by Cay Garcia
Each park has a distinct theme, but they are all tranquil with the soothing sound of flowing water from countless fountains, water channels and waterfalls.
Serge points out the various embassies as we drive around. The Australian, British and French embassies throw the best parties, according to Lea. The South African embassy was no slouch either, but now that it is headed by a Muslim man, and alcohol is not allowed, the socials have dried up. Apparently their barbeque evenings were the talk of the expat community.
Eventually we find ourselves near a large square, which has a multitude of restaurants and coffee shops. We take a walk through it, stopping for coffee. After the barrenness of the city on the other side of these walls, I cannot get enough of the beautiful greenery.
Serge asks a teenager skating around with his mates to take a photo of us. We stroll through the myriad walkways and arches. Serge reaches for my hand. For a moment I am taken aback, and look at him, bewildered. Then I relax. His hand is soft and warm. And so is my heart right now.
Hunger eventually drives us homeward. We decide to stop at a Tamimi’s to get a couple of things for an early dinner. We shop like an ordinary couple, a pleasure I have not forgotten though it has been a while. I see the same thought in Serge’s smiling eyes as we stand in the queue. I feel his hand find mine for a brief moment between the folds of my abaya.
When we get home, I go to my place first to shower and freshen up before dinner. I walk into a crowded apartment as Mona’s Friday guests are still here. I notice the empty bottles of pineapple juice on the kitchen counter. They are all in a boisterous mood. Everyone wants to know what is going on between Serge and me. I pretend to be in a hurry to avoid their questions. A little later I say goodnight to them, as they will have left by the time I return, and escape to Serge’s flat. Once again he is waiting for me at the top of the steps.
It is my decision to keep our relationship from the other Lebanese expats in the compound. Every time I leave the flat to go to Serge, I text him to find out if the coast is clear.
He then walks out to the landing to meet me. I have to confess, I love being met by him.
Royal wedding
PRINCESS ISABEL is getting married. There is much excitement at the palace. As tradition dictates, Mona and I are given exquisite pieces of material for our dresses and we are told we may choose our own designs. The material given to me is heavy with crystals and little pearls. On top of that, we are each given money to buy matching accessories like handbags, sandals and costume jewellery.
We organise a visit to the Princess’s dressmaker, Madam Lorraine. At her premises on the other side of the city, we go through many international design magazines. In the photos that show spaghetti-strap dresses, the arms are blacked out. I narrow it down to three designs, leaving Madam Lorraine to advise me on the final choice for the elaborate and heavy material.
Despite her limited English, she and I agree on a design and she takes my measurements in a curtained cubicle. One week later, we are called for a last fitting. The dress looks exquisite. Mona and I take samples of our material to shop for accessories. Sultan takes us to a shoe and handbag shop the size of a rugby field. He finds a parking space in the shade and puts his seat down before we are out of the vehicle. There is no rush.
We walk up and down the long aisles, overwhelmed by the variety of styles, until we are both happy with our choices. Next stop, an accessory shop. One whole corner of this large store has shelves from ground to ceiling filled only with tiaras. We are in the Kingdom of Arabia, after all.
Two weeks later, our outfits ready and heady with anticipation, the big day arrives. We are given the day off but have to be at the palace at nine in the evening. Mona is in a good mood and we laugh and joke as we get ready. I feel like Cinderella – though the wedding only starts at midnight. I am at least three inches taller in the stiletto sandals I bought for the wedding. First time in high heels in years. What was I thinking?
There is chaos as we arrive at the palace. Hairdressers, makeup artists and tailors jostle around the royals, pampering them. As I briefly pass my princess in one of the passages in the main palace, she scowls and doesn’t return my greeting.
Eventually, at half past eleven, we make our way outside to the fleet of luxury cars. Each driver stands next to his car and waits. Tonight my princess travels with her family and the staff travel separately. For a moment, she stands next to me, and I compliment her on how lovely she looks. She hardly acknowledges me but I know the unspoken apprehension she feels about this wedding.
