Behind Palace Walls Page 7

  It is now four in the morning and I catch my princess’s eye as she beckons me. “You look exhausted. You can go if you like,” she says with a smile. My eyes are still bloodshot and this often gives the impression that I am tired when I am not. Tonight I am. I thank her, wish her a pleasant evening and walk backwards for about 10 steps before turning. Mona is not at all impressed with what she sees as preferential treatment but then again she is employed by the Amira, not my princess.

  As I go outside to the patio to collect my handbag and put on my abaya, I see another driver from our palace waiting at the edge of the expansive lawn. He speaks no English so the two previous times he collected us at the compound, we nodded in greeting. He is in the market van. At least it is bound to smell better at night when it is cooler; the heat only exacerbates the stench of fish.

  Walking towards the steps, looking down and leaning slight­ly forward to get to the bottom buttons of my abaya, I stand on the front hem and feel myself falling forward. Instinctively I know I have the choice of throwing myself to the left into the newly turned flower bed with neat rows of little seedlings or to hit the concrete tiling, straight ahead, five steps down. I twist sideways, abaya billowing behind me, and land on all fours, sinking deeply into the fresh earth.

  I hear an explosion coming from the waiting van. The driver thinks my undignified fall is hilarious. Still on all-fours I turn to see how many of the royals noticed. Fortunately I am out of their line of vision, the five steps towering above me, sheltering me. I collect the bits and pieces from my handbag that are scattered across the little seedlings. God forbid I miss a tampon (think pool noodle!). I stand up to dust myself off. Loud guffaws are still coming from the van.

  The drive home is punctuated by the driver’s sporadic bursts of laughter. I am glad it is dark in the car.

  Desert Christmas

  FRIDAY ARRIVES; I am beyond excited. Besides being my birthday, it is also the day we join the Hash Club for Christmas carols in the desert. The email stated that no Arabs are allowed. Strange thing to just throw out there.

  This is my first desert trip. I arrange to meet Mark at the gate at midday. We drive through the quiet city. Friday is the best day to explore Riyadh as it is the only time the traffic is not frenetic. We head into a part of the city I haven’t seen and I say a silent prayer of thanks that I was placed in the suburb that I was. Mark talks non-stop, relishing his role as guide.

  First we pick up Gail, an American colleague of Mark, then Linda, another colleague and also a fellow Brit. On the trip into the desert, they complain about their jobs, the difficult students and the long hours. Long hours, really? They work from nine to four and get two days off a week, allowing them to plan hiking and camping trips into the desert on weekends. Eventually one of them asks what I am doing in Riyadh. They are surprised at my working hours and conclude that they are rather well off.

  We reach the outskirts of the desert where there is an SR20 entrance fee that includes a choice of two meals. Expats from all over the world have gathered here today. There are three hikes before lunch, a short 10-minute one, a medium hike of 50 minutes and a rather long and strenuous one of an hour and a half. Mark, a long distance runner, goes for the long one. I play it safe and join the medium group.

  We make our way over a rocky hill. The desert is beautiful. After the congestion of the city, the wide open expanse feels wonderful. Midway, we are given oranges and a soft drink. I hear Afrikaans being spoken behind me. I turn to greet the blonde woman in her forties. With much excitement, we swop stories. She is an English teacher. She also complains about the unwilling students but it feels good to interact with some­­one from home. It is short-lived as we start making our way back.

  Groups of picnickers are already scattered round, blankets strewn over the desert sand. Huge bonfires are stacked, ready for the evening. Lines form at the two food tents, for good old boerie rolls with relish or a lamb Schwarma. The aroma of spices coming from the Schwarma tent is far more exotic so I join that queue. The lamb is delicious.

  I guess there must be over a thousand people. I saw this occasion as the ideal way to meet other expats, but everyone is in groups, sticking to those they know. I join Gail and Linda and spread my blanket next to them. They seem friendly enough but are so deep in conversation, I don’t interrupt. They are discussing their love lives. Being privy to their personal conversation, I feel like an intruder. It is starting to get dark and I watch as the organisers set up the Christmas tree lights and light the hundreds of candles in bags of different colours. The effect is beautiful. The hill in front of us is aglow.

