by Cay Garcia
The next sentence is screamed with full force, “And that South African can go home if she doesn’t like it!”
I almost bump into Lilly hurrying from the room as I enter. “You are right, I don’t like it, Princess, so maybe it is time for me to go home.” I am angry but manage to say the words in a normal voice. I turn around without waiting to be dismissed and go down to the basement where Lilly is busy emptying all the ice trays from all the fridges into a bucket.
“Lilly, will the princess really do this?” I ask. Lilly does not reply or even look up from her task. She has a sickening yellow pallor to her.
Ten minutes later Sunny comes to me to say that the princess wants my iqama. There can only be one reason for this – to obtain an exit visa. As I hand over my iqama to Sunny, she says softly, “The princess said you can go home.” I look over at Lilly but she does not look up.
I gather my belongings and just before I slip my abaya over my head, I take another one of the tablets the doctor gave me. My gut is tied in knots. I am asleep on the back seat of the car before we reach the compound.
I briefly stop at Serge’s flat but I am so tense and bone weary tired, I don’t even stay for tea. His concern endears him to me even more but at the end of the day, I stand alone.
I sit in the stillness of our flat. Mona is not home yet. My brain races with thoughts and words still left unsaid. In the semi darkness, I pick up a pen as I reach for relief. The words spill out of me.
WHERE TO FROM HERE?
I am broken in – so where to from here
Disbelief reigns within the mist – of a debilitating fear
Knee-capped by the blow – my head on the concrete floor
I besiege with a savage cry – Lord show me an open door
A primal scream – from depths unknown
No one to hear – my anguished groan
Another test of endurance – another bitter pill
Is this the lowest pit of darkness – my soul was sent to fill?
I beg to know how long my due – and am waiting for
instruction
The lesson is the easy part – the wait, my soul’s destruction
The following day, Sultan collects me at four. I make my way downstairs to the basement where I find Lilly with eyes so severely swollen from crying, she can hardly see out of them. “Lilly, did the princess really do this?” I ask urgently. Lilly still does not respond.
Sunny comes into the kitchen and tells me the princess wants to see me. I have decided on a change of tactics as I have come to realise that trying to reason with the princess is a losing battle. I will not say anything. No matter what she throws at me, I will not speak.
I knock and enter. I have not even come to a proper stop yet when she starts. I keep my face completely expressionless as I focus my gaze on her with an unwavering look. It is driving her mad that I’m not responding.
“Your are weak!” she screams trying to provoke me into saying something. All I repeat is, “Yes, Your Highness.” Eventually she runs out of things to say so she starts repeating herself. “You are so weak, I am half your age and I am so much stronger than you!” All she gets from me is a slight smile that probably looks more like a sneer and the repeated, “Yes, Your Highness.”
I am not sure when she realises that this is going nowhere. Her face is puce from all the screaming. We end the evening glaring at each other for what feels like an eternity. “You’re dismissed,” she says calmly. I give a brief nod, release my hands from behind my back and wish her a good night. After walking five steps back, I turn and leave the room.
As I get my things together, the phone rings and the switchboard alerts me that Sultan is waiting. The drive home feels surreal.
I briefly stop in at Serge’s apartment. He repeatedly asks me to stay. I beg off. I desperately need solitude to try to work through what happened in the last two days.
The first grains of the sandstorm hit. It is my first experience of one. I’m feeling a little nervous, so I consider staying with Serge. Common sense wins and I find myself eating grit as Serge runs me to my door.
Mona is not home yet as I slip into bed. The noise from outside is scary. As tired as I am, my brain is far too active to fall asleep. Two o’clock finds me in bed with a book when there is a knock at my bedroom door. Mona delivers the envelope.
Last night
I RUN two doors down into a wall of sand, to what has become my island in a storm.
He starts laughing happily as he opens the door for me, thinking I have changed my mind about staying over. I draw him down onto the duvet that now has become a permanent feature on our magic carpet and he immediately senses something is wrong before I start to speak. He doesn’t interrupt me once.
We agree to stay awake and treasure the time left together. For a moment, at a loss for words, Serge shakes his head and pulls me into an urgent kiss. He pulls away as abruptly. I can see he is grappling with something but I am totally unprepared when he asks me to join him in Lebanon. Apparently that is accepted by the church, but divorce is not? I listen as he maps out his plan.