We arrive at the hotel at midnight. Three thousand guests are invited but as women and men don’t mix socially, 1 500 women will gather in one hall with 1 500 men in another.
The hall is breathtaking – the largest I’ve ever seen – with trees full of blossoms and fairy lights in keeping with the summer theme. The women’s outfits are even more breathtaking. Never have I seen anything as beautiful. Jewels hang like chandeliers from their ears, and are tucked into their hair. Diamonds the size of apricots hang from their necks. Each woman’s dress and set of jewels outdoes the next.
The Filipino staff settles in at the back of the hall as Mona and I are shown to our section further to the front. As we take our seats, I see the person who emptied the contents of my purse on day one. I glare at her for the briefest moment before she looks away. I think she got the message that I know it was her. Did I pay for the elaborate dress she is wearing?
Servants dressed uniformly in beautiful tunics and trousers circle the hall with trays of snacks – mostly sweet biscuits and chocolates made from cashew or pistachio nuts, a great favourite in the Middle East. It will keep us going for a while but the nuts have stuck in my teeth and there isn’t a toothpick in sight. I don’t dare smile at anyone, and try to dislodge the offending particles without looking like a masticating cow.
Several servants spread smoke from incense burners they swing around as they walk. A fog now hangs over everything. Incense is burnt every day in every palace. The women stand in front of the incense burners and fan the smoke into their faces, one going as far as to take the incense holder from a servant to place it under her skirt for a couple of seconds. I watch this through teary eyes – I am not used to the smoke.
Two hours later, the bride still has not made an entrance. It is two in the morning. Mona and I have not moved off our chairs. As exciting as it is watching all the goings on, the fight against nodding off becomes a challenge. Yet this time of the morning is the peak hour for socialising for most Saudis.
The women dance with one another, fully aware that they are being observed in all their splendor. The Arabian music pulses loudly through the hall, making conversation difficult.
I watch my princess as she joins the Amira on the dance floor. I feel so proud of her. She is a vision in her pink floaty designer gown. Her hair is worn swept up with little tendrils hanging down. I know how much looking good for this meant to her; with exercise and a special diet, she had lost about five kilograms. I also know the wedding can’t be easy for her.
At quarter to three, everyone takes a seat as the bright lights suddenly dim. All eyes are on the long aisle the bride will walk down to get to the stage where there are seven thrones decorated in fairy lights and flowers. The effect is stunning.
At three, there is a drum roll. Princess Isabel appears in the large doorway that is lit up with blue ultraviolet lights. She stands alone. Her dress is magnificent – a soft blue that shimmers in the light with a train about three metres long. Her hair is swept up, held in place by crystals, with a few curls hanging loose. Suddenly there is a shrill noise as every servant starts ululating.
Princess Isabel takes three steps then stops. She looks from left to right with a serene smile on her face, then after about thirty seconds, takes another three steps and stops. This is repeated as she makes her way to the stage – it takes her an eternity to get there. The bride climbs the stairs and sits on the throne as family and
close friends come up to greet her.
The back doors of the hall open to reveal the Amir, Prince Abdullah, Prince Khalid and at last, the groom. The men look straight ahead as they make their way to the stage. Some of the women either cover their faces or turn away as the men pass them. Once on the stage, the men stay for only 30 minutes as the immediate family comes up to congratulate them.
The groom takes his bride’s arm and leads her out of the hall. The ululation is deafening. Princess Isabel has four maids carrying her long train as it fans out. She looks so regal until one of the maids accidently steps on her train. The princess turns around and viciously snaps at the poor girl. It is undignified and the onlookers are silent, waiting to see what will happen next. The prince visibly tugs on her arm before the princess turns and proceeds out of the hall. I spot the servant girl who stepped on the train coming back into the hall with red eyes. Did Princess Isabel deal with her once out of the hall? Probably.
