Driving the Saudis

by Jayne Amelia Larson

  I know that in part I put the pressure on myself. I prided myself on my competence and realize now that I would have been ashamed not to pony up and shine in as many ways as possible. But the potential for failure was immense, practically guaranteed, because there were just too many variables. And there was really no one I could ask for help besides Charles and Sami, and they were not supposed to answer their phones if they had their principals in their cars with them, which was usually the case. In the past, I’d been accustomed to a much more collaborative work environment that relied on shared information and effort; this was a harsh adjustment to make. I had to look out for herself.

  Every now and then I had to talk myself down. I had to remind myself that I was only a chauffeur driving around a bunch of ridiculously rich people, and that was it. It was not essential work, it was not humanitarian work, and it really wasn’t all that important if I didn’t know if there was a Jamba Juice in Anaheim. There would be no Nobel Prize for me as a result of my ministrations to the Saudi royal family and their entourage. Stockholm didn’t care.

  In moments of extreme fatigue, however, I often daydreamed about what I would do if I had the money I needed to live the way I wanted. I used to play a game when I was a little girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, that involved furnishing my future dream house. I would allot myself a specific sum of money, say $5,000, and then I would go through all the furniture catalogues and magazines featuring weekly sale items that came with the Sunday paper. I’d choose a beautiful Oriental carpet from one store and a cushy sofa set from another, and then a coffee table and matching end tables, and lamps to go with them, and then maybe a dining room set if I had any money left over. I don’t think I ever made it to any other rooms. I’d cut out the pictures and organize my chosen pieces in pleasing arrangements, as if making a paper dollhouse collage. I can’t imagine where I learned this from, and I’m pretty sure I did it in secret. I didn’t have any interior design ambitions either. It wasn’t the aesthetics I was interested in; I just wanted to set up a house that was my very own with my own stuff in it.

  For the first time in over thirty years, I began to play this game again when I had a few quiet moments to myself sitting in a restaurant parking lot waiting for the family to finish dinner, with a plastic container of prime rib, mashed potatoes, and sautéed green beans cooling on the seat next to me. I updated my childhood diversion by expanding it to include clothing, spa services, and career aspirations. I’d imagine that I’d just won $20 million in the lottery and had taken the cash option instead of the yearly payments. After taxes, I calculated that I might walk away with $8 million or so. I had a carefully culled list of worthies whom I’d bestow cash gifts on that included most (but not all) of my family members and several A+ rated charities. This left me with about $4 million to blow. That could go a long way.

  I daydreamed that I would get monthly deep-cleansing and moisturizing facials that included light chemical peels to diminish fine lines and wrinkles. I would consider more invasive procedures after the age of sixty or so, allowing for advances in technology. I’d spend a year learning how to play the piano, focusing on nothing else as a sure way to guarantee my success and impressive proficiency. I’d pass out hundred-dollar bills on a regular basis to surprised baristas and gas station attendants and imagined smiling benevolently when they sputtered out their gratitude. I would throw away all my shoes except my very top favorites and purchase a tantalizing army of new ones with mucho toe cleavage. I would buy several sets of Pratesi egyptian cotton jacquard sheets and a new California king–sized bed for them to go on. I’d write and produce a short film that would win an Oscar and launch my fantastically successful producing career. In all my subsequent films, I would give myself cameo roles that demanded terrific artistic effort and expression. I would win accolades for these performances. I’d invest in real estate by buying a multilevel three-bedroom condominium at the beach that featured a very private and huge ozone-sanitized heated pool and several balconies on which to enjoy a gin and tonic. I’d swim naked in my pool every night, occasionally with an adoring man in attendance. I’d give my Midas brother about a half-million dollars and ask him to make some conservative investments on my behalf so that I could live on the interest, and I would give him 5 percent of the earnings—maybe 10 percent if he really did his homework. In support of my venture capitalist brother’s epiphany that better business makes for a better society, I’d give him another half-million dollars to fund a socially responsible start-up that would benefit the world as a whole. I’d make yearly first-class trips to Provence, sometimes taking my mother and sisters, where I would stock up on lavender sachets for all my closets and drawers. I’d pay back all the money I owe people. (But not the $20,000 that one of my old boyfriends claims is due him for all the money he squandered on me. I figure that my time spent with him was worth at least twice that and I’m willing to call it even.) I’d take a trek to Antarctica. Why? I did not know. I just liked the idea of traveling in a vast whiteness completely alone, with the wind rushing around my ears, without a hairdresser interrupting my reverie screaming, “WHERE ARE YOU? WHY I WALK? WHY YOU MAKE ME WALK MYSELF?”

