only on the buildings behind them as I snapped away. They must say “no” if you ask about picture-taking, but I didn’t feel like a traitor to my sex. How could ignoring their presence—as some religious fundamentalists require—help their lives?

  Halima had told me enough about her feelings on the subject to give me confidence.

  I turned my steps toward the souq, deep within this warren of old mud-brick palaces. Most Yemeni business is done in the mornings—leaving afternoons free for long sessions with the snakelike tobacco-or-opium-drawing narghiles, or hookahs, and the pièce de résistance of every social occasion—the chewing of tender green qat leaves.

  I remembered once attending a ladies’ party with Halima. The women chew in their own mufraj gatherings, where guests throw off their baltos, gossip, drink tea, and, in the case of old ladies, smoke the narghiles. Were opium and marijuana common ingredients in the waterpipes? I was pretty sure they were. That exotic blend of fragrances contained more than incense and tobacco smoke.

  Looking up at the partly-shuttered windows overlooking the obscure little street, I pictured the mufraj scenes soon to take place: men on higher floors with the very best qat leaves; women on a lower floor laughing at the men. A few people were still in the street, hurrying to finish the chores before a big lunch and the qat parties.

  In the food section of the souq, where I dodged motorcycles making their tortuous way on the uneven cobblestones, I was brought up short. Over there, in a tiny shop selling spices and honey was my uncommunicative friend from the hotel and the minibus. My prospective lunch partner, Richard Queens.

  CHAPTER 38

  Her voice was not unsteady, but her mind was in all the perturbation that such a development of self, such a burst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and perplexing emotions, must create.

  Jane Austen, Emma

  The Brit was talking earnestly with the shopkeeper in what had to be fluent Arabic. Their heads were close together. Darting into a shop that specialized in rice and dry beans, I aimed my camera at the scene in the honey shop. Something was fishy about Richard Queens, good nose and firm thighs or not.

  Unfortunately, I forgot to turn off my flash. My presence was revealed by a tell-tale gleam; secrecy vanished. I would have to face the consequences.

  Richard Queens looked up, directly toward my camera.

  Was I recognizable from within the dark shadows of the shop? Discretion won out over foolhardy slyness. I stepped out into the sun-baked cobbles and waved nonchalantly.

  “Finding anything good?” I called.

  An unhappy expression flitted over his strong features—dismay at seeing me? Boredom with meeting the same colonial over and over in Yemen? The expression certainly could be guilt. I approached the shop where my suspect stood with the shopkeeper, possibly his accomplice.

  It was an uncomfortable moment. The Yemeni shopkeeper blocked the door to his hole-in-the-wall and all were silent.

  The Englishman decided in the end to be a gentleman. “You are sightseeing?” he asked, politely, stepping away from the shop and turning around to face me, blocking my view.

  “That, and writing some features on Sana’a and on Yemen. I’m a reporter, as I told you. And perhaps at some point you’ll have time for an interview about the challenges of doing business in a place like Yemen?”

  “I’m really not certain how long I will be in Yemen,” he said, beginning to look a bit desperate. “Perhaps we can discuss that at lunch.”

  “Fine.” I turned, ready to say goodbye to the shopkeeper, but he was busy with another customer.

  With a sudden burst of charm that he could apparently turn on or off at will, Mr. Queens said, “I realize it’s a little early, but do you want to go for lunch now, since we have so providentially met?” Sarcasm was clearly part of the mix.

  We took a taxi together from the souq to the Caffe d’ Italia. I felt a little smug. Being ruthless gets you to your goals more often than you might think. But as a woman, you have to be careful using that tool.

  The delightful smell of sautéed garlic wafted from the clean little kitchen at the back. Nello was there doing what he does best. There’d been only time for a quick hug when I’d walked in with Mr. Queens.

  Glasses of white wine disguised as juice were in front of us on the red-and-white checked tablecloth. The menu had just a few items on it, hand-lettered by Nello himself: zuppa à la paesana, made with the tiny but tasty vegetables of Yemen; frittata trippata, combining eggs—normal-size, from the Christian farm outside the city—with sage, tomato, and freshly-grated parmesan cheese carried to South Arabia from Italy; spaghetti, of course, with a choice of sauce.

