Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [120]
I ALSO RETURN from New York with a secret Faris-softening weapon. His two older sons have advised me to use, in times of crisis, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups as a way to get their father to pay attention to me.
“He’ll give you anything you want if you bring peanut butter cups,” they tell me.
You cannot find peanut butter cups in Yemen, so it isn’t until April that I can get my hands on a good supply. I’ve brought back five bags.
So when Faris comes into my office one day to ask me to cover a story, I tell him I would really like to sit down and have a leisurely talk about my successor and the future of the paper.
“Sure, yeah, okay, but not now, I have a meeting,” he mutters while backing toward my door. It is clear that he has no intention of having a talk with me, leisurely or otherwise.
“Faris,” I say, “I have peanut butter cups.”
He stops in his tracks, turns to look at me, and walks back toward my desk. His eyes dart around my office. “Where?”
“I’ll tell you,” I say, “when you sit down and talk with me. Not before.”
“Ah,” he says, looking crestfallen. “I’ll get back to you.” And with one last wistful look at my desk drawers, he turns and walks slowly out my door.
A few days later, he waylays me at a party at Nabeel Khoury’s. I’m standing in the courtyard, halfway through a gin and tonic, being bored rigid by a series of earnest young men from the American Embassy, when Faris grabs my arm. “You wanted to talk?” he says, pulling me up the stairs to the house.
Yes, I think, though this wasn’t exactly the venue I had in mind. Still, Faris wanting to talk with me is so novel that not for anything would I miss this opportunity. I let him lead me into the empty living room, where we settle on the sofa.
“Now we can have that leisurely chat you’ve been wanting,” he says as he reclines.
Grateful for the gin in my hand, I explain how I would like to see things unfold. I would like Zaid to work under me, shadowing me until I leave, and then to take over the paper. “Al-Asaadi has had his chance to be the editor, and he is not a good manager,” I say. “He could be a great reporter, or maybe do something else—you mentioned the magazine—but I really feel that it is time to let Zaid have a chance to run things.” I need someone with Zaid’s passion, someone open to my ideas.
Faris nods and listens attentively, not interrupting or rushing me. I am beside myself with delight. He says that he will talk to al-Asaadi (I am not to attempt this myself) and work things around the way that I want them. “Just keep in mind,” he says, “Zaid is not a marathon runner, he’s a sprinter. He’ll go all out and then give up suddenly.”
“I’ll keep a close watch on Zaid,” I promise. “I will keep him in line.”
We then discuss several story ideas Faris has from his sources at the top. He tells me about the panic going around that cell phones are mysteriously killing people. I’ve heard this rumor from my staff, who have all become frightened of their phones. “There are some people who are afraid to take my calls,” Faris says. “They say they can’t answer something that says ‘private number,’ because it might kill them.”
He gives me several other ideas. I am thrilled. This is the most productive talk I have ever had with Faris. I tell him so. After forty-five minutes, I actually feel satisfied, and we stand to rejoin the party outside. A rain shower has released a cool, starry night.
“So,” says Faris, looking at me expectantly as we walk toward the door, “do I get my peanut butter cups now?”
IN