  I am still in the same spot, but I’ve given up on trying to make conversation with the two girls I came with. They are not that interested in what is happening beyond their immediate circle. Mark is involved with the lighting so is scarce for the better part of the day.

  Singing along to the Christmas carols brings a lump to my throat; it makes me miss home. So much for celebrating my birthday today. No one even knows it is my birthday. I must confess to a moment of self pity but at the same time feel a little foolish as I’m not usually the type to indulge it. Still the feeling refuses to leave me.

  Linda and Gail excuse themselves and return 10 minutes later with three Styrofoam cups of glühwein. It is piping hot and has something rather strong in it but warms me up nicely in the now chilly desert. I sip it sparingly.

  The bonfires are lit. Rock music has replaced the carols. Still I sit in our spot, conversation scarce and my derrière, numb. I go back to the glühwein table. The queue is long but moves quickly. I smile broadly as I tell the woman serving, “Please may I have another one. It’s my birthday today.” As I say it I realise how pathetic it sounds. For who knows what reason, I felt the need to tell at least one person. The woman replies, “You’re welcome to have another; you don’t have to have an excuse.” Ouch. That was not my intention. Perhaps I just needed to hear one person say “Happy Birthday”, as silly as that seems.

  An icy wind starts up, blowing the embers of the many fires into the crowds. There is a steady stream of headlights as people leave . We wait until last while Mark dismantles the lights. It seems to take forever. I am feeling cold, tired and down. I am among hundreds of people but it just emphasises my loneliness.

  I get a text message alert on my mobile and am surprised and delighted with the message from the princess.

  Happy Happy Birthday Mrs C! Hope this year & all ur coming years be filled with peace, love, success & prosperity! Hope ur enjoying ur special day. Eat looooots of cake for both of us hehehe. Thx 4 being here with me & 4 taking care of me, really appreciate it. Luv u lots & GOD BLESS xoxo.

  Will the princess ever know that her message made my day?

  I don’t say much on the trip home apart from thanking Mark for inviting me.

  As I get back to the compound at 11, I hear laughter and music at the pool. It sounds so inviting but I don’t go. Mona is watching TV in the lounge so I escape to my bedroom to watch a movie on my laptop with earphones on as the TV is blaring.

  Although I did not meet any new people, I am grateful that I could spend the day outside the compound. Despite my bout of self-pity, it was an amazing experience.

  Week three

  TODAY I am cooking for the princess. She asked but does not have an inkling what’s on the menu. I tell her she has to trust me as it is a surprise. By now I have learnt what she likes and what she doesn’t. I make a rich savoury mince inside a red bell pepper, topped with grilled cheese. I sweeten the butter­nut slightly and add a pinch of cinnamon. I pipe the puréed butternut onto her plate in a swirl. I add a small side salad with my homemade citrus dressing.

  One of the girls sets a tray with the princess’s special crock­ery and cutlery, which is kept in her kitchen upstairs. I am tempted to put a flower on the tray but the princess is so deathly scared of any insects that all the plants in her villa are fake. “Real plants bring insects,” she explains. I put on the rubber gl
oves and take her tray upstairs.

  Mona is with the princess. As I enter the bedroom, I notice that she scrutinises the plate of food. No doubt she could do it better. The look on her face reveals that she doesn’t like the fact that the princess seems excited at the prospect of my cooking.

  Lilly places a towel on her bed to protect the linen and the tray is placed in front of her. She looks happy and a little intrigued. I wish her a pleasant meal and leave the room.

  Half an hour later I am called up. Mona is still with the princess and is scowling as the princess raves about the dinner.

  At half past 11, I arrive at our compound. I am tired, and relieved to be home after a long day, As I walk through the gate, I bump into Serge and a friend on their way to the pool bar. His exuberant pleasure at our accidental meeting is so obvious that I allow myself to be persuaded to join them for coffee. I ask for 10 minutes to unload the abaya and change into something casual. (With a spritz of perfume.)