  Actually I didn’t need $4 million. The amount of money that one princess could burn through during two days of shopping on Rodeo Drive could change my life for the better in many ways.

  18

  “Yes, Janni. We Know This, Janni.”

  One evening I was particularly tired and sleep deprived, even more burned out than usual. It was week 5, day 35 of back-to-back shifts, and I’d been out driving the little princess for ten hours. Rajiya liked to walk up and down Rodeo Drive with her friends, just like Princess Zaahira and Princess Aamina did, but I had to follow her in the empty car with the radio turned up really loud so she and her friends could sing and dance to their favorite songs on Kiss FM. “Turn it up please, Janni!” Rajiya would yell to me from the sidewalk. “‘It’s like I’ve waited my whole life . . . Double your pleasure, double your fun.’ Janni! Please! Turn it up! I love this song! ‘It’s like I’ve waited my whole life.’”

  It was a strange sight: ten teenage Saudi girls scantily clad in thousands of dollars worth of Free City, Marc Jacobs, and Gucci gear dancing up and down Rodeo Drive followed by their hijab-covered nannies strolling several paces behind but always very near, flanked by several armed female bodyguards on Nextels and cell phones, tailed by a black convertible, windows and top down, blaring pop tunes, with nine other black SUVs and sedans slowly circling the block like a menacing cloud.

  Occasionally Rajiya or one of her girlfriends would dance over to the car to quiz me. “Janni, do you know Paris Hilton? Do you know where she lives? Can we go to her house? Do you know David Beckham? Do you know Pharrell? Do you know Kanye West? Do you know any famous people, Janni?” Dissatisfied with my answers, they’d scowl and skip away. I did know where Paris lived but had no intention of telling them.

  On the drive back to the hotel, Rajiya peppered me with questions as usual as she sang to the same mind-numbing songs on the radio turned up as loud as possible. The half-mile journey seemed like ten miles: “ ‘Cuz we only got one night. Double your pleasure, double your fun . . . ’ Janni, is the Juicy Couture at Century City nicer than the Juicy Couture on Rodeo Drive? Why is it called Juicy Couture? Have you been to Paris? Our house in Paris is next to the Tuileries. We go walking in the Tuileries every day when we are in Paris. It is beautiful. Do you know the Tuileries? Do you go to Aspen? We have many houses in Aspen where all the family stays. We go skiing in Switzerland too. Do you ski? I have three cars and my own driver at home in Riyadh, and my brother Momo has twenty-five cars and a Lamborghini and a Ferrari and a Maserati. I like the Maserati. Do you like the Maserati? My brother says that the future of all cars is electric. Do you think this is true? You said that you would take me to see the Tesla when the studio is open. I want to see this electric sports car that you talk about. I will ask my father to buy me this and then I will be on
ly one in Riyadh with a Tesla. ‘It’s like I’ve waited my whole life, for this one night. It’s gonna be me, you and the dance floor . . . ’”

  Ten hours was a long day with little Princess Rajiya, and I couldn’t help but think: If the future of all cars really is electric then your family is in deep shit. As I turned into the private back entrance of the hotel, going way too fast—much, much too fast I knew—I almost drove straight into Princess Zaahira’s Mercedes as it was pulling out. It was a near head-on collision. Her driver looked at me and mouthed violently but silently, “What the fuck are you doing?” He had a big head and shook it at me so hard that it looked like he might come through the windshield. I could see his hands were white and tight on the steering wheel. I threw my hands in the air as if to say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.” The security in the seat next to him glared at me, a look of wild alarm on his face. They sped off. Princess Zaahira’s chase car followed them, close behind, with their flashers on as if they were under assault. I’m fucked, I thought. I am fired for sure.

