by Cay Garcia
The doctor has squeezed me into his full schedule. He remains seated when I walk in. He is a bear of a man. The harsh neon lights reflect off his bald head. He introduces himself and immediately asks “What can I do for you?” in a raspy voice with a thick accent – not local – that I don’t recognise. He is evidently annoyed that my intrusion will make him run late.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Did Dr Traitor not speak to you?” He looks at me blankly. I can’t help thinking that he looks more in need of treatment than I do. I explain that between my employer and her doctor, it was decided that I am in need of help. He phones Dr Traitor. After a five minute conversation, he puts the phone down and looks at me as if he doesn’t know where to start.
Well, I do.
“Doctor, how do I know I can trust you?” He looks a bit bewildered at my question but before he can respond, I tell him of the betrayal I experienced at the hands of the family doctor. He sits very still as I explain what has transpired, to bring me to his rooms. He tells me that this is to be expected from a doctor who works in the emergency section of a hospital but assures me that what we speak about will remain confidential.
I wish I could make his night by telling him something profound but all I can offer is, “My employer and I had an argument, Doctor. It happens every day all over the world. But does it call for a psychiatric evaluation?”
I am very careful about what I say to him in case it gets repeated again and I find myself in handcuffs. The royal family own Saudi Arabia. They are not only above the law, they are the law. I make a point of not getting too excited, keeping my voice neutral and speaking in a well modulated tone as I relay a little of what went down – I don’t want to be diagnosed with some manic mental disorder. He nods as he listens, it plays havoc with the light beams reflecting off his sweaty head.
What he tells me next has me sitting on the edge of my chair. “In Saudi Arabia, you must trust no one!” He says this with an urgency that commands my full attention. “Even Arabs who are best friends know better than to trust their brothers sitting at the table next to them.”
What a sad way to live, I think. I don’t voice my thoughts, though, as this is an interesting comment, especially from a professional, and as such, I take note.
Again he repeats, “Don’t ever trust anyone in this place!” I take it he means in Saudi, not the hospital. “Be very aware of the staff you have to manage as they will betray you in a moment if they think it will better their lives.” I am about to say that the staff I work with would never betray me but the good doctor is on a roll. “Be especially careful if you are sharing accommodation with another expat; never ever trust them.”
I ask him why he feels that no one can be trusted. “At the end of the day, it is every man for himself in this country.” Now it is my turn to nod.
“Never show your intelligence to any member of the royal family as they all suffer from inferiority complexes.” He continues as I clamp my dropped jaw shut. “Even if you come up with good ideas, always let them think it was their idea as their low self esteem will not tolerate your intelligence.”
I cannot believe what I am hearing. Surely this man must know that criticising the royal family is punishable by death?
The hour passes quickly. As I am about to take my leave, the doctor hands me a prescription. I accept it with an obvious question mark worked into the frown on my face, but before I can ask what it is for, the doctor stands up, takes my hand and tells me the pills are mild relaxants for the times when life in Riyadh becomes too stressful. “They will not harm you, Mrs Garcia, they can only help.” The prescription is for 10 tablets only. I am not above being helped, so after thanking him, I make my way to the hospital’s pharmacy, the only place that the script can be redeemed.
On the way home, I ask Sultan to stop at Tamimi’s. Generally the drivers are happy to oblige as we buy them a two litre Pepsi or some chocolates every now and then.
I join the crowd of men standing at the cake counter. I am almost at the front when a teenage boy shoves me to the side and cuts in front of me. I have never had patience with people cutting into queues but on this day a blinding anger grips me, and with a sideways thrust of my hip, I shove the youngster about two metres back. With that momentum, he almost knocks over the two men standing behind him. Everything stops as the youngster and I glare at one another – never mind the hostile stares I’m getting from the other male shoppers. The man behind the counter wisely serves me immediately, no doubt to avoid further confrontation.
When I get home, I phone Mr Van Wyk, of the Academy. He listens with growing alarm; they don’t have an inkling as to how I am faring. He is appalled at what I tell him and suggests that they could intervene to get me home, if I wish. I tell him that I would like a chance to fix it myself, and ask him not to do anything for now. It is immensely comforting to know that he believes what I have told him, and is prepared to take a stand.
The following morning I am so tense at the thought of going to work that I take one of the tablets the doctor has given me. Thirty minutes later I am floating six inches off the floor as I make my way outside to the waiting driver. I am mesmerised by the hustle and bustle around me as I feel somehow detached from it all. The Arabic prayers on the car radio sound beautiful and I ask Sultan to turn it up. I do not miss his surprised look in the rear view mirror as we are forever asking him to turn it down. He smiles as he ups the volume.
Surprisingly, the princess is calm as we face each other. If I was any calmer, I’d be in a coma, thanks to the little pink tablet. The psychiatrist has evidently given her a good report. “Mrs C, I have spoken to the doctor. If you really don’t want to be here, you can go home without paying the penalty.”
“Your Highness, I would like to make a suggestion; let’s try for another month. If it doesn’t work after that, we can annul the contract.” Strangely, she seems pleased with my suggestion, and agrees to it.
