Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [119]
A FEW DAYS LATER, I am scrambling to finish an issue early enough to attend a Dutch friend’s farewell qat chew before meeting a Jordanian friend for dinner when Faris rings.
“This is really important. There’s this British guy here, head of Middle East security or something. We need an interview with him. Set something up immediately and get back to me.”
“Great,” I say. “We can interview him Saturday.” It’s a Thursday, and I am looking forward to having a night off and a free day Friday to pack for my trip home.
“Saturday is too late, he’ll be gone. Arrange it for before then.”
So much for my evening plans. But I need to get back into Faris’s good favor. “I’ll talk with him tonight,” I say. “What did you say his name was? And his title?”
“I don’t know,” says Faris. “Something to do with the Middle East. Find out.”
I ring the British Embassy, but because it is the weekend for the rest of the Yemeni world, it is closed. There’s an emergency number on the recording. I hesitate. This isn’t exactly an emergency. But I really need to make Faris like me. I think about his disappointment if I fail to get this interview, and my fingers start to dial the emergency number all by themselves.
The woman on duty says she’ll pass on my message, and five minutes later, Ambassador Mike Gifford calls me back.
“Look,” he says, “I am having a dinner at my house tonight for Peter Gooderham,” (my target, the director for the Middle East and North Africa in the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office). “Why don’t you join us? We have plenty of room. And you can interview him there.”
“If you’re sure it won’t be a problem. I hate to intrude on his dinner.”
“No problem at all. We would be delighted to have you.”
So relieved I’m bordering on happy, I ring Faris and give him the good news.
Mike Gifford’s wife, Patricia, welcomes me warmly and introduces me to a few others, including a chatty man named Khalid who works for Islamic Relief and has been to Sa’dah. I question him furiously about the situation there. I also talk with a reporter from 26 September, also there to interview Peter; a British man working with the Yemeni Coast Guard; and a member of the British House of Commons. I drink a gin and tonic and enjoy myself immensely. There are worse jobs.
Peter Gooderham is seated near me and is quite charming, quizzing me about my work. He finishes eating before I do, so I regretfully abandon my third helping of fish and brussels sprouts to interview him in the living room. He talks for nearly an hour, and I fill my notebook. I hardly have to ask any questions. He just rattles on until the other journalist gets impatient.
I stay until close to eleven P.M., heading out with the last stragglers. At home, I kick off my boots and write the entire interview by twelve thirty A.M. The photo is e-mailed to Faris by one A.M. I fall asleep feeling very pleased with myself indeed.
I RETURN from a brief holiday in New York in early May with renewed determination to work on my relationship with Faris. There are urgent reasons for this. Al-Asaadi and Zaid are both due back in Yemen in June, and I need to figure out whom I am training to be my successor. It seems obvious to me that it won’t be al-Asaadi, because he hasn’t shown any interest in learning from me or in perpetuating my reforms at the paper. Zaid, on the other hand, has been eager to learn and seems ripe for training. One of my main reasons for doing this job is to create reforms that outlast me.
My first discussion with Faris on this topic is not inspiring.
“Al-Asaadi will be editor in chief and Zaid will be managing editor,” he says when I ask him what will happen in June.
My heart sinks. This will never work. Al-Asaadi and Zaid cannot stand each other. When they both come back, I expect nothing short of total catastrophe.
“Faris,” I say, “you know those two do not get along.”
“I need everyone to work as a team,” he says.
“Of course. But I need al-Asaadi