  After I dropped off Rajiya and Malikah at the hotel entrance, I was shaking so uncontrollably that I almost couldn’t park the car. I hurried to the ladies’ room in the hotel lobby and tried to calm my breathing. I felt like I’d been punched in the stomach and couldn’t catch my breath. The security command post had quickly heard about the near accident, called me on my cell phone, and bellowed at me to “WAKE UP FOR CRISSAKES!” How can I wake up when I can barely even stand? I thought. But they didn’t fire me. Okay, okay. I’m not fired. I’m not fired.

  I hid in an alcove and burst into tears. I couldn’t stop crying; I was like an exhausted five-year-old who hadn’t slept in weeks. Each time I thought I had finally collected myself and stemmed the tears, they’d come pouring out again. I must have gone in and out of the restroom at least five times. My nose was red and raw from blowing it. I couldn’t go home, and I didn’t want anybody to see me because I’d already been caught crying after Fausto chewed me out on the day, early on in the job, when I was demoted. I took the back elevator up to one of the servants’ rooms. They knew I was the only female driver, and they invariably welcomed me. Their hotel room doors were always unlocked and usually ajar, as there was so much coming and going in all the rooms on the several hotel floors that the family occupied, and of course the security always patrolled the corridors and there were cameras all over. I eased open the room door. The double blackout curtains were drawn, and it was pitch dark. The room was warm and the air close. I heard the soft whispery sound of women snoring.

  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and then I saw that there were three girls asleep on the one king bed and four more in little cots set up along the walls around the room. I had never seen the cots set up in the room before; they must have kept them in the walk-in closet most of the time. I had assumed that two girls shared each room, but I now saw that seven girls were asleep there, all in one room.

  I knew that the family was paying for the princess’s tea setup to have a whole hotel room to itself, and yet these girls were living like a little family of mice. Even if they were immensely fond of each other, that was a pretty tight living arrangement.

  They were taking a nap while the princess was out shopping, and I had woken them up. Maysam jumped up to take care of me. “No cry, no cry, no cry, okay, Janni?”

  “Oh, Maysam, I’m just so tired,” I said. I could barely form my mouth around the words because I was crying so hard.

  I’ll never forget the expression on Maysam’s face as she dried my tears with a tissue as if I were her child. It was almost chagrined but still kindly. She wrapped her arm around me and rested her head on my shoulder. “Yes, Janni, we know this, Janni. We know.”

  In an instant, my tears stopped.

  They did know. By now, all the girls were awake, clutching the bedclothes around themselves and watching us with confused, sleepy frowns. I looked around at all these young girls blinking up at me and I realized they really did know how I felt: so tired and alone and beaten down. A shaft of hard light suddenly was shining deep into me, giving me a jolt, waking me up, fast and hard, and I was filled with shame. Their days were never their own, and they were making the best of it. And they even offered solace to me for my few measly weeks of hardship that barely matched their years of endless drudgery. But they lived like this every day, every week, every month, every year, maybe all their lives.

  When the princess goes out to buy $5,000 worth of La Perla lingerie, the little servant girls get to take a short nap.

  19

  The Cool Driver Doesn’t Lose Her Nose

  Little Princess Rajiya was out on the town again with her teenage buddies. It was 2:30 A.M., and she and her girlfriends were cruising around Hollywood looking to get noticed. The Pinkberry on Hollywood Boulevard was finally closed, but there was no way they were ready to go home yet. They were too young to get into any real nightclubs, and they certainly weren’t allowed by their families to go clubbing, so we were just driving up and down the Sunset Strip. That was thrilling for them.

