Malikah was devout, and always prayed at the carefully prescribed five times each day. Another of the five pillars of Islam is salah, the compulsory daily prayers that are offered to Allah at specific times of the day measured according to the movement of the sun. She told me that Islam is the newest of the big three religions; ironically it was meant to unify the troubled region of the Middle East and to make peace between the Christians and the Jews. It draws many of its stories and precepts from Judaism and Christianity, as well as the principles of what it means to be a godly person. I saw that the servant girls and Malikah were good Christians as well as good Muslims. They demonstrated this over and over again in their kindness and goodwill toward me and others. Malikah taught me that Islam literally means submission—submission to God, but also in the sense of submission to peace—peace with God, peace with oneself, and peace with all the creations of God in whatever form they take.
Recently a taxi driver in New York City reminded me that Assalamu alaykum means peace to you. This is the greeting that is used for hello and good-bye. And Malikah always meant it when she said it. She wasn’t at all judgmental, as I undoubtedly was, about the fact that her employers were as bad as any Westerners in their preoccupations with appearance and possessions; even more so, in spite of the doctrines of the Quran dictating modesty, decorum, and charity to which they purportedly subscribed. She accepted that each person must come to God in her own way and that this must be done in her own time, and Malikah was content to practice her faith as it suited her without casting aspersions on those around her who were less pious.
On the ride out to Malibu, she had alerted me that she needed my help to find a little privacy at the beach for her afternoon prayer, so when I had cooled down, I scouted out an enclave that I thought might work. At the appropriate time, we drove to the far end of one of the Zuma parking lots, and I backed the car up close to a high dune to create a secluded private prayer area for her. She determined in which direction she should face toward Mecca by working an ornate antique compass that she always carried with her, and then she laid out a special prayer rug in the sand. The rug was made of daintily woven silk, thin and delicate, so I insisted on putting a towel underneath it as protection before she set it down. While Malikah rinsed her hands and face with water in preparation for prayer, I brushed away twigs and bits of shell so she wouldn’t feel them under the rug. There was nothing precious about what Malikah was doing. She was just efficient and matter of fact. I was the one who was making a fuss.
She then positioned herself on the rug while I stood guard to make sure that no one interrupted or bothered her. During prayer, Muslims must pray as though they are in the presence of God, and therefore must be in a state of quiet concentration and devotion. It is forbidden to fidget or look around. Intention must be pure and one must pray as if it is the last prayer that one can ever offer.
I listened to her pray softly for ten minutes or so. I didn’t watch; I just listened. I thought watching would have been rude, but I was entranced by the sounds of her worship. I could feel and hear her movement even though I didn’t see it. She stood first, then went to her knees, and moved up and down several times in succession, prostrating herself at intervals. The ritual prayer is rather like a dance, with prescribed gestures and postures that are specifically executed and repeated along with a recitation. Her pants and tunic rustled with her movements, and it sounded as if she was singing softly.
When I was a young actress in New York, I auditioned for and was accepted into the St. Patrick’s Cathedral choir. I wasn’t a practicing Catholic and wasn’t particularly religious, but I knew it would be a good way to keep my instrument tuned up, and I wanted to be part of the communal cathedral choir experience. And I also thought it would be neat to sing in St. Patrick’s—such an imposing and majestic church—and in front of a congregation of thousands. The audition was dauntingly rigorous; I had to do a lot of sight-reading of Handel and Bach, which wasn’t my forte, but somehow I squeaked by. And I do mean squeak. At the first Sunday Mass, I was nervous and excited to be there and had hardly slept the night before. The choir had to be at rehearsal early in the morning in order to be warmed up for the singing Mass, the first service of the morning. We wore beautiful plum-colored robes and assembled in a processional to walk down the center church aisle before the congregation, and then climbed up the winding narrow stairs to the choir loft at the back of the church. We sang several hymns, and then the cardinal began his sermon. I was riveted right away—not just because he was a powerful orator with a stentorian voice, but also because he was speaking about the sanctity of life and the immorality of abortion. I was living with a boyfriend at the time, and birth control was a constant preoccupation, problem, and hindrance, so I perched on the edge of the pew paying close attention. After a few minutes, I noticed that the choir had decreased in size, people had wandered to the back rows of the loft, and a short time later, I heard snoring all around me. Most of the singers were taking a catnap while the cardinal spoke and then roused themselves when it was time to sing again. This dismayed me, and it was the same at every Mass. Six months later, I quit the choir.