  He is the first to see me nearing from a distance. His smile says it all. The chemistry takes up where it left off with a vengeance and with no regard for whether both parties want to play His gentleness and ability to make me laugh when I least expected to, endear him to me far more than I was planning to be endeared by anyone in this strange country.

  Once again, Serge stands up when I get up to leave. He leans in and kisses me on both cheeks.

  Mona arrives home an hour after me. She is in a foul mood as once again as she was not paid on time. Our contracts state that we are paid on the first of every month. It has never been a problem so far but tonight, Mona is looking for any excuse to rant about the royals. So she will get paid tomorrow, on the 3rd. It is not as if she is starving.

  “Arabella (as she calls the princess when we are alone) bloody well exhausts me!” she says as she puts her bags down. “Why do I have to sit with her and listen to all her crap?!” I say nothing but can’t help thinking, “Oh Mona, cut the act.”

  I get ready for bed but Mona has one more thing to add: “Oh by the way, I have to mention to you that there is a layer of dust on the white chandeliers in the entrance hall so you’d better see to it tomorrow before the princess sees it.”

  I am torn between thanking her kindly and telling her to fuck off. It seems I am catching on to the universal language that also seems common in Saudi. I know for a fact that the chandeliers are cleaned every day. I saw Sunny on the ladder earlier on in the day. Mona’s insecurities really bring the worst out in her.

  Mona

  I CAN sense that Mona is not too enamoured about my budding friendship with Serge. Up to now, though, she hasn’t dared say anything.

  At home, there is no space for my groceries in the freezer as it is packed with little tidbits of leftover food that Mona has hoarded over time. Some bits are as small as matchboxes, all neatly wrapped in foil. Only she would know what these are. Four boxes of old chips, bought with KFC chicken months ago, take pride of place in the freezer door.

  I close a blind, she opens it. God help me if I put a dish back in the wrong place. I understand that Mona is a perfectionist but she is of the type that spend their lives trying to drag people up to their standards. What makes their beliefs standards? I am seething. We are heading for a showdown that has been building up for a while.

  Another bone of contention is that Mona invites a lot of people over every Friday so the day can never be spent relax­ing in a peaceful environment. Mona also feels compelled to feed the guests breakfast and lunch. The constant clanging of dishes and loud voices rules out an occasional afternoon nap, such a luxury with the long hours we work. Watching TV is also out as Mona feels that it is noisy, and a conversation killer. An adder is slowly making its way up my spine.

  Curiouser and curiouser

  I ARRIVE at work to be informed by Lilly that the princess is getting ready for another appointment. While I wait to be called up, I take the ladder out. Balancing on the top rung, I check all the chandeliers in the entrance hall and the two in the lounge. They are spotless, as I knew they would be.

  Is it a coincidence that Mona comes in a little later with a tray of special eats she had made for the princess after I left home? I think not.

  Lilly steams the princess’s abaya and after spraying it with perfume, it is hung outside the princess’s door. I suddenly real­ise with a sinking feeling that I did not bring an extra pair of sandals as I always do. I am wearing Crocs, which I remove when I enter the villa. Many a day I put my shoes or sandals back on only when it is time to go home.

  Lilly keeps looking at my feet. She offers me a pair of her shoes but they are far too small. I will just have to try and hide the offending shoes with my abaya. The princess steps out of her room and I stand ready, holding her abaya, I help her get into it. She is not in a good mood. We complete the dressing in silence. I make sure I walk a good couple of steps behind her.

  Sultan is ready as usual and opens the car door for the princess. The smell of perfume in the car is so overwhelming that I can hardly breathe. We are about five minutes into our journey when the princess spots the Crocs. “What are those?!” she shouts, pointing at my feet. I try to explain. She explodes into a rage. “What are you thinking going out with me in such shoes?!” She is looking at me with unbridled disgust. All I can do is apologise. I am now the one who is called an imbecile by the princess. She clicks her tongue a couple of times and shakes her head from side to side to emphasise her unhappiness.