  They did the same thing during the afternoons at the shopping malls, sometimes spending four or five hours there every day. They preferred the Grove on Fairfax and Third or the Century City mall because they’re both outdoor malls and the shops are the nicest in Los Angeles. Of course, they did a phenomenal amount of shopping, but much of the time they just walked in circles around the mall, around and around and around, so that they could mix with everyone and feel as if they were part of the social experience. It was their chance to see and be seen. Malikah reminded me that Rajiya didn’t have the same freedom in Saudi Arabia, and that when she returned home to the Kingdom, “it will all be just a beautiful memory, so we must let her enjoy herself as much as possible now. This is our gift.”

  American kids do the same today when they’re too young to drive but don’t want to stay home with their parents. I often spent time traipsing around with my friends when I was growing up. Sometimes we moved as an exponentially expanding pack throughout the neighborhood and various backyards. This was normal. There was little danger of us compromising each other in some way; it was accepted that we were all just friends. There were occasional crushes or little romantic flare-ups, but most were pretty innocuous, at least before high school.

  In the Kingdom, Saudis past the age of six or seven don’t mix with the opposite sex at all unless they’re close relations; any other mixing is forbidden. But Rajiya and her friends didn’t talk to anybody even here, only to each other or to their nannies, who chaperoned them and were never more than six feet away. Boys were totally off-limits, and the nannies or security would quickly intervene if any males dared to approach them. The girls were allowed to go to the movies but the sanctioned selection (G or an occasional PG-13) was limited, so sometimes they saw the same movie four or five times. My idea of hell would be to sit through Beverly Hills Chihuahua over and over again, but they didn’t seem to mind. For them, just the experience of being in a movie theater, and a mixed one at that with boys and girls together, was an exhilarating event in and of itself.

  They would sometimes, however, walk out en masse if there was slightly objectionable behavior or content in a film. The princesses, not the nannies, usually made the decision to leave. Although accompanied by a posse of security and staff, it appeared they were also self-governing. One time I asked Rajiya why they had walked out of a particular movie, and she said, “Oh, we did not like it. It was boring.” They often said this when something made them feel self-conscious or uncomfortable. I found out later that there was kissing in the movie; the girls became ill at ease and left.

  Close to midnight one evening, they insisted on going to a late-night hot spot on Hollywood Boulevard that was owned and newly opened by a couple of celebrities. Even though it was a restaurant, after 10:00 P.M. it was hopping with people hoping to hook up after they’d had a bite to eat somewhere else less expensive. As soon as we dropped the girls off, I knew the
re was going to be trouble. A slew of young studs and starlets stood in line behind the restaurant’s velvet ropes, smoking cigarettes and flirting coyly with each other. The crowd was stylish, with exposed belly buttons, bulging muscles, and sexy tattoos; I could tell by their boisterousness that some of them had already hit a few bars on the way there. The family’s security had arranged dinner reservations for the teenagers, so they were quickly whisked to the front of the line and into the club, followed by their nannies, many of them in full cover dress with hijabs and long shawls. Within five minutes, the girls exited, looking unhappy. Rajiya said the food was “boring,” but I knew the girls left because they felt so out of place among the Hollywood nightlifers, and they probably did not want to be in such close proximity to the young men who watched them with great interest.

  The young girls weren’t sneaking cigarettes or flirting with a cutie salesboy at Abercrombie & Fitch, or trying to sneak into an R-rated movie. Even so, they were chomping at the bit to make something, anything, happen to make their lives more exciting, but they always checked themselves at the last moment. I saw that a lot of this frustration was channeled into rudeness to the staff and the entourage, almost as if they were acting out to garner attention—and that this bad behavior was their only emotional outlet, however misdirected. I’m sure they were conflicted about this because I also knew that the girls were genuinely fond of and close to their caretakers, who might look after them their whole lives.