Behind Palace Walls Read online

  We have organised a barbeque this afternoon with our new friends from last week. I am in a terrific mood at the prospect of normality. The week before, Mona and I brewed up a triple quantity of pineapple beer. It was an extremely good batch and began bubbling just hours after completion. Six days later we decant it into one and a half litre plastic bottles. The recipe says decant after three days.

  We emptied the fridge of groceries as 20 litres of highly explosive pineapple beer takes pride of place. We are to learn that the longer pineapple beer stands, the stronger it gets. It develops a fizziness that is refreshing but also dangerous if left out of the fridge as the tops tend to blow off. A hilarious fact that saw a friend hit the floor when the first one popped. Out of the fridge, the plastic bottles swell up to such a degree that they fall over as the bottle bulges like a rugby ball.

  When I opened one of these, the plastic top shot off, slamming into my hand. Within 10 minutes, I had a lump on the side of my hand the size of a golf ball. The princess, alarmed at seeing the huge bruise and swelling on my hand the following day, was quick to inquire what happened. With fingers crossed behind my back, I told her I had tripped over my abaya. This happens regularly so I don’t feel too bad about the untruth.

  The subtle seduction that seems to be ongoing is also not far from my mind. I am looking forward to seeing Serge again. Back at the flat, Mona has started breakfast and also seems to be in a good mood which enhances my happiness.

  After a leisurely morning, we make our way outside. The greeting is warm and welcoming. Hugs all round. The guys provide the meat and a couple of bottles of wine. We proudly present our offering of salads, cheese platters and pineapple beer, which draws a lot of interest and admiration.

  He is last in line to be greeted. We kiss on both cheeks, and he sneaks in a third as I pull away. He tells me that in Lebanon everyone kisses three times. The other Lebanese guys laugh at the obvious lie. My God, he smells good. He looks at me with a boyish grin as he pulls out the chair next to him. The platters are largely ignored. We are encouraged to have some of their wine as they sample the pineapple “juice”.

  It is a delightful afternoon with easy chatter getting rowdier as the juice levels drop. He is never far from my side.

  Many discussions bounce around the table. I listen to the Lebanese guys discussing Saudi women. Every one of them has had a short-term sexual relationship with a Saudi woman. Local women who are virgins only participate in anal sex as they have to be virgins if they want to marry a Muslim man. The guys don’t seem to mind. For the local woman who are divorced, this obviously doesn’t apply.

  Arab women are beautiful – there’s no mistaking their allure. The only way these women are able to express their individ­uality is through their handbags, shoes and sunglasses. I often see women at Tamimi’s wearing sequined stiletto sandals, their feet immaculately pedicured.

  We have regrouped and again Serge pulls out the chair for me right next to him. His crystal rosary is a great ice-breaker. He takes my hand into his to demonstrate how to hold the rosary so the beads glide easily. He smiles at my clumsiness – which is directly the result of him holding my hand. There is no denying the current that passes between us, unnoticed by the others. The expression on his face confirms that he has heard my sharp intake of breath and he looks at me searchingly.

  It is late; I need to think. I excuse myself and say my goodbyes. He invites me to tea at his flat tomorrow evening after work. Although he lives only two doors down, the invitation promises entry into a whole new world. I accept. We exchange numbers.

  My logic fights this attraction. I see the pitfalls and complications, time constraints and illegalities. It’s just tea, I think. I don’t even have to take R10 for a taxi, as my father made me do years ago when I started dating in college.

  I give Serge no more thought as Saturday morning hits with a vengeance. The copious amounts of vitamin C imbibed the day before is taking its toll. Even Mona is quiet for once. She makes us omelettes for lunch, I ask for mine blander than usual. Lethargic and reluctant in the extreme, we get ready for work at four.

