Behind Palace Walls Page 8

  We make small talk till he suddenly leans over and hugs me. It seems innocent enough so I briefly hug him back. He doesn’t let go. I pull myself away and stand up to leave. At the door, he pulls me into a hug that is far too close for comfort – he is pushing his groin into me. I pull away quite forcefully and tell him Mona is waiting for me. On the way back to my flat with a crumpled piece of paper clutched in my sweaty hand, I marvel at how brazen this man is.

  I join Mona at the kitchen table and jump right in. “There is a one-bedroom flat going vacant and I am going to speak to the princess about it.” Mona’s eyes are wide as she stutters, “Um, um, the princess will never allow it. She complains about the cost of this apartment every month. It’s not a good idea!” By now I can read Mona so much better; she is afraid that the princess will find out what a bully she has been. I can clearly see it on her face. All I offer as I get up to get ready for work is, “Well, we will see.”

  The last thing I hear before I close the bathroom door is Mona repeating, “It is not a good idea!” She is worried about the princess finding out why I want to move into my own place. One thing I know, the princess will not be tolerant of Mona’s territorial behaviour.

  Desert dinner

  PRINCESS ARABELLA calls me up to her room. She is in a happy mood and childlike in her excitement as she tells me to prepare as we are heading into the desert tomorrow evening. No travelling arrangement is discussed with any of the staff until the day before an event. This is a safety precaution, adhered to strictly by the entire extended royal family. It makes for an extremely stressful time for the staff lower on the hierarchy as they have to get everything together in a couple of hours.

  My princess’s preparations start early in the morning. Outfit after outfit is brought up from the basement as she decides what to wear for the night. By the time she has made a selection, every available surface in her vast bedroom is covered with piles of discarded clothes.

  “Dress warmly,” she says, smiling from ear to ear. She is sitting crossed-legged on her bed, her knees bouncing up and down as she excitedly tells me what to expect. She is so utterly endearing when she is in this mood. How I wish I could reach her and show her that there is more to life than this gilded cage. Her nasty moods are embedded in past hurts that she clings to as tightly as she does to Allah.

  The drivers are on standby and start at six in the morning, carting truckloads of goods to kit out the royal tents in the desert. Persian carpets, pillows, music systems, snacks, exquisite chocolates and enough soft drinks for a month. We accompany our individual princesses in their cars and the royal convoy sets out for the desert at around two in the afternoon.

  The princess is suddenly in a bad mood and sits staring sullenly out of the window. Apart from shouting at the driver a couple of times, she does not utter a word which dampens my excitement but that is not my main concern. When she is like this, huge issues can arise at any time, whether imagined or real.

  Every time we hit a bump, she shakes her head and clucks her tongue. After an hour and a half of travelling, 30 minutes of it extremely bumpy as there is no specific road to follow, we arrive at the camping site. I help the princess out and take her abaya and handbag for safekeeping. We have not spoken one word during the trip. I have a knot in my stomach. It is late afternoon and I have no way of knowing how long we will be in the desert.

  I have asked Serge to feed the cats tonight although I know that, after living in Saudi for almost 20 years, he probably feels the same way about them as the locals. At least he has the good sense not to admit it to me.

  Several large tents are dotted around a huge sand dune. The vast desert stretches out from it as far as you can see. One of the tents, with plump pillows strewn around, is the men’s lounge for the drivers and other male staff. Huge bonfires are stacked and ready for the cold desert night.

  The main tent for the royals is a beautiful dark red with a gold leaf pattern spreading across the ceiling. Fairy lights are wrapped around the wooden poles that bring electricity to the tent. The beautiful Persian carpets overlap to allow no sand in and large grass bowls of assorted chocolates and snacks are placed within reach of the seating. Once everyone is seated on the pillows on the carpets, a vibey Arabian rock song starts playing. Mona and I look at one another and smile. Prince Abdullah is at the controls. He is the youngest son of two brothers. He is devastatingly beautiful. He has a gentle grace and has a ready smile.

