“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.