Woman Who Fell From the Sky - Jennifer Steil [85]
“Oh no,” he says. “They’re used to it.” He opens a window and shuts them in the car.
I stand next to the car for a moment as al-Asaadi hurries across the street to pray. The girls sit quietly. It feels unconscionable to walk away and leave them there, but I don’t have a choice. I turn to head toward home, hoping that al-Asaadi prays quickly.
AT THE END OF NOVEMBER, two men from the South African embassy visit me. These men actually made an appointment, only I have completely forgotten. When they arrive, I am buried in work, but I set my editing aside to talk about the recent elections and press freedoms in Yemen. Ambassadors often drop by to quiz me about the Yemeni press. They want to know “where my red lines are”—what limits are put on free expression. I normally enjoy these ambassadorial briefings, but I am so overwhelmed by the work I have left to do that their visit sends me into a panic. Exacerbating matters, I return to my office to find a group of women students sitting there, waiting for al-Asaadi. Struggling to be polite, I chat with them briefly before he arrives.
Now I am even more behind, so I ask al-Asaadi to please take the students to a conference room, so I can catch up with my editing.
“No,” he says with a note of defiance in his voice.
I look up from my computer, startled. “Why not? The conference rooms are both empty, and I have to be in the office to edit on my computer and e-mail questions to Hakim on his story.”
“No. You go someplace else.”
I am stunned, not just by his irrational obstinacy, but by the fact that he is arguing with me in front of a room full of women.
“Mohammed, I need to be in this office and you know that. Why do you need to be here to talk with these women? This is why we have conference rooms! For meetings like this!”
He refuses to leave. I attempt to work, but it is impossible with him talking at top volume to the students right next to me. Faris, for once, happens to be upstairs, so I run up to solicit his support. I interrupt his meeting with Jelena, the temperamental advertising coordinator for Arabia Felix, who has just had such a vicious fight with Karim that he threatened to quit.
“What is it?” says Faris, looking annoyed.
I explain the situation, and Faris immediately phones downstairs to tell al-Asaadi to take the girls to a conference room. I am well aware that tattling on al-Asaadi to Faris sounds the death knell of our relationship, but I don’t know what else to do. I have five pages left to edit, and most of the day is gone.
I run back downstairs, but al-Asaadi, in defiance of Faris’s orders, still refuses to leave. Faris sends down the big guns, in the shape of the formidable Doctor. I hide out in the newsroom with Luke while he goes to oust al-Asaadi and the girls from our office.
When at last they are gone, I go straight back to work. Al-Asaadi promptly returns to yell at me. I yell back.
“Why are you being so stubborn?” I say. “You know I have to be here for work. Why do you have to be here, when both conference rooms are free?”
“Because it’s my office!”
“That is not rational! There is no reason you cannot talk to those women in the conference rooms!”
Al-Asaadi picks up things from his desk and throws them down again. “This isn’t even an office anymore,” he says. “It looks like a grocery store!” He waves angrily at the orange sitting on my desk.
“You know I keep most of my food in my desk drawers,” I say, my voice starting to tremble. “And I have to keep food here, because I don’t have a wife at home to cook me lunch.” (Anne-Christine has moved to Syria, and I’ve gone back to a diet of cereal and salads.) “This is where I eat my lunch. I have too much work to finish to go home. What do you want me to do? Stop eating?”
Silence.
“Al-Asaadi, if you want me to move, I will try to move to a different office. Then you can do what you want. It is your office, after all.”
“No,” he says, relenting a little. “It is your office too. I am sorry. I want you to stay here.”
“I am sorry too. I really didn’t want to get into a huge