  The women make themselves comfortable in the main tent and I watch as all the men line up outside, facing Mecca for the afternoon prayer. It is a hauntingly beautiful sight as they go down on their knees and touch their foreheads to the sand.

  Once the royals are settled, Mona and I explore the individual tents erected for preparations. A beautiful goat is enclosed in a pen. It does not take much to guess where Billy the kid is heading. I stroke its fluffy head. The light brown eyes looking up at me are knowing. Two magnificent horses are tied up to a nearby pole in waiting for any of the royals who would like to take a ride. Four quad bikes are parked close by for the amusement of the royals’ children.

  I am surprised to see two toilets, not unlike the hired ones seen on construction sites standing, about a hundred metres from the nearest tent. There is no toilet for the men, and one is for the royal family only. A hose hangs next to them. Every toilet in Saudi either has a bidet or a hose. The hose in our flat is cold water only.

  Two chefs from a local restaurant in Riyadh come out at about 10 to start preparing the food on huge open fires outside the dining tent. They are Syrian, both very attractive young men and outrageous flirts. Mona and I spend some time bantering with them.

  We are positioned near the entrance in case we are needed as the royal family are seated inside, having their dinner. The food – spicy beef kebabs, steak strips and lamb chops – comes in off the fire at regular intervals. There are platters of the traditional Middle Eastern hummous, baba ganoush and tabouleh salad that accompany almost every meal and there in the middle of them lies Billy, in pieces, on a disc of rice about a metre in diameter.

  We are called in for dinner next. Once again, the hierarchy is strictly followed. After the royal family, the PAs dine next and once we are finished, we call the teachers and nannies. After them are the Filipino servants and only then do the men take over the dining tent. No woman is allowed inside while they eat.

  It is now two o’ clock in the morning and it is freezing. After supervising the clean up in the dining tent, Mona and I join the royals in the main tent. Our job is to sit and wait. We chat and eat chocolate, the only way we can stay awake. Sitting for hours on end doing nothing is difficult, especially for an A-type personality, but fighting to stay awake is even more difficult.

  Prince Abdullah walks over to where Mona and I are sitting. He holds his hand out to me and I blindly take what he is offering. Next he passes some to Mona. It is Bedouin bread that the prince has baked himself on the open fire. It is delicious. “I have been fed from the hands of a prince; I can happily die now” I tell Mona as we both dissolve in a fit of giggles.

  The princesses are dancing in a slow, sensuous rhythm, all moving in one direction then turning simultaneously, their arms forming patterns in the air. It is a pleasure to watch. Each woman seems to be lost in her own world while weaving back and forth.

  For a moment I focus on the Amira, my princess’s mother. She is the most beautiful and graceful woman I have met in a long time. At all times this princess is the epitomy of a lady. She looks years younger than her 40-something age and her dress sense borders on bohemian. I am fascinated by her. She has a gliding walk and I love the fact that wherever she sits she puts her legs up and tucks her feet under her. She always has a smile and laughs readily.

  The haunting Arabic melodies reach far into the desert night. I get a text message from Serge, “Princess Sahara, when will you be home? I am missing you . . .” My smile lingers long after the message is read.

  Again Prince Abdu
llah makes his way over to where we are sitting and again his outstretched arm offers a secret delight. I take it from his hand and wait for Mona to receive hers before I look at what we’ve been given. In my hand lies a pink­ish piece of liver from Billy the goat. I look at Mona with big eyes while the prince towers over us, waiting for us to eat it.

  Mona takes a bite as if it is the tastiest morsel she has ever eaten. Did I mention that she is smitten with the prince? The cold piece of liver lies heavily in my hand. I am next so I close my eyes and take a small bite. It is not pleasant; it is actually one of the grossest things I have ever tasted. I smile up at the prince as my fantasy dies a horrible death. No amount of 7Up can wash the taste from my mouth.

