I paused for a moment and considered what I was doing: I am standing in the middle of the 99¢ Only store in Hollywood giving a lecture on condoms to a bunch of teenage virgin girls from North Africa. Okay!
I spoke carefully with good diction so that I wouldn’t have to repeat myself. After the tutorial, everyone was quiet. There were no questions. I walked away so that they would be free to buy what they wanted without feeling as if they were being watched. I’m pretty sure they didn’t buy any.
One of the girls spent a lot of time looking at lingerie and was particularly interested in low-cut push-up bras. Mouna was petite and round, and had a smooth, broad face and dark charcoal skin that shone as if polished. “Why do you want that bra, Mouna?” I asked. “Is it something you would actually wear?”
“Is wedding,” she replied, smiling slyly.
“Oh, a wedding. Yes, but are you sure this is what you want? It’s really designed to wear when you want to push your boobs up high, like this, when you want to show them off, really high.” I demonstrated by cupping my breasts and lifting them up high close to my neck.
All the girls tittered. Mouna widened her eyes at me and said, “La, la, la, Janni.” She looked to Zuhur to better explain.
“No, she does not want such like this. But she must to have the special brassiere for the wedding dress,” Zuhur said.
“To wear with your wedding dress?” I said to Mouna. “So you wear a dress with a low neckline? That’s allowed? You don’t have to be covered up? Won’t all the men see you like that?”
“For the men, there is a party only with the husband and the men,” said Zuhur. “We do not see them; they do not see us. We are with the women only, so we do not wear the clothing to cover.”
“I must to have the special dress such like this,” Mouna said.
“When are you getting married?” I asked her.
“I first to meet the husband.”
“Ah, so you’re planning ahead,” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “So I must to have the special brassiere.” Then she showed me a collection of papers that she carried in a satchel. They were pages ripped from current bridal magazines, some Western but others clearly meant to appeal to Muslim brides with bridal party headdresses, veils, and hair covers. The Saudi wedding party, at least for the royals, usually begins at midnight, and the women’s parties can become raucous with singing, dancing, and feasting well into the morning of the next day, sometimes several days, and these headpieces would be removed once the party really got rocking.
I don’t know what kind of celebration could be in store for Mouna, a palace servant girl, but she was fifteen years old and imagining her wedding day, just as teenage American girls do. She was taking advantage of a remarkable worldliness at her age, a result of traveling with the family, by stockpiling the things she thought she might want for that day, even though there was no husband on the horizon yet. I admired her initiative.
The other girls too seemed beset with the usual teenage dreams and troubles. Maysam, the tea girl, had bad acne; irritated and oozing dark, swollen pustules mottled her cheeks, and she was painfully self-conscious about it. Individually, each of the servant girls came to me and asked if there were something I could do to help her. I knew she needed to see a doctor. A prescription for Accutane or tetracycline was probably the only way her skin could clear up, and in spite of the multitude of doctor appointments the family booked, a visit to the dermatologist didn’t seem to be in the cards for Maysam. Instead, I got her an over-the-counter benzoyl peroxide scrub and a bottle of tea tree oil and showed her how to use them both.
“Okay, Maysam,” I said. “You have to use the tea tree oil diluted, or it will burn you. You must be careful, or it will hurt you and hurt your skin.” I poured a tiny bit of the oil in a little cup and added cool water to it, then dabbed a cotton ball in the mixture. “It kind of stinks, but it works too. Just be gentle, like this.” I lightly ran the cotton ball over her cheeks several times.
“Shukran [thank you], Janni,” she said. “I use this many times in the day, then will be no more.”
“No! No, Maysam. Not many times each day! That’s too much. Start with just once in the morning and then maybe after a few weeks, you can apply it at night too. Just be careful. Let your skin acclimate. I mean, let your skin get to know it.” Sometimes I sounded like a preschooler trying to put together new thoughts, but I was compelled to be more careful about my choice of words so that the girls could better understand me. “Acclimate “ was not in their vocabulary.
