by Cay Garcia
At the following set of traffic lights, in the car beside ours, I see a sight that chills me to the bone, a boy no older than about 10 behind the steering wheel. He is barely able to see over the dashboard. “What the hell?” I ask Serge. He explains that it is quite accepted and a common sight. Traffic officials turn the other way. And they wonder why the accident rate is so high.
Eventually we stop at a four-storey building. I am a bit apprehensive. The front door opens and Serge hugs the big man standing in the doorway. I am waved in as if they have known me forever. Once inside, we are introduced. The big man is Mustafa. There are two women and three men at the dining room table. The two women get up immediately to make space for us at the table.
Mali, Mustafa’s wife, comes over to me with a welcoming smile, and indicates that she would like to take my abaya. She speaks no English but graciously takes the abaya, pulls out a chair for me at the table, then joins the other woman in the open plan lounge, where they sit and watch us.
While the men exchange pleasantries in French, I look around, feeling slightly self conscious. Mustafa walks around the table with two smallish glasses and as he places one in front of Serge, then me, he says, “Arak, good Lebanese drink.”
I pick up my glass at the same time as everyone at the table and Mustafa makes a toast “to the woman who has made Serge happy and makes him look 10 years younger”. Everyone bursts into raucous laughter as Serge explains to me that at a previous Friday lunch, he had told his cousin about me when he was asked why he was looking so smooth.
Serge is a year younger than me. He likes to keep a week’s stubble, but it makes him look much older as his beard is peppered with grey. No one has seen him clean shaven for some time and it really does take 10 years off him.
I take a sip of the arak; the men knock it back in one gulp. It makes my eyes water. I guess it is good if you like aniseed. Next comes a bottle of red wine. Homemade, of course. Again the men make a toast, this time in Arabic. The wine is better than anything I have tasted before.
I catch Serge looking at me with a faraway look in his eyes and it is evident – to me, anyway – that he is reliving last night. I hold his gaze for a while, and what passes wordlessly between us, speaks volumes. We are interrupted by something Mustafa says in Arabic, and everyone laughs.
By this stage I am ravenous. It seems as if everyone has already had lunch as Mali carries the dishes out to the table again. Serge asks if I would like him to dish up for me, which I welcome. Lebanese people are very proud of their cuisine. Their food does not merely satisfy hunger, it is a work of art, reflecting the warm colours of the Lebanese culture.
Spread in front of us is the traditional mezze of falafel, baba ganoush, the ever present tabbouleh salad, chicken kebabs, shish-kebabs, skewered lamb cubes and, of course, kibbeh nayyeh. After the explanation in the car, I can do without this dish, but Serge tells me I have to at least taste it and adds a small portion to my plate. It is pink in its rawness.
The men at the table keep up a steady stream of conversation, peppered with broken English for my benefit. No one notices as I swallow the kibbeh whole, washed down with the delicious wine. They tell fascinating stories of their home towns in the mountains of Lebanon. We laugh often. How at home I feel among these warm, hospitable people. This is one of the happiest days I have spent in Saudi Arabia.
Early evening, Serge and I say our goodbyes. Mali brings my abaya and helps me as I struggle with the metres of material. She tells Serge to tell me that I am welcome any time. For the first 10 minutes, we drive in a comfortable, happy silence, helped no doubt by the amount of arak and wine we’ve enjoyed.
I ask Serge what Mustafa said when everyone laughed. He smiles and says, “He asked if we want to hire a bedroom.” I can’t help but laugh. I didn’t realise our feelings were that blatant.
We arrive back at the compound and arrange to meet at the pool bar in an hour. I go to feed the cats, which has become a nightly highlight for me. I shake the plastic bowl, which never fails to make them come running. The numbers have doubled – 20 cats at last count. They know me by now and about five of them fight for my affection. Mr Grey has become far more demanding, crawling onto my lap and pushing his little face into my hands. If I had my way, I would take them all home with me.
