Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [167]
When Tim came to take us to the car, the staff wouldn’t let go of us. I had to actually pry Theadora out of Rahel’s arms. Crying, I hurried to the armored car. And we were off, leaving behind the house that had been our home for three years, the only real home Theadora had ever known, and the country that had been my home for four.
This wasn’t how I planned to go. I wasn’t ready. There was so much of the country still left to explore. We had so many friends. And I was finally making progress in my Arabic lessons.
But I can’t say we didn’t make the most of our time. The years I spent living with Tim in Yemen were the happiest of my life. I moved in with him in the spring of 2008, though we had been spending every possible spare minute together for months before that. We were both working insanely hard at our respective careers, but we were both engaged in work we loved. I was writing this book and doing some freelance reporting, and Tim was working approximately eighteen hours a day as the British Ambassador to Yemen.
Nearly every day, Tim rose at six A.M., and I got up with him so we could have breakfast together before he left for the office at seven-fifteen. Then I was free to swim, do yoga, and work for several hours before he reappeared in the evenings. As soon as I moved in, Tim created an office for me in the top floor of our house. I had a room of my own, a massive desk overlooking our garden and pool, and a mini-kitchen next door where I could make coffee and tea. Our upstairs refrigerator was fullof dried fruit, nuts, dark chocolate, champagne, and soy milk. It was paradise.
If there was time in between our workdays and dinner, we’d have a sherry or gin and tonic and sit on a kitchen counter swinging our legs and talking. Late at night we read plays or short stories out loud to each other. On weekends, we went for long hikes in nearby wadis or in the Haraz mountains.
Many of my reporters visited me, but Zuhra came most often. We’d have tea and sit talking in the parlor or my office. She wasn’t in the least bit awed by the grand house and made herself at home, even letting me know in advance what she’d like Emebet to make her for lunch.
I found I missed working with Yemeni reporters. So I was happy when Nadia al-Sakkaf asked me to come train some of her reporters at the Yemen Times, my former rival. It was almost exactly like my first training course at the Yemen Observer—the reporters had the same challenges and the same questions. But this time, I was much more relaxed and had a few more answers.
Adding to the luxury of my daily existence was the household staff. A household staff! I had never even hired a cleaning person before I moved to Yemen, and suddenly I lived in a house with a housekeeper, cook, cleaner, and gardener. I had no idea what to do with them. When Tim and I came down to breakfast in the morning, Negisti had already laid the table with fresh-squeezed orange juice, fresh fruit, muesli, and yogurt. As soon as we were seated she poured us fresh coffee. It was overwhelming and it made me shy.
For weeks I couldn’t bring myself to ask the staff to do anything. Emebet would ask what I wanted for lunch, and I would say, oh, I’ll make myself a sandwich, don’t worry. At night I’d sneak down to do my own laundry instead of putting it in my assigned hamper. But slowly it dawned on me that I was depriving our staff of the opportunity to do their jobs. This was the work they were paid to do. So I began to timidly suggest that if Emebet were not terribly busy, would she perhaps be able to make me a Thai salad with tofu?
Negisti, Emebet, and Alem quickly became family. I spent hours pouring over recipe books with Emebet, planning menus for diplomatic dinners, and asking her to experiment with vegetarian, whole-grain foods. I attended the wedding of my driver’s daughter with all three women. I spent more time talking with our staff than with almost anyone else in my life