For the next two hours, nothing much happens. At five, the guests slowly make their way into the adjoining restaurant. At half past six, we are called in. The restaurant is huge. I have never before seen so much food under one roof; over a hundred different dishes line the periphery of the entire restaurant – and these are just the main courses. Every imaginable dish is there – besides pap and wors and obviously no pork.
The large round dessert table dominates the centre of the restaurant. A two-metre high pyramid of strawberries is surrounded by every desert you can think of.
After an hour, Mona and I make our way back to our seats, refuelled to the brink but dangerously sleepy. The music is still loud, but now, it is grating rather than stimulating. The bridal couple has long since gone so Mona and I hope that the crowd will start thinning. No such luck – the dancing and festivities continue. At half past nine, when I really think I cannot stay awake any longer, my princess calls me over, looking as fresh and lovely as when we left home at midnight. I cannot say the same of myself.
“Mrs C, we are leaving now so after we have gone, you and Mona may go home.” I thank her. I am ready to kiss her feet. Just before I turn around, I smile at her and say, “Your Highness, thank you for allowing me to share in this beautiful evening.” She smiles broadly.
Mona and I leave the hall in high spirits. The blinding sunlight hits hard. Today is Friday but I can’t imagine we will see much of this day. My feet blistered by the high heels, I get out of the car barefoot. My body aches from sitting for so long in a dress that weighs at least 20 kilograms. Once I take it off, I realise quite how cumbersome it is, as afterwards I feel as if I am levitating. I am asleep before my head hits the pillow, smudged make up and all.
Two days later, Mona and I are getting ready for work when the princess calls Mona. She is outside our compound waiting in the car. She gets off the phone,“For fuck’s sakes!” she shouts as she throws her phone down on the couch. “Arabella is outside and she wants to me to go with her to a store but I am not supposed to tell you,” she spits out. She is livid, as she has not yet showered and her hair is standing up in spikes. “So why did you tell me?” I ask. She does not respond. My only thought is, “Rather you than me.”
The princess arrives back at the villa three hours after I have started my work day. She has no packages, which I find strange. No sooner does she settle in her room when Mona makes an appearance and closes the princess’s door after she enters.
I get a text message from the princess to say that I may go. I don’t hesitate.
Candlelight dinner and Serge
IT IS Thursday evening and Serge has invited me to dinner. After knowing each other for three months, our friendship has progressed into something much deeper. We have become inseparable. Many a night before, I have left Serge’s place in the early hours of the morning, but for the first time, I agree to stay over at his flat. The prospect of spending the night with this kind and gentle man and having the whole of the following day together is just too tempting for this mere mortal.
Serge leaves it to me to choose the restaurant. I ask him if we could order in instead. He is happy with the arrangement and refuses any contribution to the meal.
While he goes off to collect our order from a nearby Lebanese restaurant, I take my time preparing. I pack an overnight bag. A small one. Toothbrush, toothpaste, my camera and something to sleep in. It is winter after all. I let myself into Serge’s apartment with the key he gave me. He is not back yet.
Radio Nostalgie plays from his computer and for a minute I feel as if I’m in heaven. The most beautiful French ballads enhance the anticipation of the evening. I lie against the soft pillows and duvets scattered on the carpet in the lounge. In the intimate lighting the place looks magical.
At the sound of his key turning in the lock, my stomach twists. He is delighted to see me waiting for him. He hastily puts down the food, falls down onto the carpet and grabs me in a bear hug. We both fall over with the forcefulness of his embrace. “My habibty,” he whispers as he releases me slowly, running his hand down the side of my face, looking at me with such love. I don’t think I am in heaven any more, I know I am. In Saudi Arabia. Can this really be happening?
The aroma of the food eventually pulls us apart. I had ordered kharouf mashy, melt-in-the-mouth, tender lamb on a bed of rice with roasted cashew nuts.
