Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [158]
I expect Tim to rush to reassure her, but he does not. She leaves, and he turns to me. “I don’t love her,” he says. “It’s terrible to say. But I don’t. This won’t last much longer, and I adore you. And we can be together. We could marry.”
When I wake, my head whirls. It has never occurred to me he could actually leave his wife. I reassess how much I am enamored. Do I really want him on a permanent, long-term basis? I must love him that much if he is to sacrifice his marriage for me. To my surprise, I feel simply joyful, without a shred of doubt, at the prospect of a life with him. Of course, in real life, this is not exactly on offer.
By the time I arrive in Addis Ababa for Ethiopian New Year, I can hardly think of anything but Tim. What is happening to me? All this from a flurry of e-mails from a married man?
I RETURN TO SANA’A on September 16, 2007, the day before Tim’s birthday. As my plane descends into Arabia, the sight of the cookie-colored cubes below brings tears to my eyes. I’m practically soggy with love for this city, this country, these familiar streets. If I didn’t have a lunch scheduled with a literary agent in New York, I don’t think I would leave at all. As the plane taxies down the runway and the Yemenis begin leaping out of their seats, I switch on my phone. Tim has texted to welcome me home. Sami is waiting for me at the airport and takes me to my beloved house, where I want to hug everything. Carolyn has left for China, but there is too much to do to wallow in lonesomeness. I have to pack up a year of my life in less than three days. The first two I spend stuffing all I can into two suitcases, giving away the rest, and seeing friends.
The third and last day I have saved for Tim, who has asked if I have time to see him before I go.
That morning, I am awakened by a telephone call from one of his bodyguards. They’d like to come check out the house, if that would be convenient. Still groggy, I agree. Tim texts me, apologizing for the invasion. An hour later, a very polite Yemeni in a crisp white shirt comes to my gate and asks if this is where the ambassador will be coming later. I say it is indeed and promise to keep him safe from all harm.
By the time Tim rings to say the ambassadorial procession is under way from the embassy, I am completely organized. My two overloaded suitcases sit waiting for their trip to the airport; my house is spotless; Sami has taken the last of my DVDs and books; and my refrigerator is empty except for a bottle of champagne, a Marlborough white wine, and a yogurt. Two pomegranates sit in my kitchen waiting for breakfast tomorrow. In my mafraj, I light the candles and sit reading until Tim rings me from the gate.
He slips in, smiling like a schoolboy playing hooky, and kisses me on the lips, right in front of the two Yemeni bodyguards who follow him into my courtyard. But the kiss is chaste enough simply to be a friendly greeting; I shouldn’t read anything into it. Flustered, I start to lock the gate, but Tim reminds me that with two armed men parked at my door, this is hardly necessary. I lead him upstairs, heart hammering, all the way to the roof, shedding my abaya on the way. I want to show him my city. Most of the dirt from the roof has been carried away, and the ceiling has finally been repaired, albeit not with the traditional materials UNESCO guidelines require. Tim has to duck through the low doorway to the roof, and then we are standing under the Sana’ani stars. Leaning our elbows on the dusty parapet around my roof, we admire the glowing qamaria and watch children playing under clotheslines before turning to look at each other. A crescent moon plays in his eyes, and I can’t stop smiling. In a striped shirt and jeans, Tim looks all of seventeen and profoundly unambassadorial. This is one of the perfect moments of my life. We stand there until a little girl on a nearby roof spots us and begins waving and calling. Having promised to protect him, I hurry Tim back down to the mafraj and fetch the bottle of champagne.
Never has my mafraj witnessed such