He will move back to Lebanon, and continue with architecture but open a business on the side. We will get an apartment and live together. I watch him sketch this lovely picture and my love for him swells as he makes it sounds so easy and uncomplicated. I know it is far from it. There is a small part of me that is momentarily tempted when I contemplate this wild adventure, but I softly tell him that I cannot do it.
The whole world seems to accept that he is separated, and even his immediate family has made peace with it. But I cannot see myself living in Lebanon under these circumstances – also, our cultures are just too different. All the changes that will have to take place for us to be together will have to be made by me.
I invite him to South Africa. He listens intently when I again tell him about Cape Town, the freedom, the spectacular beauty and, of course, the good wines. He holds me the whole time. Nothing is really resolved but the invite to South Africa is an open one. No expiry dates.
He suddenly gets up to fetch something from the bedroom. “Habibty, keep this for me until I come and claim it back,” he says as he hands me the crystal rosary. My heart feels as if it’s going to burst with love for him.
Serge has been nothing but a pillar of strength. Although we’ve known each other for the four months I’ve been in Riyadh, we have only been together for one month.
I open my purse and take out the key Serge gave me to his apartment. He looks at it in my outstretched hand and gently closes my hand with his. “No. Keep it, my love, and know you will always have a home in Riyadh.”
I feel the tears prickling but manage to hide it in the long embrace that follows. I am Princess Sahara after all. If only in his eyes.
The final goodbye
I STACK the last of my luggage at the front door. Mona says a teary goodbye and hugs me.
What a hypocrite she is. Mona has been trying to convince the princess that she could run the main palace and her villa for half of my salary added to hers. That explains the clandestine meetings behind closed doors those many nights, and the overt attempts at winning over my villa’s staff.
I leave the flat with a couple of hours to spare before we have to leave for the airport. This time I don’t care who sees me walking with Serge as we carry my bags to his flat.
Serge insists on taking me to the airport. As we leave the compound, I switch my phone off. About 10 kilometres from the compound Serge’s phone rings. It is Mona, phoning from the palace on behalf of the princess to tell me that the driver is at the compound door waiting to take me to the airport. Mona is the only person who knew I would be with Serge, so after trying my phone, the logical step would be to try his.
He hands me the phone and I tell her that no arrangements were made with me about transport to the airport, so she should tell the princess I am in a cab on my way as we speak. Before I kill the call, I cannot help adding, “If it will fur
ther your cause at all, tell the princess that my passionate Lebanese lover is taking me to the airport.” Serge looks at me incredulously, laughing hard.
A sombre mood sets in again after the brief humorous moment. As we stop at the various sets of traffic lights, Serge just looks at me. I see the same torment I am feeling in his eyes. Initially we don’t talk, each lost in finding ways to cope with the loss. Words would have shattered the intimacy, so we just hold hands. He lifts my hand to his mouth and holds it against his lips.
As we reach the airport, Serge says gently, “Habibty, I will take you.” From that moment on, I watch with adoration as he takes care of everything.
He hands in my luggage as we both pass through the first set of security gates. Serge goes through the metal arch with other men as I follow the queue of women who pass through a curtain, into a room where two women search my handbag. My little ruby belly ring sets off the alarm. After hitching my abaya up and showing them the culprit, they smile and wave me through. Thank goodness I exchanged belly rings.
I meet Serge on the other side, where he leads me through the crowds towards the food court. We put in our order and he gently asks me if I need the bathroom, points it out and shows me where to find him in the dining area afterwards. I am in a bit of a haze and allow myself to be led.
We settle in at the family section in a cubicle that affords us some privacy. This is my first time in a restaurant in Saudi in the family section with a man unrelated to me, as I’m leaving.
He opens my cold drink can, inserts the straw, and hands it to me. The food tastes like cardboard and sticks to my palate. Everything is happening in slow motion. We have very few words.
After our dinner, Serge reaches for my hand as we slowly walk back outside the busy terminal. A bold move but what the hell, what can they do to me now, deport me?
He stops a cab driver walking past offering his fare, and asks him to take a photograph of us. The smiles aren’t genuine. Eventually we move inside only for my belly ring to set the alarm off again. Once again my abaya is lifted. The same two women don’t recognise me until they see my exposed stomach.
The time has come. I want to bury myself in his arms but I can’t. Holding hands is one thing; overly emotional displays of affection are sure to draw attention. I pull my abaya over my head and give it to Serge. “Keep it for me until I come and claim it back.” My attempt at humour fails miserably.