  Clucking her tongue and shaking her head while looking at you as if you have just crept out of a bin when she is displeased is the one thing the princess does that drives me nuts. Mona says she has learnt this habit from the Amir. It is so insulting that you can’t help but bristle at it.

  Just after my apology, Sultan brakes a bit sharply, jerking both of us forward in the back seat. The princess fires off a barrage of insults in Arabic and his soft answer is lost to me. She clucks her tongue again and mutters “idiot” under her breath. It must be an interesting journey, being accompanied by an imbecile and an idiot.

  The princess steps out of the car, swathed in black, the huge sunglasses firmly in place. I don’t quite understand what the fuss is about as she is so unrecognisable and she herself is wearing sneakers.

  She is walking fast and I battle to keep up with her but I make sure the door opening goes off smoothly. The princess is so annoyed as we get to the lift that she pushes the button herself. With her elbow. The lift takes too long so we walk up the stairs to the first floor reception. Who takes a lift for one floor anyway, I think. Thank goodness the doctor is available immediately so the princess is escorted into his rooms. I settle in for a long wait. The kindle is fully charged.

  There is no conversation on the way home. I fix my gaze out of my window. As we get to the palace, she abruptly opens the car door herself and strides towards her villa. Now, I keep to about 10 paces behind her. I am not there to open the front door for her. I am an imbecile.

  Lilly calls me into her room where my bright new uniforms are hanging on cheap coat hangers. My God, they are ghastly!

  I arrive home with the stack of uniforms draped over my arm. Mona doesn’t hide her delight as she laughs at the multi-coloured, shapeless uniforms. This just confirms her nastiness but I choose to ignore it. “You look like an inmate,” she laughs as I disappear into the shower, offering no response.

  It is still relatively early so we go out to the pool for a coffee. I tell her what happened. “Never forget, it is us against them!” she says with passion. Something she repeats often. I marvel at the different roles Mona plays. At home she rants against the behaviour of the royals but at work she acts like a saint. Her excessive sweetness with my princess galls me, as she speaks scathingly about her at home.

  Living with Mona has become almost unbearable. She still sees the flat as hers. I suggested we get a pot plant or two and she replied with, “Well, we will see.” I get a pot plant for my room and leave it at that.

  On
e day Mona gets home two hours after me, livid. “Princess Arabella stole my identity!” I get out of bed and put the kettle on while Mona changes out of her work clothes. She explains. An American doctor offers a special, individualised diet on the basis of responses to an intensive online questionnaire. After the princess had listed all her ailments, she was turned down for the programme. She re-entered, using Mona’s home address and identity.

  Mona tells me the princess has been pestering two German girls, scrutinising their Facebook profiles daily. She wants them to work for her and cannot accept that they turned her down. What the princess doesn’t know is that Mona knows both girls personally. Every time the princess tells Mona to phone them to try to change their minds, Mona does the opposite, warning them, telling them not to accept the prin­cess’s offer.

  One day there is a threatening message on the princess’s timeline written by one of the girls. The princess freaks out. She asks me if they will be able to see how many times some­one has looked at their Facebook profile. “I am not certain but will try and find out,” I assure her. She is actually scared. I phone my nephew, an IT specialist in Cape Town and he assures me you cannot, but you can be traced by the IP address, right to the chair you are sitting on. This stops the princess in her tracks; she gives up on them.

  I speak to a good looking Syrian in his early thirties at the pool that evening. The others call him “the Playboy” as he tries to seduce any new girl at the compound. More often than not, his pursuits are successful. He mentions that there is a one-bedroom flat going vacant. I discreetly ask him for the details. He tells me he has the contact number for the owner at his flat. We make an arrangement to meet at his apartment the following day.

  He welcomes me to his flat as if he is starved for conversation. He offers me coffee and cookies, and takes out a bowl of crisps and peanuts. The coffee table in the lounge resembles a picnic although I am only there to pick up the number. He suddenly gets up from the chair he is sitting on and joins me on the two-seater couch.