I have a leisurely shower and pack a bag. Mona is like a cat on a hot tin roof, in her efforts to find out why I did not come home last night. What she doesn’t know is that I ain’t coming home tonight either. Of course she realises I was with Serge but she wants details. Not happening. She invites herself to the pool bar.
Serge is sitting with his group of friends. As we approach, he gets up and pulls out a chair for me. I greet everyone and make a point of greeting Serge as if we haven’t seen one another in a while. Unbeknownst to us, we are not fooling anyone – the “pack” has also noticed Serge’s happy disposition and youthful transformation.
His attentiveness around the table is a dead giveaway too, as he walks to the counter to place my order for espresso.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me and is smiling like an idiot looking for a village. I leave before he does. I have a key to my second home, which beckons like an oasis in the desert. Pun intended!
Our reunion is a joyful one. Serge takes my overnight bag and puts it in the bedroom. He is in such a good mood, his energy out of proportion with the one-bedroom apartment.
Full of good food, and with an extra bottle of wine as a gift from Mustafa because I raved so much about it, we are both ecstatic at the prospect of the evening together. Serge selects the music then scatters extra pillows on the duvet spread over the soft carpet.
Engelbert Humperdinck is singing “How I Love You” in the background. I can’t help thinking that if he’d selected anything by Tom Jones, it would have been the end of this newfound friendship.
In the dim light of the room I look at this man and think, “Where the hell did you come from?” What has transpired is beyond intoxicating – but I am also scared to death. It gives Mona a heap of ammunition to sink me with.
Buying happiness
THE FOLLOWING day, on my way to the palace, I ask Sultan to stop at a Sugar Sprinkles cake shop. I buy the princess two red velvet cupcakes as she has mentioned to me that cupcakes make her happy, and a chocolate one for each staff member. I need the whole world to be happy today.
I arrive at work, walking on air. My good mood is contagious and soon all the girls are gathered in the kitchen as I catch up with their morning. I try to go through the checklist of daily chores but everyone is laughing and teasing one another. It is such a pleasure to see them like this.
I place the cupcakes on one of the princess’s plates and this time, after inspecting it closely for any undesirables, I do add a flower from the garden. I take time folding the paper serviette and place the cutlery inside its folds. Her door is open as I softly knock. Initially, she frowns as I walk in with the tray as she has not asked for anything. But her eyes light up as I place the plate on her bedside table.
“Mrs C, that is beautiful, thank you!” I joke with her as I retreat backwards from the table, “Your Highness, you have been unhappy for a couple of days and as you said that cupcakes make you happy, I thought I would buy you some extra happiness today.” Corny, I know, but it works like magic. She looks at me with a huge smile.
I take this opportunity to give her the flash drive with the documentaries on South Africa. She excitedly accepts and thanks me sincerely. Yes, she is a delight when she is in a good mood.
I smile as I walk out backwards and leave her to it.
“Today we are having a baking lesson,” I tell the staff. Teaching the staff to cook and bake is part of my job description so Sunny and I go into the large pantry to select one of the array of baking dishes. Most of the dishes are used regularly and it shows, while all the mod cons in the kitchen on the first floor glisten, untouched. There is an air of excitement as everyone gets involved.
&n
bsp; My phone beeps as a text message comes through. I am very happy to read a message from the princess.
My dearest Mrs C, thx so much for this luvly surprise! I know it is a small one but it touched me deeply. :) I really appreciate everything your doing, I have to admit that I’m really blessed MASHA ALLAH 2 have u as part of my life & as a member of my family as well. ALLAH is always listening 2 our prayers & will always give us & put for us the right ppl in our lives or paths 4 precise reasons. INSHA ALLAH we will have the best times 2gether & 4 a long time. Luv u lots! Xoxo :)
Right now, my happiness is complete. Thank you, God, for bringing me to this strange place.
Wednesday night dinners
DEPENDING ON the weather, these dinners for female family members and close women friends who are also part of the extended royal family are either held around the pool or in a purpose-built chalet. The two princes from our palace and the family doctor are the only three men allowed to join the royal women. Oh, and the court jester, a funny little man who seems to be openly gay. For the record, this is only my opinion and not a fact.