  Richard Queens had largely lost his standoffish air—maybe the delectable smells had something to do with that—and was asking questions: “So, how long do you intend to be in Yemen? How do you happen to know the restaurant owner? Do you speak Arabic?”

  “Not well. Do you?” I knew the answer but wanted to hear it from him.

  “Well, I have studied the language.” And that’s all he said. I couldn’t press him on impressions gained from eavesdropping at the Dar al-Hamd.

  All the while, I was tucking into Nello’s delicate sauces and al dente pasta. A large ceiling fan provided welcome relief from the noontime heat and from a couple of pesky flies that dared to enter Nello’s establishment. The well-trained waiter pursued the flies with a blue swatter that must have been cleaned every night.

  I wiped my mouth with the red and white napkin, and lobbed a conversational torpedo of my own at Queens, who had his mouth full: “Strange place, the Dar al-Hamd,” I said.

  “It must be, for a woman. Is that why you read Jane Austen at dinner?”

  I glared. How dare he invade my privacy!

  Queens sighed. “Yes, I noticed what you are reading. Are you by any chance hiding behind Jane Austen?”

  I blushed. He had caught me out.

  But he wasn’t finished. “You insinuated this morning that I might have had a hand in Mr. Petrovich’s unfortunate demise. Interesting thought, that. Worthy of a Jane Austen heroine’s flight of fancy. Its only flaw is that it is untrue. And I am very sorry, but I must catch an official before he leaves his office, which is only ten minutes from now.”

  Looking me reprovingly in the eye, he laid down more riyals than lunch could possibly cost, and tipped his head in that gentlemanly British fashion that I secretly like, but make fun of. Then he slipped away again—he was good at disappearing in a discreet manner.

  Nello was busy with a roomful of mostly-Western male customers, so I waved to him and slipped to his pristine little restroom to don my balto and burqa. When I came out covered in black, I hoped no one in the restaurant would take note of the metamorphosis. Nello started toward me, surprise on his face. I wiggled my fingers at him from under the shroud and left the restaurant.

  Nello took the hint and didn’t follow.

  CHAPTER 39

  “If a woman can ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it is in a situation like Jane Fairfax’s; of such, one may almost say, that the world is not theirs, nor the world’s law.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  The souq basked in its mid-afternoon siesta. Shopkeepers sat amid their wares, cheeks fat with qat, smoking narghiles and drinking tea, eyes glazed, and uninterested in customers. The scent of spices, incense, dust, and garbage lay heavy on the air. Motorcycles leaned lazily against alley walls instead of bullying pedestrians. Cats scurried from shops with food to their nests of kittens. A few mangy dog
s slept in the shade. The hours when King Qat holds the country in his grip are ideal for an unnoticed rendezvous.

  A young woman sat at the desk inside the big arched open doors at the ancient caravansaray, where the camels used to shelter for the night, laden with frankincense and myrrh. Now, thanks to a government visionary and a Peace Corps volunteer, the building was the Art Institute. The woman’s job was to sell postcards and small art objects displayed on shelves à la a little museum shop. I nodded, pulled the burqa down from my face and smiled. The girl wasn’t wearing any face covering; she answered my smile.

  Up close like this, she could tell I was foreign. I hoped no one else would. I put my fingers to my lips, pulled the veil up over my nose and shared a conspiratorial grin with my new accomplice.

  Holding my black skirts demurely, I slipped as gracefully as I could up the broad, uneven stone steps. First floor, artists’ pictures. Second floor, more. Third floor, textiles. I seemed to be the only visitor at this hour.

  On the penultimate floor, just before ascending to the open roof-top, I paused for breath and sat on a bench along the wall. There could be a wait, as I was early. I glanced at random into my notebook while I waited:

  June 24, 1994 Halima invited me to her house today. The tea party involved ladies of the house and the neighborhood. Her mother is dead, but there are plenty of relatives. Things felt a little stiff, I guess because Halima was trying to fit into a different persona from the one she usually shows me. We usually meet at the office of Friends of Yemen, feministically open in the midst of war. “I want your friendship for myself,” she told me. “At home, everyone will get involved.”