The first week of treatment, I kept the bottle and brought it to Maysam’s room each day and supervised her because I was concerned that she’d become overly zealous in the application. Her skin cleared up a little but not nearly as well as if she had access to a good dose of oral antibiotics. I started dropping hammer-pounding hints when I was around the Saudi ladies: “Maysam is such a pretty girl; it’s really a pity that her skin is so bad, so inflamed. I think it’s painful for her too. I’m sure a doctor’s prescription would nip that in the bud in a heartbeat,” hoping one of them would take her to the doctor. None of them acknowledged that they even heard what I said.
I wondered what it must be like to be a young girl so far from home and her own family, without a mother to take her to the dermatologist or even offer her guidance, as my mother would have done. These girls must have missed their own families terribly. I wanted to ask them about this, but I couldn’t find a way to do so without having it sound as if I felt sorry for them, and I didn’t feel sorry for them. I respected and admired them—one and all.
Even though I was hired help just as they were, the girls took great pains to look after me the same way they looked after the royal family. They’d noticed that I had lost quite a bit of weight while I was driving because of the long hours I was working; they’d hiss and cluck and pinch my cheeks to signify their disapproval. On the days I drove them, they often ordered room service for me and had it delivered to my car—nice stuff too—steaks, asparagus, and crème brûlée. Or they asked me upstairs and then insisted that I sit and eat while they watched. I was worried that they’d get in trouble for charging meals to their room for me, but they didn’t seem concerned. I couldn’t help but think: Hey, Princess Zaahira, let’s save a little money on the room service and put it to a dermo visit for Maysam.
“How is your husband, Janni?” Maysam asked me one day as she served me a medium-rare New York strip steak from the room service tray. She and the other girls were eating chicken paillard, sautéed spinach, and couscous. The couscous came from the hotel’s kitchen on the twelfth floor, which the princess’s cooks used on a regular basis to prepare special meals for the family. Four of us were gathered snugly around a little table that the hotel staff had wheeled in and set up. The room service table is an ingenious serving apparatus: it has a warmer below for the heated food, and there are two leaves that extend from each side to make the table round once it gets through the door.
It always struck me as incongruous that there we were: a down-and-out chauffeur working around the clock for a bunch of teenagers who also worked around the clock (and were practically indentured servants) for a family of rich Saudis, feasting together on overpriced five-star hotel room service cuisine served on linens and fine china, waited on by accommodating hotel staff who took all the mess away when we had enjoyed our fill. The only thing that could have made it stranger would be if we were sipping Veuve Clicquot champagne too.
“Oh, I don’t have a husband, Maysam,” I replied truthfully. As soon as I said it, I was sorry. In this moment of happy satiation, I was caught unawares and remembered too late that I already started pretending that I was married.
“I so sorry, Janni. Your husband is died, Janni?”
“No, no,” I said. “Nobody is died, I mean nobody is dead. I’m just not married yet.”
“La [no], laaaa, you must husband, Janni. You must husband to protect and take care about you. What must yours M
ama and Baba think on this, Janni?”
I’ve had boyfriends from all over the world, so I smiled and said, “Well, they call me the United Nations of Dating.” Maysam somehow understood my sly joke and did not like it.
“La! La! La, Janni!”
“It’s really okay, Maysam. My parents just want me to be happy.” I didn’t want to say that my parents were way past the point of worrying about me marrying or not marrying. I am at the bottom end of a big family, and I think my parents are just relieved that they haven’t had to pick up the pieces, again, after another child’s disastrous divorce. There have been six already and we’re still counting.
Maysam began to pray. “Alhamdulillah. What will happen to Janni? You must husband to protect and take care about you. I pray for Janni. I pray to Allah for the husband for Janni. Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah. Alhamdulillah.”
The very idea that I was unmarried upset Maysam and the other girls so much that I began making more regular references to the fake husband I had invented to evade driving the hairdresser, and they accepted this new development without comment. They seemed to forget that I wasn’t married. It was easier that way.
