Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [2]
Sami al-Siyani, for being the best friend, neighbor, and guide to Old Sana’a I can imagine.
My neighbors in the al-Wushali district of Old Sana’a for their infinite hospitality.
Muhoro Ndungu, for his tolerance of my moods during the darkest times, for his witch doctor skills, and for taking me in when I was homeless.
Bushra Nasr, for her generosity and friendship.
All of my Arabic teachers, but especially Fouad, for their patience with my erratic progress.
Mr. Jamal Hindi and the entire staff of Al Mankal restaurant, who always know exactly what I want for lunch.
The well-behaved taxi drivers who kept their hands on the wheel.
Harris Collingwood, for emotional and material support during difficult times.
Anne-Christine, Angelica, Carolyn, Koosje, and Jilles, housemates who turned my gingerbread house into a home.
Aida, without whom we would all have been wading through several feet of dust.
Rasheed, for showing me his Soqotra.
Anne Leewis, for helping me find a life outside work.
Phil Boyle, for making me laugh, feeding me curry, and granting me a pivotal interview with a British MP.
Don Lipinski, for the wine, movies, and loyal support, despite our political differences.
Marvin and Pearl, for the bootleg gin and Soqotra.
Tobias Lechtenfeld, for the lovely times in Sana’a, and for remaining a friend.
Peter Toth, for his phenomenal generosity, for his devoted friendship, and for Paris.
Chris and Peta Shute, for housing me as I wrote the first chapters of this book.
Lloyd, Dave, Colin, and the entire CP team, for keeping us all safe during the writing of this book and beyond.
Negesti, Alem, and Emebet, for taking such good care of us at home.
Cole and Ali, for keeping their senses of humor when I lost mine.
Manel Fall, for keeping me from bursting into flames.
Nick Janik, for saving me the horror of shopping.
Saleh and Didier, for their friendship and for Taiz.
Abdullah, for never failing to make me feel welcome.
My classmates and professors from the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, for their assistance in creating my original training course.
My friends in New York and elsewhere in the world—too numerous to list here—whose love and e-mails help keep me sane.
My parents, who are always supportive, even when they doubt the wisdom of my career choices.
Timothy Achille Torlot, for reading this book more times than anyone should, and for loving me more than I thought anyone could.
ONE
fantasia in gingerbread
I didn’t immediately see Zuhra when I walked into the bridal chamber. The room was dim, and she was curled over in prayer on the floor to my left, a mass of white satin with a black scarf over her head. Few people were allowed in the room with her—only sisters and dearest friends—and everyone was quiet. I stood still against a wall, watching her, waiting for her to finish. I hadn’t thought I would see Zuhra until she began her slow, deliberate march down the catwalk that ran the length of the wedding hall. But her sisters had summoned me, pulling me by the hand into this back room. Zuhra looked tiny and vulnerable, solemnly whispering her prayers.
But all hint of gravity vanished as she finished and pulled the veil from her face to beam up at me. She stood, the silky scarf slithering from her bare shoulders, and came to let me kiss her. Above the white of her Brooklyn-bought dress, her arms, back, and clavicle were painted with curling flowery vines, rendered in nagsh, a black ink favored by Yemeni brides. We didn’t speak at first but just stood smiling at each other.
“Antee jameela,” I said, touching her tiny waist. “Beautiful. Like a little doll bride.”
“Really?” She turned this way and that, so I could admire all of her. Her thick black hair was piled on top of her head in fanciful hair-sprayed loops. Her dark eyes were outlined in kohl, her face thickly powdered, and her lips colored a pale pomegranate.
“Really. I wish I could take a photo!” We had all been patted down at the door, to ensure none