Chapter 10 Chasing the Chimera #2
Cell phones were everywhere in that place, even children had them.
But who would want to lend me theirs? I saw a man on a stool with a little sign that read, in English, CELL PHONE FOR RENT, 2 EUROS PER MINUTE.
The man told me his name was Laith, which means “Powerful Lion.” I explained my situation as best I could; he dialed for me and passed me the cell phone, which, in its worn purple case, held the sticky warmth of many hands.
“Hello? Doctors Without Borders?”
“This is Information.”
“Oh, okay. Could you please give me the number for Doctors Without Borders?”
“What?”
“Doctors Without Borders, Médecins Sans Frontières, MSF . . .”
“Médecins? Just a moment.”
I asked Powerful Lion for help, he listened to the number they dictated, dialed it, and passed the purple phone to me again.
“I’d like to speak to Zahra Bayda,” I said.
“Which Zahra Bayda?”
“Zahra Bayda, of Doctors Without Borders.”
“This isn’t Doctors Without Borders, this is the emergency room at Sanaa Al Thawra Hospital.”
The guy over at Information had heard me say Médecins and had referred me to a hospital; he’d done what had been asked of him, I couldn’t blame him, but, of course, things weren’t going well.
“In that case, could you please give me the phone number for MSF?”
“I don’t have it,” said the hospital voice, and the line went dead.
Outside, the explosions continued, but already diffuse and far away, as if they were fireworks in a nearby town.
Inside, families were still waiting, praying they’d be let onto a plane to somewhere, any plane, to any somewhere.
The last foreigners had been evacuated on aircrafts specially chartered for them.
The military only let through those few chosen ones who’d be saved by some Noah’s ark.
And, incidentally, I’d learned that here, in Yemen, the petrified remains of Noah’s ark, the original one, slept the sleep of centuries, as did the ruins of the altar where Cain killed Abel.
Apparently, the Bible was alive here, starting with the Apocalypse.
This is war, gentlemen, I thought, I’m out of here. He’d been right, that officer who’d said to me, Go home.
Yes, sir, I’m going home right now.
I ran off to look for a return flight. I’d leave just as I’d arrived, without ever crossing the threshold of the airport doors.
What a disaster. To go just as I came, how ridiculous.
Goodbye, research. So be it, Queen of Sheba, hide if you want, robe yourself in mystery, don’t count on me anymore, find some other fan, I’m out.
People thronged in front of the airline counters, demanding attention. Foreigners were heading out to the runways, and here I was still stuck. I tried to push through the jostling crowd.
Whatever happens, stay calm, I told myself.
I’d get out of here too, even though it would be a fiasco to leave without having fully arrived.
This was a passing drama, soon I’d get it all sorted out, if not today then tomorrow, I’d just hold my ground and demand what was mine, there had to be a plane that could take off with me inside it, seat belt securely fastened so nobody could steal my spot.
Finally, my turn at the counter arrived, with a young woman whose face was entirely covered except for her eyes, which watched me through a narrow opening in her black veil, like someone peering through a keyhole.
It was the first time I’d tried to communicate with a fully veiled person, and it unsettled me, like when, in the monastery, I’d had to confess my sins to someone hidden behind the confessional’s grille.
It felt the same, here, in front of this employee with her inscrutable face: Pleading with her felt a bit like praying to an invisible god.
“I need a connecting flight to Barcelona or Damascus. For today, please.”
“There are no flights to Barcelona or Damascus today.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Then put me on the first flight out to Istanbul.”
“There are no flights to Istanbul.”
“Listen, miss, please, sell me a flight to anywhere.”
“There are no flights anywhere.”
How could I advocate for myself against those almond-shaped eyes that gazed at me through their slit with such indifference? I insisted, begged, demanded, but the veiled goddess of the counter was unmoved.
“How can that be, miss, or ma’am, what about all those airplanes I see out there on the runway?”
“They’re not passenger flights. They’re military.”
And so the issue died. The young woman at the counter seemed to deem the exchange finished, and took refuge behind her impenetrable veil, like when the curtain falls to end a show.
“Next, please,” she said, turning toward someone as desperate as me, leaving me a castaway of the air.
My heart sank, all the way to my feet. I couldn’t enter, nor could I leave; I was trapped in the middle of a chaotic disaster. I left the counter, bruised by my defeat, blaming it all on the Queen of Sheba.
“I knew I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you,” I muttered at her, “because, with you, one never knows.”