  Women in the segregated mufraj carried their qat in little blue plastic bags, just like the men, but they receive the inferior leaves left over from the male qat chew. Old ladies smoked the narghiles, the water pipes, lined up in the middle of the mufraj, making the rectangular room full of sweet-smelling, choking smoke. Young women in sexy, transparent dresses giggled and gossiped as they threw off the black disguises they’d arrived in, sharing notes on children and on marriages made too young, with little input from the brides…

  Swishing sounds on stone brought my head up sharply. Someone was coming up the stairwell.

  “Elizabeth!” The word was a whisper, from behind a veil as enveloping as my own.

  “Halima?” We flew together, a mass of black material.

  “I just have a few minutes,” she said. “I needed you. You came!” Her small hands gripped mine convulsively.

  “Of course. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Ali. My brother, Ali.” Halima’s dark eyes burned. Anger? Definitely fear.

  “What about Ali?”

  “It’s so terrible… We can’t…” Her whisper faded.

  Two men appeared around the corner of the stairway, eying us casually. Tall and short; thin and stout. The pair I kept seeing in the vicinity of Richard Queens! Apprehension raised the hair on my arms. Could the men recognize me? Were they following me? I felt naked, unclothed, though I was swaddled in my black cocoon.

  Halima and I pulled gently apart and looked at the floor. I gestured for silence, glancing at the men. We walked along looking at pictures on the walls and art items but did not speak. The Art Center accomplished more than one goal at the same time, preserving a lovely old han, or caravansaray, helping preservation efforts in the Old City, and offering artists a place to display their wares. The Art Center, like Friends of Yemen, was an example of what Yemenis could do for themselves with a little international help.

  The men respected our space but their presence remained palpable. After they passed us and continued to the roof, Halima put fingers to her lips and with one frightened look back, started down the stairs. “I must go now. I’ll contact you.”

  Nothing I could do but wave a kiss of goodbye. I waited on the bench until she was out of sight, then slowly and nonchalantly made my own way down the stone steps, praying I wouldn’t fall over my long skirts.

  How frustrating! Something was terribly wrong, and she thought I could help. But she wouldn’t, or couldn’t say what it was.

  The whole encounter with Halima, including walking into the souq, took less than half an hour. I stopped back by Nello’s restaurant to change out of my black disguise. The restaurant was empty and Nello was asleep on the cot he kept in a back room, so I signaled to the waiter on duty, slipped into the restroom, and came out American again, dressed in loose pants, long shirt, scarf, and sunglasses. The waiter, a trusted aide to Nello, flashed a smile. He enjoyed keeping my secret. I caught a taxi back to the hotel.

  By 3:15 I was asleep on my dusty bed, Mrs. Weston curled beside me. At least Halima wasn’t being held prisoner. Her urgent problem with Ali would become clear in time. I only hoped I could help.

  An insistent Mrs. Weston woke me about four by rubbing her chin on my foot and demanding a caress. Her message was clear: Time for me to do some hunting and gathering while Her Majesty lolled on the bed.

  I ordered tea—and milk—from room service. The murder, and now meeting with Halima, had skewed my schedule. I had to get to work because they’d advertised my piece. Damn Mac Snyder.

  And damn that I had to go to a party tonight.

  CHAPTER 40

  A pleasant smell of roasting meat floated about. And presently cooked rice was brought in baskets, a tablecloth was laid, dates, bread and honey were spread upon it, and the goat came up in relays, sizzling from the fire.

  Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

  Tom’s party was just starting as I arrived at his house at eight. For the occasion, I’d pulled out my decent linen slacks, a silk shirt, the trusty, long silk travel jacket, and dressy sandals. And this time, I’d taken a cab to the nearest street entrance to the little alley in al Qa’.

  I was the first one there. Tom was a genial, generous host, holding a bottle as he quirked an eyebrow.

