Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [40]
The funny thing is, Zuhra was not allowed to attend my farewell dinner. Yet she managed to somehow get an accurate account of the evening and even a fairly accurate quote from me. Did she hire a stringer to take notes for her? Naturally, I would have been even happier if the story were grammatical, but that was one reason for going back, after all.
Knowing I was about to leave, I fell in love with my city all over again. I fell in love with my book-crammed apartment, with my belly-dancing neighbor downstairs, with my local pub, the Piper’s Kilt. I fell in love with the A train, the Harlem YMCA, Inwood Hill Park. I fell in love with each of my friends and went out almost every night that wasn’t spent packing to soak them all up. I went to art galleries and the theater. I went to one last ecstatic baseball game at Yankee Stadium, where I euphorically inhaled beer, popcorn, Cracker Jacks, peanuts, and everything else they had for sale, because I didn’t know when I could do it again. The Yankees graciously made the night perfect by winning.
The last Sunday I was in town, my friends in the neighborhood gathered at the Piper’s Kilt, which was holding its first karaoke night. My friend Tommy was bartending and shook his head at me. “Yemen,” he said, setting a gin in front of me and moving down the bar. “The next time I see you will be in a kidnap video.”
I wore a tiny red dress and red lipstick. Who knew when I could dress like that again? What I remember most from that night (other than standing on the bar barefoot singing “Leaving on a Jet Plane”) is that when I told Tommy I was heading home, he told me to wait a moment and came out from behind the bar. Tommy had never come out from behind the bar to say good-bye to me before any of my other trips abroad. He hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. “My god,” I said, looking at his mournful face as I stepped out of his arms. “You really don’t think I’m coming back, do you?”
My last morning, I went for a run through Inwood Hill and Fort Tryon parks in a torrential rainstorm. After five minutes, my shorts and shirt were plastered to my body, and my braids had glued themselves to my arms. I plunged on. A montage of memories of the countless mornings I’ve spent trotting past these lilies, these dripping trees, this gray river, accosted me. Jennifer Steil, I thought, this is your life. This was your life.
SIX
when, exactly, is insha’allah?
I arrive at the offices of the Yemen Observer on September 2, 2006, to find no one waiting for me. Faris is away, I presume with the president, who is madly campaigning for reelection despite the fact that there is little doubt of his victory; editor Mohammed al-Asaadi has vanished from his corner office; and the rest of the staff is nowhere in evidence. My heart sinks. Surely they haven’t forgotten me? I don’t have a phone yet, so I have not been able to call anyone to tell them I have arrived.
My footsteps echo on the marble floors as I walk through the empty office. I am amazed to find the entire building festooned with my quotes. It’s a bit unnerving to see my own words, framed, in both English and Arabic adorning every wall.
“This is a NEWSpaper, not an OLDSpaper! Let’s put some news in it!”
“When you think your story is perfect, read it again.”
“Never, ever begin a story with an attribution.”
“A lead must contain a subject, verb, and object!”
I feel a bit like Chairman Mao. At least I know I haven’t been totally forgotten.
I’d overslept my alarm this morning at Sabri’s house, where I was temporarily housed in student quarters, and woke in a panic. I couldn’t be late on my first day as the boss! I skipped coffee, skipped my planned walk to work, and dashed through a quick shower and into a cab, breathless. To find that I apparently have not been missed.
But wait! There are noises in a back office. The door opens, and a tiny pillar of black rayon launches herself across the front foyer and into my arms. “I cannot believe I have you before me!” Zuhra says, stepping back to look at me, keeping hold of my hands. Her dark eyes