I thought of this while Malikah was praying at the beach. Her relationship with God was so personal and powerful and seemed to give her an immense amount of comfort and peace. She wouldn’t have been put off by a snoring choir, just as she wasn’t put off by the hundreds of children shrieking at the waves breaking on the shoreline, or the half-naked people swimming, necking on blankets, and partying on the beach all around her while she prayed to Allah. I was jealous but happy for her at the same time.
After salah, Malikah was markedly calm and content, and thanked me profusely for my help. She told me that she had prayed for me, my husband’s health, and my complete happiness.
When it was time to leave the beach, Rajiya wanted to get the sand off her and change her clothes before she drove back to Beverly Hills with her friends, piled on top of one another in the SUV in which most of them had arrived. Some of the other girls had already taken off to nearby hotel rooms—even though the families owned homes only twenty minutes away—which one of their fathers had rented so that they could change in private, but Rajiya hadn’t been invited to join them and didn’t want to visit the public facilities on Zuma. I didn’t blame her; they were usually filthy at the end of the day after visits from carloads of families. I powered up the convertible’s top; then Malikah and I improvised a makeshift dressing room for Rajiya in the back of the car, and she changed while we kept guard.
One of the few Arab employees who worked for another family chose this moment to try to chat me up. I tried to fend him off, but he was obnoxiously persistent, pestering me with questions and inane remarks (“The beach she is not so soft and beautiful like you”), when I realized that he was hitting on me so that he could steal a look at Rajiya in the backseat of the car while she was disrobing. I shouted at him to go away and to stop bothering us. He laughed and scoffed at me, and moved even closer, as if I had taunted him to be bolder. I became incensed and was readying myself to launch a string of ugly invectives when Malikah quickly stepped between us, put her hand on his arm, and spoke to him in Arabic in a soft voice. Within a moment he slunk away. I’m not sure what she said to him, but I’m sure it had something to do with God, and I admired how she handled the situation with complete graciousness. He had made a valiant effort to check out the beautiful naked teenager, as I’m guessing he felt it was his duty as a man to do, and she had probably reminded him that it was improper and he backed off. No harm, no foul. Watching Malikah handle herself with such ease was a tremendous learning experience for me. She had no need to shame him, and she had effortlessly put a stop to his offensive behavior while still preserving the dignity of both of them. I just stood there watching, still frothing at the mouth.
Malikah turned to me, smiled, and extended her palms as if to say, See how easy it is. She took my hand in hers, just as she had done on the first day. “We
have a saying in my country, Janni. You must save a little bit of your upset. Do not use it all at once, so that you have some for later.”
I couldn’t help but smile. She already knew me so well, and it had been only a few weeks since we’d met.
“Are you feeling better now?” she asked me. “Do you feel strong enough to continue?”
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “I am much better now. I am strong enough to continue.”
17
Shame Is a Very Personal Thing
By now, I had concocted a more detailed picture of my imaginary husband, Michael, and had also become adept at offhandedly imparting information about him. He was rapidly recuperating from his illness, and I said that I hoped that I would be able to bring him to meet everyone soon because he wanted to thank them for their prayers for a speedy and complete recovery. All the servant girls were especially curious about him and wanted to see what he looked like; they wanted to see who I was smooching when I went home at night. Every now and then I’d wear a different piece of jewelry, and if someone admired it, I would say that Michael gave it to me for my last birthday or Christmas three years ago. The girls would cluck appreciatively. Sometimes they’d ply me with little gifts to take back home to him—usually sweets of some kind.