  At four in the morning, platters of cakes are brought in with strong Arabic coffee. This is a ritual that takes place daily. A staggering variety of cakes, one outdoing the other is spread out in a lavish display, as well as trays of desserts. One of the Filipino girls from the main palace, by order of the princess, dishes up for us and presents us with two plates stacked with at least six slices of cake each. I had forgotten that this is how the royals do it – dish up large servings, have a mouthful or two from each slice, and discard the rest.

  After the cake, there’s another stretch of about an hour of just sitting. “I am so cold that if the Mutawa drove past, I’d willingly give myself up for 50 lashes because at least that would warm me up!” I say, through chattering teeth. We are so tired that my comment sets off a fit of giggles. And after that we are in hysterics at the smallest thing. Discreetly of course.

  At six, I get the nod from a Filipino staff member from the main palace. I fetch the princess’s belongings from the “women’s tent”. At half past six, the drivers line up the cars and we start the trek back to the palace.

  Much of the staff stays behind to pack up. This is a job that will take the better part of the day and Mona and I are relieved that we are spared this as it is Friday morning – and our day off.

  The princess is tired but seems in a better mood than when we arrived and for that I am grateful. She throws a “Nighty night, Mrs C” over her shoulder as I close the front door behind her. Sultan is ready to take me home. I am frozen to the bone and tired. As we pass the gates, Eli smiles at me as he makes eye contact through my open window. As we leave the palace grounds, I wind the window up.

  I’d learned, the hard way, that women are not allowed to drive in a car with a window open. When I turned the window down on one of the main routes home, Sultan almost flipped the car in his haste to close it with one arm bent backward at an unnatural angle, pumping the handle, trying to drive with the other.

  We get home at 10 o’clock. Serge has invited me to stop by for coffee on my way in. I decline, but agree to meet up later in the day. Even though today is Friday, we sleep away the better part of the day.

  Feeling refreshed and wide awake after the deep sleep, I hit the shower. As I lather the shampoo, I eagerly anticipate the prospect of an afternoon with Serge.

  At five, Mona and I join Serge at the pool. It is a gentle afternoon with much laughter. Mona’s guests have once again joined us. The smell of shisha pipes and the Arabian music from the huge TV mounted to the boundary wall makes for a heady combination. I almost make a point of keeping my distance from Serge. Yet his eyes never leave me. At eight, after too many coffees, I excuse myself, wish everyone a pleasant night, and go to feed the cats.

  As I empty the last of the pellets out of the bowl, a woman speaks right behind me in a loud voice, startling me. “Why you feed these cats?” she asks, in an annoyed tone. “No good feeding these cats,” she says. “No, no, no good,” she says again, emphatically. I turn around to see a local Saudi woman in her early twenties, quite plump from all the food she has to eat.

  Right at that moment, Mr Grey hurtles up to me but as he passes the woman, she kicks out at him. Although she narrowly misses him, I see red. I unleash all the hurt and fury I have felt at the mistreatment of cats in Saudi Arabia on her.

  She did not see this coming and takes a few steps back at my outpour. “What the hell has it got to do with you if I choose to feed them?! Look at them, for God’s sake, they are starving!“ I glare at her but she says nothing. “You disgust me. You should be ashamed of yourself,” I end off, before turning back to the compound with Mr Grey at my feet, walking me to the compound door, as he always does.

  On a roll

  SO WE start a new week. I have a lot of enthusiastic plans to ensure that it goes off as smoothly as possible. Once at work, I put in an order to the main palace for the ingredients I’ll need for the princess’s dinner tonight.

  I am served dinner at the villa every night. At four in the afternoon, Lilly collects my tray from the chalet kitchen. The first couple of times I can only stare at all the food in shock. Three trays, one with four different pastas, another heaped with savoury pastries and at least three different salads, and the last tray so packed with meat that it could easily feed 10 people. Grilled chicken, grilled fish, a couple of pieces of steak and lamb kebabs fill the tray.

  After a couple of weeks of this, I ask Lilly to be more selective and bring me less food. Yet, with all the good food I still lose five kilograms during my first month in Saudi. The princess laughingly envies my weight loss. I don’t doubt the adjustment to the heat had something to do with it.