She asks me to close her door as I leave her room. My day goes on pretty much as normal. I don’t see the princess as she sleeps for the rest of the day. At ten, I get a call from switchboard. My chariot awaits. I am so relieved that the terrible tension of the last few days is over, it’s as if a huge weight has been lifted off me.
I sleep well that night, despite Mona’s snoring.
Punishment time again
THE FOLLOWING morning, I feel refreshed. I am champing at the bit, and I go to work with a light heart. The minute I step into the villa, Lilly tells me the princess wants to see me.
I knock softly and make sure I have a smile on my face as I greet her. She does not return my greeting. “You need to punish Sunny!” she says harshly. I wait for her to continue. “How dare she inconvenience me?!” she rants. “A month ago, Lilly asked me if she could send her boxes home. This morning, Sunny comes and asks me. How dare she?!”
I don’t see where the princess is going with this. The shipping company had been called to collect Lilly’s boxes that afternoon anyway; what difference would it make to collect four boxes instead of two? The girls pay to send the boxes home themselves and it is not as if the princess has to pack them.
I stand there with a blank look on my face. Mona has warned me that the princess hates it when she cannot read your facial expressions. I have found that this is true.
“You will go downstairs and shout at Sunny so loud, I want to hear you from up here.” She says this with a smug smile as if she is chuffed with the punishment she has come up with.
“Your Highness, I have never had to raise my voice at any of my staff. Please will you trust me to handle this?” I ask her. “You will follow orders!” she screams at me. I back out with a “Yes, Your Highness” and go downstairs where Sunny and Lilly are polishing the wooden banister on the first floor. They heard the orders and with a nod of my head, I beckon them into the basement. They follow soundlessly on their stockinged feet.
Sunny stands in front of me, eyes rimmed red from crying. Lilly l
ooks downwards. I understand Sunny’s distress; the boxes take six weeks to reach their destination and it is not clear when the princess will give her permission to send more home.
“You heard the princess, Sunny. I have a problem with this as I don’t believe you deserve it,” I say gently. Lilly looks up and whispers, “Just do it madam.” I look at Sunny. She nods and repeats, “You have to do it, Madam.”
I take an exaggerated breath and start. “Sunny!” I shout. The girls start giggling as they see me struggle to find the right words. “What were you thinking, inconveniencing the princess like this?” The girls are now doubled over and I hear chortling coming from the kitchen where Maria and Mami are trying hard to mind their own business. I can’t help smiling as I continue just a little longer. The princess would want her money’s worth. “What would you do differently next time?” I shout.
I hate myself for this; it feels stupid and primitive. Sobering up, Sunny mutters that she would ask the princess’s permission a month before the time. I still don’t get what the fuss is about as the transport company collects at an hour’s notice, anywhere in Riyadh.
So much for thinking things would improve after the agreement the day before.
Another showdown
WE HAVE a regular visitor, a beautiful cat that lives a couple of doors down. She regularly scratches at our door when she wants to be let in. Mona, who is also a cat lover, welcomes these visits from this affectionate cat.
One morning, I hear the usual scratching, and open the door. The cat shoots past my legs and heads straight for the couch. Mona barrels out of her bedroom and demands that I throw the cat out. She is in a foul mood. Without a word, I pick up the cat and gently deposit her outside the door before turning on Mona.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I shout at her. Everything I had managed to keep to myself up to now, spews out with a fury that leaves me short of breath. I am shocked at the extent of my anger.
Recently Mona has taken it upon herself to advise me on how to handle Princess Arabella. But her own fears taint the advice, which is not always to my benefit. I get the feeling she is deliberately setting me up. As if life here were not hard enough, I end up sharing with someone whose insecurities make for a very devious person!
In front of the compound crowd, she puts on a tough exterior, advising me to treat my princess like the “spoilt three-year-old child she is”. “Just throw in a couple of ‘Insha’Allahs’ and you should be fine,” she reckons. Her boldness in front of the intrigued audience amazes me as her interactions with my princess drip with sweetness. The psychiatrist’s words echo in my mind, “Trust no one!” This goes against my nature, though, to my detriment at times.
Months of frustration at being told what to do, how to do it and when to do it, burst out.
Mona retaliates with as much vigour. Her festering issue is that she has a sense of ownership of the apartment, after having it all to herself for nine months. I have always bristled at being treated as a guest in what is just as much my home, but till now I have kept it to myself.
I cannot believe what has been eating at her for so long. “There were no kitchen utensils when I moved in. I bought everything with my own money, just to have you waltzing in and using all my stuff!” she rants. I ask her if she would prefer me to double up on everything so that she could have her toaster and kettle all to herself.
Mona is also very angry that we earn the same salary. She sees herself as the Major Domo and me, a mere greenie out of butler school – her words.
Initially I stare at her, then start laughing. “Major Domo, you reckon?” The argument that ensues lasts for about an hour. We are both exhausted afterwards.
