Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [70]
I finish the last few captions and catch Farouq’s eye. “What?” he says, alarmed. “What do you need from me?”
I smile and make a zero shape with my fingers. “Nothing.”
Farouq raises his eyes and hands to the ceiling. “Al-hamdulillah!” he whispers thankfully. Praise belongs to Allah.
My neighborhood is silent as I unlock my gate and tiptoe through my courtyard, a slip of moon lighting my way. A cat darts across my feet and disappears under the water tank. I wonder if anyone is watching me, wondering at the hours I keep. I climb the stairs, shed my shoes, and turn the lights on in my kitchen. Boxes of tea and cereal line my counter, next to an enormous bowl of oranges, apples, and grapes. I flick the switch on my electric teakettle and pad upstairs (slowly!) to change into my pajamas. Ten minutes later I am curled in my bed, a cup of mint tea by my side and a history of Islam in my hands. I am home.
AS SUDDENLY AS IT BEGAN, Ramadan is over. During the last few days, traffic comes to a complete standstill, as everyone in the city is out every night shopping to prepare for Eid. Old Sana’a is thronged with five times the average number of people, and the markets stay open until nearly dawn.
I have never been so happy to see a holiday. For the first time, I have more than one day off in a row! For the first time in nearly two months, a piece of unscheduled time! My first morning off I sleep and sleep. Eid has quite literally saved my life. It makes me feel so festive it’s like Easter and Christmas all rolled into one. The little girls tear around the streets dirtying brand-new princess dresses, men fit themselves out with upgraded jambiyas, and women bake sweet cakes to feed visiting family and friends in preparation for these four days of celebration. Every single one of my journal entries during this time begins with “Eid is the best holiday ever!”
Now I finally have time to enjoy my new home. Solitude is a luxury after long days with my staff. I like the freedom to read over dinner. I like to take my clothes off and dance around my rooms to Fountains of Wayne and XTC. I like to write in my journal in bed. I like sprawling in my mafraj with a chunk of dark chocolate and a pile of books and magazines. I still long for more companionship, but I trust that it will come.
My Yemeni friends have trouble understanding why anyone would choose to live alone. For instance, when Shaima drives me to the supermarket one day, I tell her I need to find a little coffeemaker. I’m desperate for real coffee—I’ve been drinking the ubiquitous Nescafé since I moved here. But all I can find are giant, exorbitantly expensive family-size Mr. Coffee—type coffeemakers. Even I could not drink that much coffee. “No one lives alone here,” Shaima explains. “They all live in big families. No one needs a little coffeepot.” I hadn’t thought about this. It’s true; no one lives alone. Yemeni people live with their parents until they marry, and often married people stay in the same house as their parents. The concept of “alone time” does not exist. When I tell my Yemeni friends that I wish I had a bit more time to myself, they are baffled. “Why?” they say. “Why would you ever want to spend a minute alone?”
ON THE FIRST MORNING of Eid, my elderly neighbor across the street, Mohammed, invites me over. He calls my home phone, waking me. I have no idea how he got my number, but he says he has seen me unlocking my gate, and won’t I come for an Eid visit? I have a friendly neighbor! So I dress quickly and run across the street. Everyone in the Old City is so kind to me that it never even occurs to me to be afraid of strangers. Mohammed ushers me through halls hung with oil paintings of landscapes to a mafraj done all in blue, with white lace draped across the cushions. Across the carpet are scattered several little silver tables covered with dishes of pistachios, raisins, pastries, and chocolates. Mohammed