The man I was semidating at the time, Mr. Rumi, was just as curious about the people for whom I was working. He’d heard many stories about the detail from me (usually during late-night cell phone calls when I waited alone in a dark and dreary place), and he was also especially curious about the girls, wanting to know what they looked like and to see how we interacted. A part of me wanted someone else to bear witness to the phantasmagorical world in which I was enmeshed, but I knew that I couldn’t introduce him to the girls as my husband even if he pretended to hobble from recent surgery—I just knew that would be going too far in the deceit. One day, Mr. Rumi followed the servant girls and me to the 99¢ Only store and watched us in the parking lot and while we shopped. He kept a distance, and even though I knew he was there, I didn’t acknowledge him. I met up with him afterward, and he said he was so moved by what he saw that it made him want to cry. He said that they were astonishingly beautiful, which they truly were, but also that he was struck by how affectionate we all were together: giggling, touching one another, and leaning in close when we laughed as if we were all young playmates.
The experience also made him see me in a whole new light. Often the 99¢ Only store parking lots are rough terrain populated with homeless people begging for handouts, and the girls always gave their change away when they exited the store. Once a man made a move as if to grab Zuhur’s wrist, and I rushed between them and prevented any contact by pushing the man away and wheeling Zuhur off toward the car. I was protective of them with a ferocity that surprised me as well as Mr. Rumi. He said that I looked like a beatific matriarch when I was with them—and that is how I felt when I was in their company, like their guardian angel. I don’t have any little sisters, and I really did enjoy my new role; it was one of the most pleasurable perks of the job.
I had told very few people that I was chauffeuring—some of my family and perhaps a few friends only. I definitely did not want to tell my father, and didn’t do so until way after the fact. He would have been disappointed that all the money he’d spent on my education was wasted on gassing and washing a Crown Vic. I’m not sure why I didn’t tell more people about this career development. It’s not that I was embarrassed about the work; I don’t think any kind of labor is humiliating as long as you do it well and with attention. But I think part of me hoped that not speaking about it would make it less real and therefore more temporary.
During the Saudi job, every now and then someone who did know that I was chauffeuring would call me to see if I was free to see a movie or have dinner. The ensuing conversations usually went something like this:
“I’m sorry. I’m just too busy to meet,” I’d say.
“Okay,” they’d say. “Then let’s get together on your day off.”
“I don’t have any days off. We’ll have to get together in a month.”
“No days off at all? Who are you driving?”
“Members of the Saudi royal family.”
“No way?!”
“Yes, way.”
“Why’d they hire you? I thought they didn’t let women drive.”
“I only drive the women, and it seems that’s fine here. In fact, I think they like it.”
“Well, can we get a drink after work then? Just so we can catch up. I’ll come to you.”
“No, I’m sorry. The days are really long. Usually I just pass out with a piece of toast in my hand when I get home.”
“You must be making a shitload of money. You’re getting overtime, right?”
“No, it’s a flat fee no matter how many hours, but I’m counting on a big tip at the end. The Saudis are supposed to tip really well if they like you.”
“I want to hear all about this. Let’s meet for coffee one morning then. How about tomorrow? Or I can do Thursday too. You must have time for coffee.”
It was hard to explain the all-consuming aspect of the job. I could hardly meet anybody ever, and then only if they came around near the hotel and also had my dry cleaning in one hand and a bag of almonds in the other. None of my friends could comprehend what it was like to be at the beck and call of an employer day and night, not even the ones who worked in film and were accustomed to great personal sacrifices demanded of them on a long film shoot. We’re used to some measure of autonomy and freedom, and we expect it. Working for the Saudi family dictated the opposite of this. Any moment of respite had to be snatched on the fly, catch as catch can. I started to get inventive about how to carve out a little time for myself.