  Lockdown

  THE DRIVE to the palace is a stressful one as we are collect­ed in the van that transports fish and fresh vegetables from the market at the crack of dawn. The palace cars are unavail­able because the Amir has gone to the farm for the evening. The amount of staff, luggage, food and luxuries that are taken with on such a trip, even just for one night, leaves the royal women disgruntled as there are no drivers left to pander to their demands.

  The heat and the stench in the van turn my stomach but I manage to hold myself together.

  As I enter the villa, I immediately sense the tension. The girls are scurrying around, absorbed in their own thoughts and not easily drawn into answering my probing questions. I am trying to find out what the problem is but no one is talking. I’ve learnt that when the staff are behaving like this, it means the princess has woken up in a bad mood, which severely affects how she treats them. I change out of my abaya and before I start my rounds, I go up to greet the princess. Her door is closed. This is never a good sign.

  I start up in the laundry. As usual, Lilly accompanies me as we go through the day’s laundry and dry cleaning list. Her dedication amazes me. She refuses to look at me. I can see that she has been crying. No matter how hard I try, I cannot get anything out of them. They seem scared to death.

  At half past six, Lilly comes down to the kitchen and informs us that the princess wants us to gather in the pool house for a meeting. She will join us in 15 minutes. I grab my note­book and pen, happy that there is some action to follow yet with an unease I can’t explain. The girls wait inside the lavishly decorated pool room while I sit at the patio table outside. Fifteen minutes pass slowly, then I hear the unmistakable click of the front door. We are locked out. I call Lilly and when I tell her this, she looks terrified. Obviously they know something I don’t. Has this happened to them before? She is evasive.

  An hour and a half passes. I keep myself busy with the lists in my notebook in case the princess makes an appearance but I am sure this was never her intention. Suddenly piercing screams and what sounds like sobbing come from the prin­cess’s room. After two hours, we are called back inside. I have a call from switchboard advising me that the driver is at the main gate, waiting to take me home. I am still clueless.

  I find it strange that my bag is not quite in the same place as I left it when I arrived. Before I leave the villa, I go upstairs to say goodnight to the princess but her door is closed. I can’t get out of there fast enough. I head straight downstairs to pack up my laptop. There is a text message waiting for me, “I am waiting for you on the gate with cake.” Oh my God, I had completely forgotten that I would be meeting up with Serge tonight. On the gate?

  The traffic is not as congested as usual and sooner rather than later we arrive at the compound. I am tense as I try to make sense of what has happened tonight. I don’t think meet­ing up with Serge now is good timing but at the same time, I can’t cancel. It is, after all, just tea. Another text message has me laughing as I read, “Captain and crew awaiting your arrival . . .” Perhaps this won’t be too bad, though the timing could have been better.

  I freshen up and change into something comfortable. As I come around the corner, I am surprised to find Serge stand­ing in the doorway of the passage leading to his flat, with a smile so sweet and an arm outstretched to take my hand. He leads me into his flat. I follow him into the lounge where he suddenly turns for the customary kisses on the cheek. His smell eradicates the last of my common sense for the day.

  Twelve cupcakes in assorted flavours line the coffee table. That’s not unusual but Serge doesn’t eat cake so it is all for me. My love for tiramisu is born. Much to my delight, the quiet man at the pool turns out to be quite a conversationalist and comedian. We laugh often, and I note his good manners with pleasure.

  He tells me about his family life in Lebanon. I am mesmerised. He share
s stories of the joys and ordeals of producing the yearly quota of arak on the family farm.

  I go very still when he says that he is still married, though he and his wife have been separated for three years. The reason that neither of them has filed for divorce is that they are not only Catholics but Maronites.

  Traditionally, Maronites are the most powerful cultural group in Lebanon. According to the Lebanese constitution, they hold the Lebanese presidency. Divorce is forbidden for Maronites.

  Their house is rented out; his wife has moved back to the family farm where her parents live. When Serge goes home, he stays on his parents’ farm. He has two children, a daughter of 19 and a son aged 17, in his last year of school. They are a family of architects and lawyers, his daughter just enter­ing her first year of architecture at the University of Lebanon.