  “Uh, maybe a glass of wine.” I couldn’t resist. And wouldn’t be getting that at the Dar al-Hamd. Tom must have traveled to Mocha recently.

  The doorbell rang downstairs, and the sound of Zahra pulling back the bolt on the big front door and muffled footsteps floated up the tiled stairs to the mufraj. Three newcomers bent their heads to enter through the low doorway into the long sitting area, shedding their shoes as they came.

  The first guest was Christine, pale and beautiful, a little aureole of gold around her head under the lamp. I gave a small wave of acknowledgment.

  Christine seemed subdued, but gestured back. Two men accompanied her, both about her age. One looked like a hippy, straggly unwashed hair in a pony tail, equally straggly mustache, crumpled shirt and jeans. The other was Jason Roberts from the Embassy, exquisitely groomed (for Yemen, where everything collects dust) in khakis and a button-down shirt. Since all were younger than I, no need to stand. Good thing, since I was sitting in the lotus position on the floor and it would be awkward to get up.

  Roberts held out a hand. “Hello, again.” His eyes laughed—flirty, maybe, or just a private joke at how little information he’d given me earlier.

  “Hi,” I said, taking his hand. Roberts swooshed gracefully down beside me.

  His companion, the Hippy, had already slumped into position on the floor cushions, drink in hand. “Hiyyah,” he muttered, waving vaguely in my direction.

  He, for sure, had just finished a qat chew. I couldn’t tell about the others. The diplomat must be prohibited from such activity, even though the U.S. hadn’t yet come out with a criminal drug statement on the leaf.

  Most of the people at Tom’s party would be qat chewers. It was the in thing to do when living in Sana’a.

  Christine sank gracefully into lotus position on a cushion and accepted a glass of wine. Daylight faded, lamps were turned on. The mufraj felt cozy. I was getting used to tobacco smoke.

  Before conversation could proceed beyond introductions, the doorbell rang again, and more footsteps approached, preceded by a genuflecting Zahra. Her r
eaction hinted at a Yemeni guest, and clearly he must be notable. A well-dressed man poked his head in as he took off his shoes. My BMW Sheikh of the Souq!

  Tom rose to greet his guest. So did Jason, who seemed to know him. Christine, the hippy-type named Larry, and I stayed on our cushions, but I, at least, was alert. Christine appeared entranced, for which she received a ritualistic, rather secretive nod from the handsome Arab. Aha. More romantic threads to untangle.

  “Ahmad Kutup,” he murmured in my direction. Formal manners weren’t on display here, and our host had neglected introductions.

  “My name’s Elizabeth. Elizabeth Darcy.” And then, to keep things going, “I believe I met you in the souq yesterday…”

  The chiseled features relaxed, as though the handsome stranger felt some relief. “Yes. You were busy taking pictures. Is this your first visit to Yemen?” His politeness surprised me, given his coolness when we met in the souq.

  “Well, no, I was here on assignment during the civil war. That’s how I know Tom.” I gestured toward where Tom had been, but he had gone to another room. I noted that I was volunteering information no one even wanted to know. Surely it couldn’t have to do with the magnetism Ahmad Kutup exuded. “And you?” I managed to get out. “You are from Sana’a?”

  He smiled. “I live in Kuwait but my family is here. I am Yemeni, yes. I am a lawyer.”

  Well, being a lawyer in Kuwait explained the expensive clothes and car.

  A woman entered the room on Ahmad’s heels. She was a hundred-proof American, about fifty-five, with a chubby, smiling face and disarming manner. She stuck out her hand. “Hi. I’m Rebecca Ross. Please call me Becca.”

  I smiled as I shook the proffered hand. She plopped down beside me, on the other side from Jason Roberts, who was talking to Tom.

  “Somebody told me to look you up,” I said. “Maybe Nello? He said you’re an expert on Yemeni architecture, among other things.”

  “Oh, I’m a big fan,” laughed Rebecca Ross. “Who wouldn’t be? But if you really want information, you should talk to Halima al Shem from Friends of Yemen.”