Several maids walk around constantly spraying perfume into the night air as the royals hate the smell of food cooking. Whenever Lilly or I cook for the princess, the kitchen door has to be closed. A very strong extractor fan absorbs the delicious aromas.
Tension is building between Mona and me as my princess has instructed me to help out with the Wednesday dinner preparations in the main palace. Mona feels this is her domain, and I am encroaching. When the Amira makes a surprise visit in the kitchen and compliments me on what I am wearing, the look of sheer venom on Mona’s face confirms my suspicions: my presence there threatens Mona no end.
The Amira asks me to light the fire inside the chalet, which further infuriates Mona. I don’t know why the Amira asked me, but it may be just that I was standing closest to her. I walk in, and without looking at any of the royals seated on the plush couches, some with their feet up, I kneel and start spreading the fire lighters.
I suddenly become aware of a presence behind me and as I turn, I see Mona’s furious gaze. She is trying to give the impression that she is supervising me. As the fire jumps into life, I stand up, just to hear Mona thanking me, loudly enough for the Amira to hear. At that moment I feel sorry for her. I excuse myself to go to check on Lilly.
This is the one evening the princess’s bedroom, dressing area and bathroom gets an especially thorough clean as the bedroom is vacant for the duration of the dinner, which usually lasts until sunrise. As none of the staff is allowed in the princess’s bedroom without rubber gloves, I hastily pull on a pair as I make my way upstairs. Lilly smiles as I enter.
Every second day, Lily brings an out-sized tray down from the laundry with about 30 pillow slips spread out on it for the princess to choose the linen. The collection of bedding is colourful and varied. Once the princess has made her choice, the colour scheme has to match throughout. That goes for towels, bathroom mats, dressing gown, prayer mat and fresh pyjamas put out each day with matching slippers. These items are perfumed every evening. So much perfume is sprayed onto her pillows and sheets that I am not sure how she sleeps with the overwhelming scent.
We are not allowed to touch the princess’s phones, not even with gloves on. When the princess asked me to pass her phone, I slipped out a tissue from one of the hundreds of boxes scattered all over the villa, grateful that the staff had shared this detail with me.
I have my own bathroom in the villa. When I first asked the girls for a hand towel, they told me that towels aren’t allowed as it is unhygienic, according to the princess. I have to dry my hands on tissues. There are six boxes in my bathroom alone. The tissues may not stick out, but have to be folded over like an envelope on top of the box.
I alternate my evening between supervising the cleaning of the princess’s bedroom and the chalet as the royals want us to be visible. A good looking man in his fifties pulls up in a BMW and parks in the middle of the road, next to the chalet. The maids swarm around him. I don’t know who he is but he spots me walking past and stretches out his hand. “Here,” is all he says as he drops the contents of his closed fist into my hand. I don’t look at what he gives me, thinking it is rubbish.
Once back at the villa, I take the crumpled pieces of paper out of my pocket. I am shocked as I look down at SR1500. Just over three thousand rand. Now I understand why the servants of the main palace were all around him – clearly this is not a one-off. He is the Amira’s brother.
Mona and I are told we may go at about two in the morning. On the way home, Mona tells me that my princess has a huge crush on this uncle. On their last European trip, my princess made such a nuisance of herself texting the uncle that a family meeting was called in an attempt to dampen her fervour. Apparently Princess Arabella went into isolation after the meeting and did not leave her hotel room to accompany the family on their shopping sprees for four days.
We are both bone weary tired when we get home, so after our nightly ablutions, we hit the sack with minimal conversation. It is easier to go to sleep with soft music playing on my head phones than to listen to Mona’s snoring that comes in bursts, like a gatling-gun.
In the morning, I start the DVD inventory. I clear the pile of boxes stacked up against the windows in the basement as it obscures the natural light coming in from the glass sliding doors that lead to a small patio. There are roughly 20 large boxes of DVDs. I clear a huge area on the immaculate floor and open the first box. It is a fun exercise as I pile them into genres.