  His son is a racing fan. Although he doesn’t yet race, he dreams of doing this, a nightmare for Serge. He throws his hands in the air, grinning broadly as he says his son his headstrong. Serge beams when he speaks about them.

  After two cups of tea, we progress from the uncomfortable Victorian couch to the floor onto duvets and pillows Serge has piled around. At four in the morning, we are still absorbed in conversation but what I am likely to face in a couple of hours’ time forces me to call it a night – or, more accurately a morning. How fast time flies when I am with him.

  The following day . . .

  ONE DAY at the palace is as good as the next is a nightmare. Not knowing what I’m about to face cements the knot in my stomach. A day may start well only for something to set the princess off. Her voice carries as far as the main palace as she screams at the staff. Bad moods can last for days on end. It is like walking a tight rope. Every day there is an underlying tension in the villa that is briefly relieved when the princess has a good day. My spastic colon is having a field day.

  When I arrive at the palace, the staff are not in the basement. I go up to greet the princess to find the four girls sitting on the carpet next to the princess’s bed. She has a terrible scowl on her face. She tells me, in front of them, that they all deserve to go to prison. “They have sinned!” she shouts. I stand dead still, waiting for her to continue. She suddenly changes her mind, chases the girls out and asks me to sit.

  How I dislike these lengthy sessions; the couch at the foot of her bed faces forward so the top half of my body is turned awkwardly towards the princess. Protocol demands – or, more accurately, Mona has told me – that both feet should be on the floor when talking to the princess. After a mere 15 mi­n­utes, the contortion makes my back ache.

  “I found indecent photos of the staff on their cameras,” she says with disgust.

  “Indecent, Your Highness?” I ask. “They belong in jail!” she spits out. In one photo, Sunny is posing up against the Amir’s Porsche, which incenses the princess. Good God, these women are just trying to inject a bit of fun into their lives. Nothing I hear from the princess even remotely makes me believe they deserve prison.

  I find the staff sitting around the basement kitchen table eating lunch. Lilly’s eyes are swollen from crying. I put the kettle on and pull out a chair. “What happened this morning?” I ask gently. This prompts more tears from Lilly and she tries to blame it on missing her family. Sunny opens up and I lis­ten with a growing feeling of dismay at what these girls go through.

  “The princess found photos on our cameras.” I wait for her to continue at her own pace. She gets up and walks to her room to fetch her camera. The first photo horrifies me. Big dark blue bruises the size of the palm of my hand cover Lilly’s left thigh. Sunny explains that the princess kicked Lilly and is furious that she has documented the beating. “What are you planning to do with these photos?” the princess screamed. There is another photo that shows distinct finger bruises on Sunny’s upper arm where the princess grabbed her and shook her. I am stunned but remain completely calm.

  They tell me that in most royal households, after the royals beat a servant, they offer the girls money or jewellery. The amount is dependent on the severity of the beating. If the staff member accepts the offer, the incident is forgiven and not spoken about again.

  I ask them if this is the case with them as well. Sunny excuses herself from the table and returns with a large jewellery box filled with cheap trinkets. Each girl has one of these. The evidence of the number of beatings she has received in her thirty months here lies before my eyes.

  The two Filipino girls are now crying openly. They take turns telling me their stories. One of the photos the princess is most upset about shows Lilly with a banana in her hand, doubling as a microphone, singing along to the radio as she entertains a group of girls in her home town. This is long before she took up her positions in Saudi. Harmless fun – but the princess believes the photo depicts Lilly simulating oral sex.

  So this is why we were locked out. The princess had gone through the girl’s computers, cell phones and personal belongings. I know my own bag was searched too but I have no incriminating evidence on me after being warned that the palace is able to intercept text messages and emails. Thank God I took my camera out of my bag before coming to work as it would have revealed our pride in a good batch of pine­apple beer documented in photographs.

