Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [66]
Because I end up working until iftar most Ramadan days, I walk home for dinner. It’s too hard to find a taxi. Besides, it’s so lovely to walk home when the streets are near-deserted. As I pass the restaurants along Zubairi Street, I see men poised to break their fast. Some even have plates of food in front of them, which they poke at hungrily as they wait for the cannon to go off so they can eat. The expectation in the air accompanying the approaching iftar always feels festive. Watching them makes me wish for a kitchen of my own, an iftar dinner waiting for me. If only I had a wife!
One of these solitary nights, I finally ring Karim’s friend Sami about apartments. A slender, handsome twenty-four-year-old who studies English and works as a fixer for foreigners living in the Old City, Sami does a small business in tourism, arranging drivers to take people around the countryside, finding homes for expats, running errands, and generally being the most helpful person I have ever met. He is enthusiastic about meeting me and finding me a home. It doesn’t take long. In the last few days of September, at our third meeting (having looked at a house that was too vast and one that was too tiny), we find my gingerbread house in Old Sana’a.
THE HOUSE SAMI FINDS for me is not just any house but my dream house. It’s a three-story, boxy stone house of my own, tucked behind a pale blue fence overflowing with pink flowers. I know I want it after just having seen the kitchen. It is vast, with a long counter, a small table for eating, a stove, a refrigerator, and antique Yemeni bread-baking ovens (in case I get really ambitious). On the same floor are a bedroom and a small laundry room/bathroom. On the way up the uneven stone stairs to the second floor is another small room, about the right size for an office. The next floor holds a large bedroom, with Star of David qamaria (Jews built this house 350 years ago, the landlord, Mohammed, tells me) as well as a couple of circular alabaster qamaria. I immediately decide this is where I will sleep. On the same floor is a large, airy mafraj lined with red cushions and adorned with several half-moon qamaria, a guest room, and a Western-style bathroom—with a tub!
And there’s more! The top floor includes a tiny jewel of a room that looks out over all Sana’a, a storage room, and a door to a wide roof.
A whole house! I have never had so much space in my adult life. Mohammed and his entire family follow me as I admire the house, and then we all take off our shoes and sit down in the mafraj of the neighboring house to sign the lease. The rent is $300 a month. Expensive for Sana’a, but worth every penny to me. Sami and Shaima translate each line of the lease. Ever since I moved here, Shaima has been my most loyal friend. We eat together once a week or so; she helps me run errands and introduces me to her family and friends.
Several westerners have warned me away from the Old City, the most conservative part of town. Here, people keep a very, very observant eye on their neighbors. I will be watched, and all my guests will be duly noted. But what is the danger in that? I don’t have time to behave badly. Besides, there is nowhere else in Sana’a I can imagine living. I can think of no greater bliss than to inhabit these thick gingerbread walls in the cozy warren of cobblestone streets. In fact, I long for nosy neighbors. I am so incredibly lonely that the smallest kindness from strangers makes me teary. Sami lives right down the street and says he is willing to help me with anything, anytime.
I sign my name to the lease, in both Arabic and English. I have a home.
The morning I am to move into my new house, an exploded cyst in my ovaries sends me to the hospital. I’ve been bleeding, feverish, and in pain for days with no idea why. A female doctor assures me I’ll survive and sends me away with antibiotics. I’m too weak to carry anything, so Sabri’s guards kindly transport all my possessions to the Old City.
But I can’t rest yet. I