Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [145]
Zaid, Jabr, Bashir (who still drops by to help us on closing days), and I all pile into photographer Mohammed al-Sharabi’s battered car, and away we go. Zaid makes me sit in the front, and the three men squish together in the backseat. Zaid rings someone on his cell. “Feyn ant?” he says. Where are you? Yemeni men begin every phone conversation like this. They cannot possibly talk to someone if they don’t know exactly where that person is.
“Do you know what that means?” asks Bashir.
“Of course,” I say, mildly insulted. “That’s baby Arabic!”
“No one speak Arabic!” says Bashir. “She can understand us now!”
We arrive early at French Ambassador Gilles Gauthier’s house and loiter outside the gates with a few other overeager invitees. At last, we are all admitted to the front garden, where we are subjected to a very thorough security check. My laptop, gym bag, and purse are taken away, and I am marched through a metal detector. In the wake of the Ma’rib bombing, everyone has tightened security.
A path of fairy lights leads us past a gauntlet of solemn French officials, who shake our hands and murmur, “Bonsoir.” Beyond them, rows of bushes open into a large backyard sheltered by tents. At least a dozen banquet-sized tables are covered with food, and the bar stretches about a city block long. Waiters circulate with platters of juices, wine, and shrimp. I take a glass of wine and look around. No wonder security is so tight; the place is teeming with ambassadors. Just then, the new Deputy British Ambassador Chris Shute, who arrived recently and has become a friend, catches my elbow. “Come,” he says. “I’ll introduce you to the new British ambassador.” I’m eager to meet him, since former Ambassador Gifford had been so helpful to me.
Chris leads me through the growing crowds to a tall, dark-haired man in a pinstriped suit, with the sparkliest blue eyes I have ever seen. I offer him my hand. “I’m Jennifer Steil, editor of the Yemen Observer.”
“Tim Torlot,” he says, twinkling at me.
My heart trips over itself. This is the man I want to marry. The thought flashes through my mind only seconds after our hands meet. It’s completely irrational. He’s a stranger. Marriage is not on my agenda. But suddenly I’m more wide awake than I have been since I got to this country. I’m awash in joy and sorrow all at once. Steady now, Steil. Ambassadors are all married. I want to check his left hand, but I can’t look away from his eyes. I wonder how old he is. There’s no white in his hair, and his body is straight and slender.
Pulling myself together, I ask him how long he’s been here and what he’s seen of Yemen. He’s only been here three days.
“Where were you posted before Yemen?”
“Iraq, most recently. Shorter stints in Afghanistan, Chad, and the Central African Republic …”
“So really this is the safest country you’ve been to in years.”
“Yes. I’m beginning to wonder if the Foreign Office hasn’t been trying to tell me something,” he says, smiling. His eyelashes are curly and tipped with gold. Focus, Steil!
He asks how long I’ve been in Yemen.
“About a year. I’m leaving in a month and a half,” I say. “My contract is up at the end of August.”
He looks disappointed. Or am I projecting? I don’t want to leave Yemen, I realize. I desperately do not want to leave Yemen.
“Everyone I meet seems to be about to leave.”
“Yes,” I say. “High turnover rate, I’m afraid.”
We make small talk. What about the press in Yemen? he asks. Is it free? Which subjects are taboo? I talk about the Observer while he listens attentively. It must be something they teach diplomats: Never look away from the face of the person you are addressing.
Neither of us looks away, until I begin to worry I am monopolizing