The greeting is almost formal but I know what Serge is feeling by the way he is shaking as we hug each other – probably a little longer than we should. He stands back; keeping his hands on my shoulders, and tells me earnestly that he will leave the airport only after my flight has taken off. All I can do is nod. He gives me a last quick crushing hug and turns around and walks towards the stairs leading to the glass enclosure on the first floor.
For a moment, I just stand there, watching him walk away.
I am forced to move on as the throng of people behind me is struggling to pass. Every couple of seconds, I turn to see him, just 30 metres away, looking down at me through the glass barrier, one moment, smiling and the next, looking intense. As I join the queue, I can still see him. I bump into people as I am forced forward but I keep looking back.
He phones me and across King Khalid airport, we declare our love for one another. His voice breaks as we say goodbye. I see his head drop to his chest as we end the call. The memory of it will be forever burnt into my mind.
The queue passes along to a point where he is now out of sight. He phones again, just to repeat his choked declaration of love. The people behind me discreetly look the other way as the tears start. I am so choked up I can’t talk, only listen. As I reach the final exit leading outside, I turn for the last time and for the briefest moment I see him in the distance, with his arm raised high above his head. Then he is gone.
Epilogue
EVEN THOUGH I am exhilarated to be going home, for many reasons my heart is heavy when I board the plane.
I wholeheartedly believe that this is the best ending to a life-changing experience for all concerned. Yet, it has become such a part of life to me that without it, I feel momentarily bereft.
I feel privileged to have met some wonderful people. Even with all the restrictions, the Saudi’s hospitality is legendary. Experiencing Saudi Arabia first hand has been an incredibly enriching experience.
As for the princess, we have had no contact since I left. I hear from a reliable source, six months later, that three PA’s have made their way hastily home since my departure.
I believe God gave me the protection I asked for, when I was sitting on the plane with my head bowed.
This is by no means meant to be a love story but at the same time, I cannot underplay the beautiful experience God had chosen to bestow on me. My own Lawrence of Arabia, on the gate with cake.
I will mourn the cats for a very long time to come. How many of them go days without eating, living in summer temperatures relentlessly hovering near 50 degrees day after day. I torture myself with images of Mr Grey waiting at the compound’s gate. How long before he gives up . . .
Glossary
Habibty – Darling to a female
Habibi – Darling to a man
Shukran – Thank you
Khalas – Finished
Awrah – Parts of the body not meant to be exposed
Abaya – Full black cloak worn as an outer garment over clothing
Hijab – Black scarf that covers the head
Niqab – Veil covering the face
Mahram – Anyone a Muslim is not allowed to marry is mahram
Purdah – A sharp separation between the world of men and women
Apostasy – Falling away, defecting from, forsaking or departing from the faith
Haram – Forbiddden
Halal – Allowed
Ghutra – men’s scarf made of cotton or silk
Infidels – Non-believers
Insha’Allah – God willing
Masha’Allah – Praise to God (or thank God)
Al-hamdu lillāh – Praise to God
Badawi – Bedouin-Arab word – desert-dweller
Mafi mushkila – No problem
Zakat – Giving charity
About the book
CAY GARCIA was given only a few hours to pack up her belongings, say goodbye to dear friends and leave Riyadh for good.
She had dared confront a young Saudi princess – her employer – about her ruthless and cruel treatment of staff, particularly Filipino women.
Cay reveals the inner workings of a holy city for which no tourist visa exists. She shares the intrigues of the expat community and exposes the nasty underbelly of the extravagant lives of Saudi Arabian royalty.
About the author
CAY GARCIA is a pseudonym.
Tafelberg,
an imprint of NB Publishers,
a division of Media24 Boeke (Pty) Ltd,
40 Heerengracht, Cape Town, South Africa
PO Box 6525, Roggebaai, 8012, South Africa
www.tafelberg.com
Copyright © Cay Garcia
All rights reserved.
No part of this electronic book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying and recording, or by any other information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Cover design by Nic Jooste
E-book design by Nazli Jacobs
Available in print:
First edition, first impression 2014
ISBN: 978-0-624-06602-6
Epub edition:
First edition 2014
ISBN: 978-0-624-06603-3 (epub)
Mobi edition:
First edition 2014
ISBN: 978-0-624-06604-0 (mobi)
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