Witchcraft
THERE IS something brewing at the palace that is making me very uncomfortable. For three nights now, Mona has been in the princess’s room, behind closed doors, for hours on end. I have experienced her forked tongue all too often, so I know she is feeding the princess subtle lies to enhance her own position.
Oh Mona, don’t you know that you cannot make your own light shine brighter by extinguishing someone else’s?
As I get to the basement, Lilly tells me that I am not allowed into the kitchen. I have to get my laptop, which is charging next to the microwave, so I go in. The strangest looking man is stirring the contents of a pot so big it takes up the entire surface of the stove.
He looks surprised, but says nothing. I glance into the pot from where I am standing. It is filled to the brim with a muddy liquid, and what looks like berries and herbs float in it.
Once back in the lounge area, I ask Lilly what the hell is going on. She says one word that chills me to the bone. “Witchcraft.” I refuse to let it go, following her into her bedroom. “Lilly, speak to me!” I implore.
“Madam, starting tomorrow, for three days we have to spray every inch of the villa and palace grounds with this liquid to chase away evil spirits.” I see several plastic spray bottles at the ready in the lounge. The princess has not mentioned a word of this to me. I hear from Lilly that she has put Mona in charge of the operation.
An hour later, I get a call from the switchboard to let me know that my driver is waiting to take me home, at the princess’s order.
Whenever I do not get the chance to say goodnight to the princess in person, I text her goodnight. Tonight I don’t.
Mona stays behind as Sultan takes me home. I go straight to Serge’s flat. It is so good to have someone I can speak to and trust, despite what the doctor says. Serge is a good listener and as he has lived in Riyadh for so long, I heed any advice he gives me. He gets up, fetches something in the bedroom and returns with a serious look on his face.
“Habibty, give me your hand,” he says softly. The look in his eyes brooks no argument. Without hesitation, I slip my hand into his. I watch as he gently turns my palm upwards and transfers what is in his hand. A petite wooden rosary with a wooden cross on the clasp. I absorb the message before he says, “Take this with you, my love. It will protect you.”
Our eyes sear into one another’s when they meet. This could get me beheaded. I am torn between prison or hell. I take the rosary.
I go back to my flat at about one in the morning to shower and change. Mona is sitting at the kitchen table. She is in a talkative mood. I am not, as I know that the truth and what she tells me are sometimes far apart.
As I pack an overnight bag, she tells me she is afraid of what she has to do the next day. With three of my staff, Mona has to spray the premises. She tells me she has prayed hard about it and believes God will protect her. “Well, then you have nothing to worry about,” I tell her glibly as I say goodnight and close the front door behind me.
The devil’s business
WE ARE collected for work at twelve. Mona bypasses her palace as she walks down to the villa with me. I excuse myself to go down to the basement; Mona goes upstairs to the princess’s room.
There is hardly any space on the kitchen table as the girls are busy decanting the foul smelling liquid into the plastic bottles. I stick my hand into my trouser pocket to feel for the wooden rosary.
Mona comes into the kitchen to collect the girls. Armed with two bottles each, they leave to start from the corner of the palace grounds. Two hours later, Mona comes in and complains about severe backache. “This is Devil’s business,” she says with disgust. I pretty much ignore her as I stare at my laptop screen, my focus firmly on the recipe book I have started for the princess.
At ten, I get a text message from the princess to say that I may go. Mona is livid that it does not include her. My heart breaks for her.
Day two of the spraying starts off really badly. The princess is in a thunderous mood. I try to stay out of her way as I hear her shouting at someone on the phone. An hour later I hear blood curdling screams coming from the princess’s room. I don’t move from the basement.
Today is Wednesday and the usual dinner gathering starts at about ten.
As soon
as the princess leaves to join her family in the chalet, I rush upstairs to help Lilly clean up the princess’s room. I come to an abrupt stop when I enter. The carpet is soaked with the foul liquid and all the herbs and berries are lying scattered on top of it.
There is a kiddie’s blow-up pool in the dressing room with an inch of the muddy liquid at the bottom. It seems the liquid was poured over the princess as well. My skin prickles as I feel for the wooden rosary in my pocket again. Lilly is working furiously.
With a scoop and brush, we work silently on all fours. I start at the far side of the room. One hour later, we have removed most of the mess but have not quite finished when the princess storms in unexpectedly. Her mood has deteriorated even further.
“Why aren’t you finished?” she screams at Lilly. Before Lilly can answer, she yells in an even louder voice, “And why is she helping you?!” pointing at me. Lilly does not say a word.
Her arm is already up to protect herself as the princess sweeps past her. Lilly, still sitting on her haunches, slams into the wall as the princess shoves her with her knee. She screams at me to get out of the room. I leave, but stay just outside the double wooden doors. God help me, tonight I will not let her mete out another beating.
The screaming continues for about 10 minutes with sporadic apologies from Lilly. My body is rigid with tension as I listen to the princess call Lilly every derogatory name in the book. Then the princess decides on Lilly’s punishment.
“You will go downstairs and fill a bucket with ice and water. I am going to pour it over your head and you will stand like that the whole night.”
