Behind Palace Walls Page 5

  I can’t quite reconcile this with the great emphasis Islam places on zakat – charity to the poor. Many Saudis give zakat during Ramadan only, when, it is believed, blessings are multiplied.

  I cannot help but notice the many cats sitting around the rubbish bins all over Riyadh. One of the places they congregate is on an open piece of ground where the bins are, just a hundred metres from the gate of our compound. It distresses me that these cats aren’t pets; they’re seen as pests. They are in a terrible condition, and so thin. Every time I see them – every day – I feel a pain that is physical.

  On the way home one evening, I ask Sultan to stop at a Ta­mimi’s for a bag of cat pellets once again. He laughs and shakes his head as he is not too fond of them either.

  I pour some pellets into a plastic bowl. As I walk over to the open ground, I shake the plastic container and call out to them. At least 10 pairs of eyes watch me as I make little piles of pellets spaced about two metres apart.

  The cats come running from all directions but clearly, even in the cat world, there is a hierarchy – fur flies as they fight for the food. I favour the kittens and chase the bigger cats away so that they have a chance. A grey kitten about two months old rubs up against me but when I try to pet him, he runs away. I pour out a little heap just for him and stand guard as he eats. These cats are so hungry that they seem to swallow the pellets whole.

  I hear a terrible noise, a high pitched whine, from underneath one of the cars parked nearby. I go down on my knees to find a ginger cat with a newborn kitten whose eyes aren’t open yet. It rips at my heart, seeing her trying to protect her kitten. How can she produce milk when she is starving? Where is the rest of her litter? She does not allow me to get close to her but I scrape up some of the pellets that haven’t been eaten yet and gently throw them towards her. She is so spooked by my presence that I step back, hoping that she gets to eat.

  I walk home with a heavy heart as there are just too many of them. God knows, feeding them is only alleviating their suffering temporarily. I almost trip over the grey kitten playfully running in and out from underneath my abaya. Still, he does not allow me to touch him. He walks me right to the com­pound door.

  Meeting Serge

  IT’S FRIDAY. Although the Holy Day in KSA, it is a day that promises bliss for the sheer fact that we have the day off to do whatever we like.

  The previous evening, our neighbours, two Lebanese med­ics, invited us to meet up with them and some of the other expats in the afternoon. After several invitations to join them over the past while, this is the first Friday Mona and I are able to do so.

  There are 12 people sitting around the pool, who are mostly Lebanese. Our fellow expats from the compound are already in a party mood as homemade arak and red wine has done the rounds.

  Arak is Lebanon’s most popular alcoholic drink after beer and wine. Clear in its pure form but milky when mixed with water, it has the smooth, refreshing taste of liquorice. If you like liquorice, that is.

  Conversation comes easily as everyone has questions. They want to know where we’re from and what brought us here. They are exceptionally well mannered and gallant. Every now and again, a guy I would get to know as Neo picks up his trib­al drum set. As he starts singing, everyone falls in, clapping with unadulterated enthusiasm. We are delighted by their easy camaraderie.

  One man in particular stands out, because he chooses not to stand out. We are briefly introduced but with all the names presented, so his name escapes me.

  He confidently leans back in his chair with his legs crossed, watching and listening. His arm is casually draped across his lap. The hand stroking a crystal rosary is practiced and relaxed, playing it like a finely stringed instrument. I watch his hand when I think he won’t notice.

  My blonde friend Lea is visiting us today. She’s in her bikini. The guys, with the exception of the man with the rosary who is sticking by my side, fight for the seat next to her. It is quite amusing to watch.

  There seems to be no age discrimination among the expat men; young guys in their twenties flirt with me. I have nephews a decade older, for goodness sake. There are just not enough women to go around so whenever a new girl appears on the scene, the guys jostle for position.

  Mark, a twenty-eight-year-old British expat who is an English lecturer at a university in Riyadh tells me of an upcoming event, Christmas carols in the desert, organised by the Hash Club. As luck would have it, the event falls on my birthday which is also on a Friday. He invites me to join him and some colleagues on the day. I am ecstatic.