I started to make up stories about my “husband.” I named him Michael, and I’ve never dated a Michael, so that seemed fitting for a potential imaginary husband. He was athletic (I like a man who can swing me around a room) and good-natured, with an uplifting playful sense of humor—all of which would be paramount in a “husband” of mine. He was a writer, and we helped to support each other’s artistic endeavors by both working when necessary. I even pretended that he had been sick and that I had to work extra hard to pay for mounting medical bills. I was vague about this. I didn’t want him to be infirm or require long-term care, and I didn’t want them to feel sorry for my imaginary husband. I hinted at knee surgery from an old athletic injury. Something appealed to me about pretending that I was a doting wife doing whatever it took to make ends meet, but I was a little surprised at how easily the girls, and the family as well, forgot that I had started out unmarried, but of course this made sense. I could see that how I live, how I choose to live, was just unthinkable to them.
In my real love life, I had just started to become close to a man I ended up eventually dating. He was a musician, a painter, a superb athlete, really bright, and the only man I’ve ever known who’d watch football with me all day Sunday (and patiently explained plays or rulings that I couldn’t follow, which weren’t many because I’m a fan), and then happily sit through and enjoy several Fellini movies in a row. He was terrific company, funny as hell, and easy on the eyes too. He was tall, with wild hair and a sharply defined massively muscular physique, and he had a deeply pleasing baritone voice that was easy on the ears. I have messages on my voice mail that I’ve kept and still listen to when I need a fix. In one, he imitates a rough-talking Texan truck driver making his way cross-country in the middle of the night looking for a rest stop (me). In another, he sounds like a lost little girl wondering where her best friend (me) has disappeared to. In another, he is just stupidly sweet.
I’d met him a few months before I started the Saudi job, and our romance was slow to get started—partly because I was working around the clock, but also because he was at the tail end of a relationship that was unraveling and I didn’t want to get involved with a man who was still living with another woman. But he was resolute. He used to come to the hotel, wait for me until I had a free moment, and then surprise me with boxes of petit fours and chocolate truffles (which I shared with the girls, saying they were from my husband, Michael), love notes with quotes by Rumi, and sometimes, when I asked for them, a handful of energy bars to get me through the night. He even dropped off and picked up my dry cleaning for me when I had nothing to wear day in and day out because the shops were always closed by the time I was off duty. Sometimes, he’d follow me in his car just to make sure I got home safely after hours and hours on the job. He wooed me fully, thoroughly, and successfully. I felt comforted by his affection and devotion, and his generosity made me feel as if I was wrapped in a constant warm embrace.
I’d usually meet Mr. Rumi around the corner from the hotel so that no one would see us. He was a strapping guy, so I was careful to keep him hidden; one good look at him by any of the family or entourage, and my whole sick husband ruse would have been out the window. Or worse, they might think that I was cheating on my sick husband. Sometimes I’d meet him in one of the alleys off a side street in the flats of Beverly Hills. I’d roll up in a loaded black SUV, dressed tastefully and conservatively, and jump into the backseat of his parked car. We’d neck for five minutes and then I’d emerge from his car with my hair and clothes all akimbo, my face flushed, damp and whisker-burned, with my dry cleaning in hand so I could rush back to the job with a change of clothing for the next morning.
With the girls, I felt like a dutiful wife doing whatever was needed to help my husband through rough times, but Mr. Rumi made me feel like a suburban soccer mom having an extramarital affair with her son’s football coach, and I’m sure that’s what it looked like to the passersby who saw me exiting his car, with all the windows fogged up, after our assignations.
16
Beach Prayer
One day, a beach outing was arranged for all the family and entourage, so most of us headed out to Zuma Beach in Malibu where a huge party had been set up on the sand at the north end of the park. There were balloons and games, and the family hired an In-N-Out cookout truck to serve burgers to everyone at lunchtime. In-N-Out is a popular West Coast family-owned burger chain that serves a super-fresh homemade and seemingly limited menu of burgers, fries, and shakes only. But they also have a secret menu that insiders know about and from which you can make requests for weird and inventive combinations. You can basically order anything—such as a quadruple-patty cheeseburger with extra pickles and tomatoes wrapped in a lettuce leaf stuffed with cheese fries smothered in grilled onions. It will be messy, but it will be utterly delicious. There are also discreet Bible references written on the cups and burger wrappers, which insiders know to look for after they’ve imbibed.
