Watching And Getting There

He was short with a sharp, shiny black beard, and he was leaning against a souvenir counter, looking at me through the glass airport terminal wall.

He wasn’t staring, just looking casual, watching me out of the corner of his eye, almost a smirk on his lips. He looked American, I thought, as I sat in the immigration section of the Sana’a, Yemen, airport. It’s in his stance, his beard — somewhere between ironic and sincere. In the confusion, I felt America.

My papers weren’t acceptable. The immigration officer motioned for me to sit down, then made a phone call. I watched as another officer approached, talked to the first man, then made a call on his cell phone, the first man slowly lighting a cigarette. Another man walked in. Another small conference, heads bent over my passport and papers, a flip of the pages, a shake of a head.The second man walked into an office with my documents.

The bearded American looked on, then turned in his sandals and sauntered away, his heels sticking out past the end of his footwear. Odd, I thought. Too-small sandals on a man wearing a fitted collared shirt and dress slacks.

The immigration officer approached. There’s a problem, he said. You’ve overstayed your visa. These other papers mean nothing. I know, I said, I’m sorry. I can pay some sort of fine, right? Math, a total, a promise of a receipt. I fished out my cash, counted, saw the American look over. I pretended not to watch as the officer pocketed my cash. Minutes later, I was into the departure area and very relieved. I was actually leaving Yemen.

The American was looking at necklaces. Further into the gift shop, another man bent low at the counter display of watches. He was tall, wore a simple, long black robe, and was trying very hard to grow a full beard. He was of undetermined profiling potential, but his sandals fit.

The American approached him. They shook hands, warmly, like they knew each other, then talked for a few minutes before drifting apart in the shop.

Then the Americans arrived, two of them, one lanky in jeans and a plaid shirt. The other wearing safari pants, a yellow collared shirt, and a ball cap. Loudly, clearly Americans.

They talked to the tall man in the black robe, shook hands, poked through the plastic duty-free bag he was carrying. The bearded American drifted in the vicinity. The Americans and the robed man walked past me. “So, you still play basketball?” The bearded man asked the lanky American, in a friendly American accent. “I used to,” came the reply, friendly but official.

These Americans were from the embassy.

We all stood in line for the flight to Egypt, all except for the bearded American, who sat at a table nearby, facing us. He watched.

The lanky man leaned toward me.

“Are you Jeremy?” He asked, quietly.

Yes. I knew him. I had talked to him last night. He was from the embassy, and the first person who had given me a straight answer about my visa situation. He had advised me not to leave until it was straightened out. Yet here I was.

“I’m glad you made it,” he said.

So was I. I told him so and the conversation died. The black-robed man looked back at his minders.

“So what should I do?” He asked.

“Just follow instructions, do what you’re told,” said the lanky man.

A pause.

“Just get there,” he said.

The two Americans waited, talked together, watched until the robed man was through the security line, the man with the yellow shirt’s laughter piercing the hubbub of the lobby. Then they were gone.

The bearded American still sat at the table, watching.

In the gate lobby bathroom, the black-robed man washed his feet in the sink. one foot at a time, his free sandal sitting on the ground below him. He tried to get on the plane to Ethiopia before being turned away by the gate guard. He smiled in embarrassment as he fought back through the line. He went through a door to a prayer area.

Why was I watching him?

The black-robed man and I got on the bus to the flight to Egypt. He launched into a discussion in English about Islam with two Russian-speaking men.His thin hand clutched a bus pole to steady himself against the sway of the drive.

“Well, it is a philosophy,” he said. The Russians looked friendly. One looked drunk, or sunburned.

On the robed man’s right pinky finger, dull and turned in against the bus pole, was a silver ring with a red stone.

I wonder if that hurts, I thought.

I didn’t see him on the plane. I didn’t look.

I just wanted to get there.