Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [61]
Finally, Faris suggests a compromise. “I will let you put it on the Op-Ed page,” he said, “if you will put a mention in the banner on the front page, with a little photo.”
“Done!” I say, greatly pleased.
I run back downstairs. “It’s going on the Op-Ed page,” I tell al-Asaadi, who looks at me in astonishment.
The minister’s piece, it transpires, is utter garbage. Al-Asaadi gets stuck translating it and moans the entire time. “Jennifer,” he says, “you know what it’s like when you are forced to eat something that makes you gag? That is what I am doing.” The heavily edited piece is then thrust upon Luke, who wrestles with it some more. And I still have to do further edits. It tortures all of us.
Faris stops by in the late afternoon with his friend Jalal. On their way to a qat chew, they’re clad in long white robes. “Faris,” I say with mock sternness, “you shouldn’t chew too much qat. It has pesticides and isn’t good for your teeth.”
“But I am Yemeni!” he says in defense. “Whereas you are soft and tender.”
“Soft?” I flex a bicep.
Faris pinches my arm and agrees that there is nothing soft about it. “It’s just that when I see your face, I think of meditation and tranquility,” he says. “You’re like a calm angel.”
Luke laughs so hard he almost chokes. “Come back and see her at two in the morning.”
ON ELECTION DAY, I walk to work, disregarding all warnings that it is unsafe for westerners to be outside. I just can’t get through such a busy day without a bit of exercise. If I don’t burn off some energy, I’ll need to be peeled off the ceiling by noon. The streets are deserted. All of the shops are dark and shut with steel gates, except for a few juice places. Even the big Huda supermarket is closed. To keep a low profile, I wear all black, plus sunglasses to hide my blue eyes, but I’m conspicuous no matter what I do. This is driven home when just a few blocks from my office, a filthy man I pass on the sidewalk invites me to suck his cock. Who taught him this English?
I arrive at work to find the gates locked and no one there. I pound on the doors, trying to wake the guard, to no avail. Dear god, does everyone think this is a holiday? Our biggest reporting day of the year? I mean, it is a holiday for the rest of the country, but we work for a newspaper! Surely my staff knows that they must show up? It hasn’t even occurred to me that this is something I needed to tell them.
Desperate, I ring al-Asaadi. He doesn’t have keys but makes a few phone calls to try to find someone to let me in. In vain. “You shouldn’t stand around in front of the newspaper,” he tells me. “It isn’t safe.”
“Al-Asaadi, there is nowhere else to go!” I am so frustrated that I kick the gate in frustration, and to my great surprise, it swings open. Now I am in the courtyard but still can’t get into the building. The welcome mat that usually hides the key is missing. So I pound on the door to the guard’s hut until I finally rouse him. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbles out to open the building.
I worry that no one will show up. It is unusual for the women reporters not to be here at this hour. Enass is also missing from the reception desk and there’s no sign of the Somali cleaning lady. So it is an enormous relief when I see Zuhra bustling into the courtyard. “Please call everyone else and tell them to get their butts to the office,” I say.
Noor and Najma say that their families won’t let them out of the house. “It’s too dangerous.” The usually reliable Hassan is spending the day working for the EU election observers. Talha, who has no phone, is MIA. We also have no secretary, Doctor, or drivers.
Trying not to panic, I send Zuhra out to the polls. As soon as she is gone, Farouq shows up. He promptly heads out to report from the Supreme Council for Elections and Referendum (SCER) and to visit other polling sites. Two reporters in action!
Jabr, the Missing Link, shows up an hour later, and I send