I was at an In-N-Out the other day with my friend Harlow to load up on some calories and inspiration at the same time. As always, the line was around the block. Her 3 × 3 Cheeseburger (three patties with three cheese slices) quoted Revelations 3:20: “Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me,” so Jesus was supping with her. That was comforting because that 3 × 3 was a heart attack waiting to happen. My Double Double (two burgers) Protein (no bun) Animal Style (with grilled onions and mustard-cooked patties) quoted Nahum 1:7: “The Lord is good, a strong hold in the day of trouble; and he knoweth them that trust in him.” I appreciated that. The Saudis loved the In-N-Out—we’d sometimes made two trips a day to the Westwood location—but I don’t think they knew they were eating Jesus food.
On the beach outing, I didn’t get a chance to partake in any of the ecumenical fare with the main group because I was driving Rajiya. She was partying with her Saudi princess girlfriends at the other end of Zuma Beach a good mile away from the rest of the family and entourage. At first, I thought this was because the girls wanted to distance themselves from the family, but then I realized it was probably because their families wanted to protect them from prying eyes. Barricades of umbrellas had been placed in the sand in a wide arc away from other beachcombers, and an elaborate spread was set up for the twenty or so teenage princesses to enjoy. The servers were solicitous men—a small army of bronzed and buffed eunuchs with short blond hair and glistening muscles—who worked year-round for one of the other families, and none of them appeared to be in the least bit tempted by the bevy of teenage Arabian beauties.
Within a few moments, standing in the burning sun at the edge of the sand, I felt that I was going to roast to death. I wasn’t told that we would be going to the beach beforehand, so I was dressed as usual in a long-
sleeved, high-necked blouse, long black pants, and stacked heels. Even if I’d known, though, I don’t know what else I would have worn. It wasn’t like I was there to swim and sunbathe. The other drivers (all male) were dressed in shorts, T-shirts, and sandals. It was 95 degrees out, and there was no shade anywhere unless I sat in the car, which was as hot as hell in the midday sun. Malikah and all the nannies were dressed in their regular clothing, covered from head to toe, and didn’t seem at all uncomfortable. I would have given my eyeteeth to be in a bikini and jump in the ocean for half a minute just to chill down, or even to be wearing a pair of flip-flops. It felt bizarre to be at the beach fully clothed. Within a mile of the shoreline, I’m usually already stripped down and oiled up, ready to get horizontal with a good book the moment I hit the sand. The combination of the long hours, very little sleep, and inadequate sustenance was starting to get to me.
Ten minutes in the sun and I thought I was going to faint, and I knew that it was more than just the heat that was bothering me. I didn’t want to be there, and there was no place to which I could escape. I couldn’t drive away and tell someone to call me when I was needed. I was expected to stay within earshot in case my services were required. I felt trapped, but in a surreal way as if I were in a Buñuel movie. I wasn’t locked in a closet or strapped to a chair; I was enveloped by a huge expanse of sand, an enormous body of water, and a pack of giggling bikini-clad teenagers chaperoned by shrouded, pious women. I started to feel a shortness of breath and a terrible tightness in my chest. This was the worst day of the job for me so far, even worse than the long, lonely hours in the casino parking lot. The minor allure of the employment had totally burned off in the California sun.
Malikah noticed that I was on the precipice of a panic attack and firmly instructed me to sit down under one of the umbrellas that had been put up for the princesses. She wrapped ice cubes in a cloth and draped it across the back of my neck. “Sit and relax here for a moment, Janni. You must relax,” she murmured in my ear. Immediately I felt better.
Driving the Saudis Page 15
