Читать книгу Deadline Yemen (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 17

CHAPTER 13

The five reasons for travel [given to Freya Stark] by Sayid Abdulla, the watchmaker: “to leave one’s troubles behind one; to earn a living; to acquire learning; to practice good manners; and to meet honorable men.”

Freya Stark, A Winter in Arabia

I’d been taking pictures for my article, asking with gestures if it was all right, when a man definitely not a metalworker appeared in the street. He could have beamed in from another century: Brooks Brothers suit, understated tie, shoes with an Italian look that must have cost $400.

He was indubitably Yemeni. Aquiline features, dark hair and black eyes, recognized and respected by all the craftsmen in the street.

Yemeni, yes. And super-sophisticated. No one tends to look at a woman taking pictures—unless you’re too obvious about aiming at women. This impressive guy might be different, though. I shot one quick picture of a futha-garbed coppersmith pounding away in the foreground while his modern countryman stopped behind to speak with him. Then I stopped snapping and met the dark eyes of the stranger.

That was unusual, since I never meet men’s eyes in the Middle East. It gives the wrong message and can lead to undesirable consequences. These eyes were steady, a bit distracted, but not unfriendly.

“Hello,” said the man, in a good American accent. Did that quizzical quirk of an eyebrow imply criticism of my taking pictures in this remote land?

My cheeks grew warm.

Where do we draw the line between reasonable news pictures and invasion of another culture’s privacy? I answered with a cool “Hello,” and kept walking.

The man passed me and climbed into a black BMW as understated as his tie.

There’s a good person to interview. I wonder what he does.

Then I remembered his ambiguous eyes and was glad I hadn’t committed myself.

* * * *

My feet led me deeper into the shady residential canyons of the Old City. From a window of one of the houses, a woman’s face peered out. It was framed by a hand-wrought latticed window standing partly open, and inside that by a light-colored embroidered scarf pulled across her face. Deep, dark, liquid pools of eyes; a hint of black hair peeking from under the scarf. Delicate south Arabian features. Young, maybe sixteen. A worried look instead of the woman-to-woman smile I usually found here in Yemen.

Though I didn’t recognize the girl, I waved. The mystery woman returned the gesture, rather secretively. Then she turned her head toward the inner rooms of the house and disappeared.