  The conversation turns to books and Fifty shades of Grey is mentioned by Lea. ‘That book is hot!’ She exclaims. I add that I’ve heard that apparently it resembles a Mills & Boon, the only difference being that it contains hard-core porn. I am told that I am not really allowed an opinion until I have read the book. Mark has it on his Kindle, and offers to loan it to me.

  I chat to several people over the course of the afternoon, but I am constantly aware of the man with the rosary. As yet, I am totally unaware of my attraction to him.

  As late afternoon turns to early evening, everyone now best friends, we laugh uproariously. The aroma of shisha pipes fills the warm air. I ask if I may try one. They all watch in anticipation as I blow the air out of my lungs before I inhale. The liquid gurgles at my effort yet I manage to only take in a small amount of the aromatic strawberry-tinged smoke. I feel giddy, which makes everyone laugh. The cameraderie is enhanced by the prevailing attitude – what happens in the compound stays in the compound. And now Mona and I are part of the pack.

  Deeper into the evening, he sits quietly amid the singing and spurts of traditional Lebanese dancing. His head tilted back, a slight smile around his sensuous mouth, he holds my gaze a little too long. I feel a shift that takes place when the chemistry kicks in and for a moment it leaves me breath­less.

  I say goodnight earlier than most. He is the only one who stands up when I get up to leave. Just before I walk away, I ask him his name again. “My name is Serge,” he says with a smile.

  Heading out with the princess

  I AM informed by the princess that I will be accompanying her to a doctor’s appointment today, the first occasion I have to play by the protocol rules outside the palace grounds. I fetch her abaya and hijab from the laundry and Milly drowns the garment in perfume. We leave the villa, the princess shrouded in black, and wearing the biggest sunglasses I have ever seen. I walk two paces behind her.

  Driver ready, check. Water in the car, check. Sultan, my princess’s personal driver is waiting with the back right hand door open. He stands with his back to us because eye contact with the princess is forbidden, unless she speaks to him directly. The princess is tense and I feel it spill over to me, tightening the knot in my stomach.

  As she is seated, Sultan closes her door and only then do I walk round to the other side to slide in beside her. I notice the rear view mirror is turned up to the ceiling as even an accidental glance in the princess’s direction will bring the wrath of God upon him.

  Is this the same man who drives us home at night, often at 160km an hour, the man we have to beg to slow down? He is the mod­el of decorum, sitting so upright, his head almost touch­ing the ceiling.

  On our way to work one day, the Amir phones. Sultan im­mediately snaps his fingers which means total silence from the back seat. Sultan speaks in tones reserved exclusively for the Amir. His voice becomes soft and melodious, and he ends each sentence with Masha Allah or Al Hamdu Lilah. He even appears to be sitting up straighter. I hear our names, madam Cay and madam Mona, mentioned.

  The drivers, generally from Sudan and Egypt, each carry three mobile phones. The first is kept only for the Amir, the second, for general work duties, contact by the palace staff and switchboard, and the third, for personal use. Each royal has their own driver and own car but the Amir has the right to all the drivers. Sultan is my princess’s driver.

  Once he is off the phone, Sultan starts to panic.
The Amir wants him to fetch his Porsche from the garage 50 metres away from the palace doors and have it parked outside in 15 min­utes’. We are stuck in traffic. Twenty minutes later we have hardly made progress. The Amir phones again, and we can hear him shouting. In a soft voice, Sultan assures him that we are on our way. The drivers are terrified of the Amir because they have received many a beating. Mona has seen it happen.

  As we leave the palace grounds one day, Sultan stops abruptly, sending my laptop flying onto the floor. He jumps out of the car and runs to pick up an empty Starbucks cup lying on the grass strip surrounding the palace. Mona explains that if the Amir sees rubbish anywhere near the palace, he whips the drivers. The reason for Sultan’s haste is that the Amir is just behind us.