He jumps up and takes charge. I sit back and watch him. A man who is comfortable in a kitchen will remain an aphrodisiac to my dying day. He lights the candles. After dishing up, he sets the food aside, ready to be served. He produces a bottle of red wine. A gift from a friend in the compound.
On a beautiful ornate gold leaf tray are two exquisitely cut long-stemmed glasses. He hands me my glass. The grapes explode on my tongue as he watches me with pleasure. He stops the music. “I want to play for you a song.”
As the first strains of Demis Roussos’s ‘Quand je t’aime’ start playing, he reaches for me and pulls me up. We melt together in a perfect fit. If this is not the most beautiful French song I have ever heard I don’t know what is. We slowly move together. The awkwardness I was expecting to feel is not there. Not even a little.
This is seduction at its very best, and in Saudi Arabia, of all places. I did not plan this. In fact romance was the last thing on my mind as I mean no disrespect to the laws of this country or the Koran.
Lea, who has been working in Riyadh for several years and is in a long-term relationship with an American, says relationships in the Middle East take on an intensity like nowhere else on earth – apart from cruise ships, perhaps. Against the backdrop of harsh laws, the relationship becomes your island in a storm.
The fact that Serge and I live in the same compound makes life a lot easier. Suddenly, it feels like coming home. As Serge told me laughingly one night, “the Sahara wind brings love.” The sandpit does this to one, but luckily it is not contagious outside its borders.
After a while, Serge seats me back against the pillows and brings over the momentarily forgotten tray of food. It is no longer warm. Though I like my food piping hot, never has anything been so completely unimportant. I love the Lebanese dish, and Serge takes great delight in this. The taste is so heavenly, it makes me miss people I haven’t met.
“Please play ‘Quand je t’aime’ again?” I ask when the dinner is over. I am lying in his arms as he translates the words. I listen to the richness of his voice as he repeats the beautiful lyrics.
‘When I love you,
I know the feeling of being a king…’
The world outside ceases to exist. Right now it is just us, in that candlelit room. I give myself over to this sweet man as the Arabian wind blows a gale outside.
Family lunch
I WAKE up the following morning not knowing quite where my limbs start and where his end. I open my eyes to see Serge smiling down at me. He smells so good. We drink our coffee in bed, our talking interrupted with bursts of laughter. What a wonderful way to start the day.
Today I am m
eeting Serge’s family for a traditional Lebanese lunch at his cousin, Mustafa’s house. I am excited at the prospect of a day outside the compound with Serge but a low-key nervousness about getting caught stays with me.
Serge holds the car door open as I get into the front seat. As I have been instructed, I drape the hijab over my head as Serge walks around to the driver’s seat.
“What you doing?” he asks as he looks at me, his eyes serious. I explain. “No habibty, that is a sure way of drawing the mutawa’s attention.” I don’t understand. He clearly doesn’t look like an Arab, so sitting next to a woman who appears to be a Saudi local is bound to draw attention, he says. I remove the hijab and feel surprisingly vulnerable.
It’s an amazing feeling, being out of the compound, and sightseeing. Serge is a constant stream of information as we drive through the city. I watch him behind the wheel and feel such a surge of love, I put my hand on his leg as he talks. He squeezes my hand before placing his on the steering wheel again.
I am not always aware of the mutawa’s vehicles, but Serge can spot them a mile away. At a busy intersection, Serge gently takes my hand off his leg as we pull up next to a huge 4x4 at the red light. Under his breath, he mutters one word. “Mutawa.” I stare straight ahead. It is a tense moment, but they turn right as the light changes to green and I breath out deeply in relief. We laugh at the narrow escape.
Serge tells me that Mustafa’s wife is a great cook. She makes the best kibbeh nayyeh, which is the Lebanese version of steak tartar, quite often made from lamb. I am not overly impressed at the idea of raw lamb but I don’t say anything. My expression gives me away, though, and Serge laughs.
