Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [139]
Ah. This is not unusual. Many Yemenis string together several jobs to make ends meet. If Faris raised staff salaries, it might keep them from taking side jobs that distract them from their work. Even al-Asaadi worked for UNICEF while editor in chief of the paper. This not only took him away from the office too often but was entirely unethical, as the newspaper regularly covers UNICEF’s activities.
Some reporters make it difficult for me to agitate for higher pay. When the men want a raise, they begin doing less and less work, if they bother to show up at all. I try to explain to Hadi—who just asked for a raise—that if he wants to be paid more, he should prove that he is worth it. He should be showing up early and getting an exceptional amount of work done. That is what would make me want to help you get more money, I say. This baffles him.
The Missing Link does the same thing. A day after asking for a raise, Jabr doesn’t show up at work or even call in with an excuse. When I finally get him on the phone, he says he is napping.
“Jabr, if you’re hoping for a raise, it’s not terribly wise to start skipping work. You should be demonstrating how much you deserve it, not what a shirker you are.”
My frustration with Hadi builds until one morning in late June. Hadi, who was the happiest with our new schedule, has begun to drag our closes.
“You cannot keep coming in this late!” I say, accosting him as he walks in the door one closing day at noon.
“Do you have any pages?” he says belligerently.
“Yes, I have pages! But that isn’t the point. You are supposed to be here in the morning. You have a job!”
Things escalate until we are shouting at each other in the hallway. I ask Zaid for help, saying I have to get Hadi to the office earlier. He goes outside to talk with Hadi, and I retreat to my office.
A few minutes later, Zaid appears in my door.
“Hadi has a big problem,” he says.
“I know, he can’t get to work on time,” I say crossly.
“No, he has a big problem at home. He said he wants to sleep in the office and never go home. It has to be serious for him to say that. He was crying just now.”
I feel guilty for yelling at him. “If he has a reason he can’t get here on time, he should tell me.”
“I think you should talk with him.”
I go outside and find Hadi on the front steps, leaning against the building. I touch his arm.
“Hadi, I am sorry I yelled at you. I don’t like yelling at you. I love working with you, and I want things to be good between us,” I begin.
His anger is gone. He smiles at me, his long black lashes still damp with tears.
“If you have a problem, some reason you can’t come in, you can tell me,” I say. “You can talk to me.”
“Thank you,” he says, reaching out to pat my arm, an unusual gesture. “Thank you.” He’s short of money for things he needs at home, he says. He’s also been having bitter arguments with his wife. It’s unclear if the two problems are related. I promise to try to get him a little more money from Faris and he promises to try to get to work earlier.
ON JUNE 26, I must somehow sense what the day has in store, because I wake too depressed to eat and cry all the way to the gym. It all builds up, my worry about Zaid, my fear about leaving the paper, my anxiety over the future, and the floodgates open. Thank god I’m wearing dark glasses. I run five miles on the treadmill and bike half an hour, as if I can somehow get away from myself. I head out afterward to find that none of the hotel taxi drivers will give me a ride, because they are all curled up in the trunks of their cars, green leaves sticking out of their mouths.
Irritated, I stride out to the main road and hail a cab. The driver argues about the price, but I get weary of fighting and climb in. I just want to get to work.
I am staring out the window for the first half of the ride, watching the storefronts and child salesmen and pyramids of tomatoes and watermelons spin by, so I don’t notice my driver’s activities. Then a frenzied movement in my peripheral vision arrests my attention. I look over to see