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 rack—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