  For this particular outing with the princess, the drive is smooth, with no cutting in and out of traffic.

  As Mona has warned me never to make conversation with the princess while travelling, unless she speaks to me first, I make a concerted effort to stare out of the window. It doesn’t lessen the tension in the car.

  Most of the signage at our destination is in Arabic but I spot the word “psychiatrist”. Sultan jumps from the car and opens the princess’s door. I climb out unaided. She seems intent on getting inside even though no one could possibly recognise her with those oversized sunglasses and the hijab covering her head and the lower part of her face.

  I walk a pace behind her but as we reach the first door, I speed up to pass her and open the door. This first attempt is a bit clumsy as I pull instead of push but by the time we reach the second door, I have it down pat. I am surprised to see the reception staff in black from head to toe. As with the few other women in the workplace, they work with their abayas on and their faces covered.

  Traditionally, companies that hire women have created all-female areas. Western companies – like McDonald’s, Pizza Hut and Starbucks – enforce Saudi religious regulations in restaurants, prompting comparisons to apartheid among West­ern activists. The facilities in the family sections are usually inferior.

  The number of mixed-gender workplaces has increased since King Abdullah was crowned, although they are still un­usual. Even then, the women have to wear the full black regalia. The only exceptions to the rules are seen at some hospitals, medical colleges, and banks.

  The princess is ushered in and I take a seat in the now empty waiting room. A huge TV attached to the wall shows throngs of pilgrims at Mecca, walking anti-clockwise around the Kaaba, Islam’s holiest shrine located in the grand mosque at the heart of the city, while prayers are repeated on an end­less loop.

  I have brought along Mark’s kindle and quickly pick up where I left off. I am in the middle of Fifty Shades of Grey – since he had said I should read it before giving my opinion. I find it painful. It really is like a Mills & Boon, just with porn. As bodies writhe in pleasure on the pages of my book, I guilt­ily look up as another woman enters the waiting room and the images of Mecca stare down at me again.

  Three hours later the princess emerges just as the characters in the book enter the infamous Red Room. The princess seems in a much better frame of mind and the door opening goes off smoothly as we make our way back down to the car.

  She is chatty on our return journey, pointing out certain buildings of interest.

  We pass a hospital. “That is a beauty hospital with very good doctors,” the Princess remarks. “I will send you there for Botox.” She looks at me as if she has just shared the news that I had won the lottery. Biting my tongue has become routine – I don’t say a word, though it may just be that her comment renders me speechless. Am I really in such need of Botox?

  By the time we get back to the villa, most of the daily chores have been done. On the spur of the moment, I decide to bake cupcakes. The mix is already rich, but I add chocolate chips and a handful of crushed walnuts. I am surprised at how well they turn out. I am having so much fun; I swirl thick chocolate icing onto the cakes and top them off with the bright pink flowers the princess has in her cupboard. They look beautiful.

  The staff gather in the kitchen to admire my handiwork. I ask Sunny to go upstairs to get one of the princess’s plates and to set a tray for me. She happily obliges, no doubt anticipating a cupcake.

  I put on rubber gloves and take the tray upstairs. Two cupcakes adorn the plate.

  After knocking, I walk in with the tray. The princess’s face lights up. She sits for a moment without saying anything while she admires the cakes. “Mrs C, thank you so much!” she gushes.

  It is only eight but the princess tells me I may go. It almost seems as if she is rewarding me for baking. As good as the day was, I need no excuse to gather my things and hotfoot it out of there.

  On our way home, I get a text message, “Hello Mrs C, the cupcakes r soooo delicious! Thx a looot 4 baking them 4 me! U really made my day :) Thx 4 taking care of me. . . Nite nite & c u 2mrw INSHA ALLAH xoxo”

  Right now, sitting in that dark car, speeding through the streets of Riyadh, I couldn’t be happier.

  There is a saying that comes to mind soon after; just when you think you have everything under control, God laughs . . .