Often I’d be driving someone who accompanied the princess in the evening when she dined at a tony Beverly Hills restaurant. The routine was always the same. Security would call ahead and get several separate tables for a party of twenty or more. Princess Zaahira would sit at a VIP table with her sisters and friends, the security personnel would sit at another table near the door, the chauffeurs would sit at another near the kitchen, and then if the servant girls were along, they’d sit at another somewhere in between. At first, it was expected that I would join the group for dinner. The Saudis were very inclusive in that regard; if one person is eating, then everybody is eating, whether they want to or not. They insisted that no one should be left out of a meal if you happened to be with them when they were eating. If you weren’t with them because you’d been sent on an urgent errand to buy twenty phone cards or six cartons of Carlton cigarettes, no one paid attention as to whether you’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours.
In spite of the promise of a tasty meal, I loathed going into a beautiful upscale restaurant after hours at the wheel and dressed the way I was in wrinkled work clothes and matted hair. I hated having to sit with the other chauffeurs when the servant girls were not along. They were a rude and crude bunch who made no effort to welcome me. I had dined in many of the restaurants before under different circumstances, and I didn’t like the idea of running into somebody I knew, or hoped to know, when I was down on my luck. The food didn’t taste as good under the influence of humiliation. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I know now that I was ashamed to be seen at the restaurant under those conditions.
Shame is an insidious but major player in all of our lives, and for each person it shows up differently, and almost nobody ever talks about it. The silence shrouding it makes it even more potent. Rajiya was ashamed she didn’t know how to handle money like any normal teenager, the hairdresser was ashamed to be driven in a Crown Vic because he thought it diminished his stature, and I was ashamed to be seen as a bedraggled chauffeur instead of a successful actor and producer. I suppose a part of me also resented the fact that I was in such a dire situation at all. If I wasn’t sitting with the group, then I could continue to pretend that I wasn’t really in the group. I didn’t want to be associat
ed with them in any case. I wanted to be free. I wanted to be at my own table, with my own friends, and paying for my own meal. It was also difficult to relax and enjoy a full three-course meal when I knew I would probably have to continue working for several more hours, if not long into the night. It was easier to down a few espressos and an energy bar to fuel me through the evening.
I finally relayed to the family that my husband, Michael (I was starting to really like saying his name), preferred that I didn’t sit with the men, the other chauffeurs, and this was completely understood and sanctioned. From then on, if the servant girls were not dining with Princess Zaahira, as was usually the case, then I was permitted to wait in the car. The princess would always order food and have it sent out to me, and she’d even order extra for me to take to my husband waiting at home, presumably hungry. I’ve had some of the most expensive take-out food in the world but I preferred not to eat in the car, so it was always cold and soggy before I could enjoy it late at night in the quiet of my own house with my shoes off and my nightie on.
The job was so demanding that even in my downtime, when I was waiting for the little Princess Rajiya while she was in the movies, or stuck in a casino parking lot until the wee hours of the morning, I could never relax. I was unable to sleep or even close my eyes for a moment in the car as many other chauffeurs do easily and regularly, and I would have been terrified to do so even if I could.
There never was any real downtime anyway. My cell phone rang incessantly with calls from other members of the staff or entourage requesting this or that, even at two o’clock in the morning. I was constantly anxious about what I would be required to do the following day and whom I might have to drive and where. I was expected to know things, sometimes at the very last minute, that only a much more experienced driver or, better yet, a psychic could have known: the fastest surface route from West Los Angeles to Long Beach at rush hour in a convoy of ten cars, whether the Popcornopolis at Universal CityWalk serves caramel apples, and what time the In-N-Out in Westwood closes on a Sunday. How about the one in West LA? Wasn’t the one near LAX open twenty-four hours? I didn’t spend that much time eating In-N-Out burgers that I would know all the stores’ hours by heart. If I whipped out my computer in public, then I was just asking for it. I was compelled to spend much of my alone time boning up on what I feared might be asked of me because I didn’t know what might be expected or demanded at any given moment. Admitting ignorance was tantamount to saying, “I’m incompetent,” and that was something I wanted to avoid at all costs.
Driving the Saudis Page 16