  I am making chicken pie with a few accompanying dishes. As I position the puff pastry over the chicken, I keep some of the dough aside. In an attempt to pull off the wow factor, as we were taught at the academy, I cut out the letters PA, for Princess Arabella from the leftover dough and place the letters on top of the pie crust. I place a dish of baby marrows in a cream sauce in the oven alongside the pie. So far so good. The girls are bustling around the busy kitchen in order to see the outcome.

  The princess lets Lilly know that she is ready to be served. The tray is carried upstairs and I must admit, the food looks scrumptious.

  The princess watches in silence as Lilly puts down the towel in preparation as I stand waiting to place the tray onto her bed. As she gets a better view of the tray, she claps her hands together. “Mrs C, that looks wonderful!” she responds gleefully.

  I wish her bon appétit and feeling happy, I leave her to enjoy her dinner.

  On the trip home, I sit in silence, feeling contented with how the day went but also relieved that it had ended on such a happy note.

  Apart from the princess periodically shouting at the staff, the week progresses without any incident so serious that it is deemed to deserve punishment. For that I am grateful.

  I dedicate one day to laundry duties. The pieces of the princess’s clothing that need to go to Madam Lorraine, the dressmaker, for alterations are put to one side. Lilly calls switchboard and asks Sultan to collect the clothes. We unpack the many shelves that have become slightly disarrayed and repack the contents in groups. Lilly watches with big eyes as I empty the overflowing vacuum cleaner. I show her step by step how to clean the vacuum bag. Next I show her how to clean the filters in the washing machine and tumble dryer. I am happy that Lilly looks impressed.

  On Thursday the princess calls me up to her room. She is in a wonderful mood and I bask in it while it lasts. She has stacked some of her designer handbags in a corner and tells me that I am welcome to them. “They are real designer bags,” she tells me as if that should mean something to me. I have never been a label orientated person but two of the bags are beautiful and I thank her profusely, as she would expect.

  Some of the bags have seen better days but it would not be correct to turn them down. A variety of elaborate scarves, also for me, lie in a pile on her bed.

  As an afterthought, the princess adds, “Don’t tell Mrs M that I gave them to you.” I feel a surge of irritation and before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “What my employer decides to give me has nothing to do with Mrs M!” I am surprised when the princess laughs out loud and replies, “Mrs C, I like you!”

  Anywa
y, it is not possible to hide such a large stash of goods from Mona as we leave the palace together at the end of the evening. I do however offer Mona the bags I know I won’t use and I throw in some scarves just to keep the peace.

  All in all it is a good week and I happily look forward to my day off.

  Friday

  FRIDAY MORNING I bound out of bed while the whole world is still asleep. As they work until midnight, socialising until all hours of the morning is commonplace. Most of the Arab nation sleeps away the better part of the next day and the expats follow suit so at eight, I feel as if I have the compound to myself.

  These early mornings have become my favourite time of the day. I wake around seven and Mona sleeps until at least 11 most mornings. As I don’t want to disturb her, I take my laptop and a cup of coffee and sit at the pool. It is deserted at that time of the morning and I love the solitude. Apart from the call to prayer that breaks the stillness of the morning, nothing moves. A previous king declared that every man, no matter how poor, should have access to a mosque for prayers so they are all within walking distance of one another. At the announcement of the call to prayer, you hear the singing from at least five mosques at once.

  I am laughing at the emails of friends and loving the pros­pect of having the day off. Today I am downloading a couple of documentaries on South Africa for the princess. During one of our chats, I asked her if I could accompany her to South Africa for a visit. The princess laughed at my suggestion, say­ing her father would never allow it.

  Two weeks ago Mona came across a recipe for pineapple beer on the Internet and we decided to test it. Our first and second batches of seven litres were greatly welcomed and applauded by our friends. It tastes like cider and is refreshing in the heat. Initially it created quite a mess as the stickiness was hard to remove from the floors even after mopping sev­eral times over, but now the operation is smooth and effort­less. All that is needed is yeast, pineapples, sugar, raisins and lukewarm water.