  First visit to Doctor Friendly

  HALF AN hour later, we draw up outside the compound. The drivers have been instructed to wait until we are inside before pulling away. I am almost at the gate when a searing pain shoots up my ankle. I double over, dropping everything I am carrying.

  Sultan has seen what has happened and is next to me in an instant. He goes down on one knee and lifts my foot. Any other time, his look of alarm would have been funny. My sandal is nailed to my foot by a screw, most of its length embedded in my heel. I try to dislodge my sandal but the pain is severe and the nail doesn’t budge.

  I sink onto the grass beside the paved concrete. Even in this state, I cannot help noticing the many cats that take refuge under parked cars. They sit and watch us.

  Sultan, bless him, keeps talking, gently, soothingly, in Arabic, as he firmly grips my sandal and pulls it away from my foot. I didn’t anticipate that, and my guttural scream frightens me as much as it does him. For a moment I sit there, eyes closed, trying to catch my breath. I am surprised at the amount of blood that is gushing from the hole.

  I thank him and after assuring him that I am okay, he helps me up. I limp to our flat, leaving a bloody trail on the terracotta tiles in the compound. I have the rusty nail with me, and realise I will have to go for a tetanus shot as the last one I had was as a child. I clean the wound as best I can and wrap it up firmly, more to staunch the flow of blood than anything else.

  I will go to hospital first thing in the morning.

  When I wake up, my heel is swollen out of shape. I phone the princess and after I explain what has happened, she sends Sultan for me straight away. An hour later, I am sitting in the waiting room at the hospital. Although medical aid is part of my contract, it doesn’t quite work that way. The princess pays all the medical bills so you aren’t free to go to a doctor without her knowing. Unless you pay for it yourself.

  This is the family doctor and also a personal friend of the royals, even travelling with them on their trips to Europe. He is not available immediately as it is prayer time. I can’t help wondering what would happen if a patient was at death’s door at prayer time. Insha’Allah I won’t find out. I’ve become used to waiting, so I don’t go anywhere without something to read. I take out Mark’s kindle and settle in.

  Doctor “Friendly” is standing in front of me with a smile and his hand extended. I get up, but jerk backwards forcefully, the neckline of my abaya under my chin. I had stepped on the hem at the back as I got up. He waits with his hand extended and this time I manage the second attempt at stand­ing with a little more dignity.

  He asks where I’m from, then responds by greeting me with, “Goeie môre. Hoe gaan dit?” accompanied by a beaming smile. Sometime in his life he had dated a South African and takes great pride in the few Afrikaans words he can still speak. He is very
talkative and asks me many questions. “How are you enjoying Riyadh?” “How is work going?” “Do you like working for the princess?”

  I did not know that the princess had confided to Mona that Dr Friendly is in love with her. Had she mentioned that, I would have been very wary about what I told him. For this reason, my second visit to him is the beginning of the end . . .

  After the tetanus injection, Sultan is waiting for me, as always. This time he jumps out and opens the door back for me, a courtesy usually reserved for the princess.

  As I limp into the villa, Lilly says the princess is waiting to see me. I knock and she beckons me in. I try not to limp as I walk in but the friendly doc did not give me painkillers. This calls for two myprodols and a shot of whisky but neither is at hand. In this topsy-turvy world, antibiotics are available over the counter but any medication that will make you look at your neighbour twice, is banned. So are pool noodles and anything else deemed phallic.

  The princess is concerned but I assure her I am all right. I am still new on the job and don’t want to give the impression that I’m a hypochondriac, so after the pleasantries, I pull the four centi­metre nail out of my pocket to show the princess the culprit. She shrieks as she whips back as if an invisible force had just backhanded her. Apparently she doesn’t have a strong stomach. Imagine I had shown her the gaping hole in my foot! I limp out backwards.

  A shopping spree with Lilly

  TODAY LILLY is taking me shopping for our villa, to show me the ropes. Although most of our groceries come from the main palace, there are certain items the princess buys that the palace does not. We also need to buy perfume. Who buys 20 bottles of perfume at once? When I see that it lasts about a month, I understand.