  Then Sunny says something that confirms that I am not losing it. Of 16 PAs in the past five years since the princess moved back home, only one stayed for the duration of her one-year contract and the only reason was that she had no­where to go. One in 16?! This doesn’t make me feel better. Lilly adds that one PA was so desperate to leave that she faked cancer and was sent home on medical grounds.

  Another PA faked a sibling’s death and got permission to go home for the funeral but never returned.

  My contract stipulates that I am only allowed to go home on compassionate leave if a parent or sibling passes away. Both my parents have passed away. I wrack my brains as to which sibling I can kill off but the thought doesn’t last long.

  Room inspections

  IN THE middle of the new week, I arrive at work to scream­ing from upstairs. A feeling of dread washes over me. The princess had asked the maids to send me up the minute I arrived.

  I kick off my shoes before I make my way upstairs. Sunny is standing in front of the princess with her head bowed. She is crying. The princess is furious. She proceeds to tell me what the latest transgression is.

  Earlier in the day the princess made a surprise visit to the girl’s bedrooms. She found a bowl of sugar in Sunny’s room. My instructions are to open their cupboards and throw all their clothes on the floor. Not just Sunny’s, all of them. The princess is in such a rage that I dare not say anything but, “Yes, Your Highness.”

  I gather the girls into the basement kitchen. I don’t know whose cupboard to start with. Lilly calls me into her room. Trying to be proactive, she has all her clothes already piled up on the bed. But if the princess suddenly appears behind me to check up, we all go down the Suwanee. Lilly reads my thoughts and throws the clothes on the floor.

  Next I go into Mami and Maria’s room. They understand that I don’t have a choice. I remove piles of folded clothing but instead of throwing them on the floor, I pile the heaps of clothes as neatly as possible on their bedside carpets. These girls have so many items of cheap clothing that their cupboards bulge and to repack it all would be a waste of time.

  I try to make it a light-hearted task as I laugh at Sunny’s shoe collection. She has about 15 pairs of sneakers, all in different colours, and some with lace or sequins on them. Her sandal collection alone would put Imelda Marcos to shame. She has nowhere to wear them in Riyadh but will have a field day back home.

  I go up to the princess to let her know that the task is done. I am told to type out a rules list, have it enlarged and to put one on both of their bedroom doors. I am to do regular room inspections when the girls least expect it.

  The list that the princess has prepared for me is ridiculous. I do it anyway. The princess has calmed down and I woul
d like to keep it that way. Tomorrow is Friday and it could not have come sooner. This whole week at work has been tense and I feel completely drained.

  The DQ

  AS I feel confident that Serge seems to know what he is do­ing, I allow myself to be persuaded to go out alone with him for the day. I have read so much about the Diplomatic Quarter and today Serge is my guide. He is full of interesting stories and I delight in being the audience instead of problem solver.

  The Diplomatic Quarter, or DQ as it is known, is a 1 600 acre walled suburb on the city’s western edge and is home to foreign embassies, international organisations as well as residences and malls. Because of this, the DQ is considered a high risk area so getting in is quite a performance.

  The entrance is heavily guarded by armed security forces. Serge handles all the questions. He happens to be friends with the Lebanese Consul and uses this to our advantage. After about 30 minutes of formalities, we are allowed in.

  I am amazed at the beautiful buildings, tree-lined streets and landscaped gardens. This feels like a different country; it is a haven of tranquillity. A group of girls cycle past the car, laughing and carefree. Cats sit, relaxed, on walls – they have collars and are beloved pets.

  On the other side of the boundary wall, a woman walking alone is frowned upon. I miss it, and I feel less fit. Here, women have that freedom. Many lush parks stretch through the residential areas and along the 20km walking track, which follows the perimeter of the DQ. Included are numerous sports facilities, picnic areas, kiddies play parks, courtyards, benches, shaded walkways and private seating areas. It is paradise compared to the world beyond the walls. You could be anywhere in the world.