The princess has given me permission to help myself to any of her books or DVDs. I come across a movie called “Cairo Time” and after I ask the princess’s permission yet again, I take it to watch later. I have the evening to myself as Serge has gone home to Lebanon. It is Christmas Eve.
The compound seems bleak without him.
Christmas Eve
SULTAN STOPS outside the compound and with a heavy heart, I open the gate. Tonight I am missing everybody back home. I bump into Mark as I enter and he insists I join in on the Christmas celebrations in the recreation room downstairs. It is a generous invite and I accept.
First, I feed the cats. I prepare a special meal, soaking pellets with a couple of tins of sardines. The mix stinks as I carry it outside. The cats come running from all directions. I cannot start feeding them until I remove Mr Grey from under my abaya. He is far more interested in the affection he gets than the food.
I stroke the cats that allow me to get close but as usual, Mother Ginger watches from a distance. As I start putting out little heaps of the food, all hell breaks loose. The bigger cats fight viciously for the food so I try to separate them. I scrape the last of the food out and leave them to it.
After changing into jeans, I make my way downstairs to the recreation room. The room is filled with about 30 men, mostly Lebanese, and most from our compound. The smoke of shisha pipes creates a haze over the table. Almost at once, everyone stands up as they greet me. I sit next to Mark, a familiar face. There is one face I miss.
The table is groaning under the weight of the food. Everything you can possibly think of – except pork. Two-litre bottles of 7Up and Pepsi take the place of champagne. The atmosphere is wonderful – everyone seems to be in a good mood, making the most of it, despite not being home for Christmas.
After a couple of tokes from the shisha pipe, Neo starts drumming and the whole room reverberates with the sound of singing. The good will in this room is palpable. I admire the way they make the best of life in Riyadh. Then again, men have so much more freedom than women – most of the guys in the room have their own cars.
Close to midnight, Mona phones me from the flat. She has just arrived home. I invite her to join us, and she walks in to Merry Christmas wishes. This is an ordinary working day for us. We eventually say our goodnights and I thank the guys for their hospitality. Again, I marvel at their impeccable manners.
I lie in bed into the early hours, watching “
Cairo Time”. It is a poignant movie that breaks my heart a little; it resembles Serge and my story, and I know the ending. I develop a slight crush on the lead actor who looks a lot like Serge.
Christmas dinner with the royal family
I DON’T know it yet, but we are going out for dinner. It’s just as well I made an effort with my outfit as it is Christmas.
I don’t wear my daily uniforms very often any more as the Amira complained to my princess that my uniforms are terrible and don’t look professional. How I love the Amira!
The dinner venue is only about seven blocks away from our palace. Once again, I accompany my princess in her car. The four cars carrying everyone from our palace arrive at the host’s gate simultaneously. The gate looks as if it is made of 24-carat gold. It shimmers in the sun, blinding to look at. The gates slip open, a wonderland behind them. Lush vegetation fills the gardens with splashes of colour from real flowers.
We drive past several buildings that make up the entertainment area; each massive hall has its own colour scheme. As we reach the main palace, Sultan opens the door for the princess and I take her abaya and handbag. She joins her family and disappears inside. Mona and I are ushered into the waiting area, a cluster of gold and red couches that are positioned halfway beneath the majestic staircase leading to the first floor.
For a moment I am quiet as I take in the furnishings, artworks, exquisite rugs and chandeliers the size of small swimming pools. The effect is out of this world. The many staff members that scuttle around quietly are dressed in a similar fashion to Air Emirates cabin attendants, except their outfits are gold, with scarves of the lightest cream silk. They look exceptionally well groomed. My own uniforms come to mind.
After two hours of sitting under the staircase with two Lebanese women, PAs from another palace, we are called into one of the many dining halls, a building that stands on its own on the vast palace grounds. Mona and I are both quiet as we take in the splendour.
