by M S James
‘I had to perform a similar operation last year and the patient is fine now. I’ll go back into the same area and take away a portion of the surrounding tissue. If there has been any spread we can hopefully remove it. Then you can have a course of radiotherapy to mop up any stray malignant cells.’
‘When?’
‘Probably in a couple of weeks or so.’
‘In a couple of weeks! I could have cancer rampaging through my body by then!’ I exclaimed.
He laughed and replied, ‘No, no, it doesn’t travel that fast. And we have already removed the main source of the malignancy. I’ll check my lists for the coming weeks and fit you in as soon as I can.’ He sounded reassuring so I thanked him, somewhat despondently, and gave him a crooked smile.
Philip had to return to Riyadh before my second operation but my mother moved back to our house to care for Jake whilst I was being fixed. This was a process that could be dealt with. There was a satisfactory end in sight and I just had to submit myself to the treatment and get through it.
Radiotherapy turned out to be relatively pain-free except that the radiologist always tuned the in-house sound system to BBC Radio 2 and I had to endure weekly sessions of Jimmy Young’s perky sense of humour and his bland selection of music. For the following few months, I was strictly warned not to go into the sunshine since the skin exposed to the radiotherapy waves would be particularly vulnerable to being sunburned. However, late summer in England is rarely sunny and being sunburned could be easily avoided. I was able to start teaching at the beginning of term but was allowed to take radiation days off. It made one surprisingly tired.
My brief encounter with the Grim Reaper concentrated my mind and I began to consider ways in which I might one day locate my daughter. Searching for her in Saudi Arabia had proved to be exhaustingly futile. If we had been fluent Arab speakers with close contacts within the Saudi community, we might have stood a chance. If the police couldn’t find her there was little prospect of us doing so. I had to assume that she was still alive and had been passed on to a family wealthy enough to have paid for her. If that was the case, then sooner or later she would come to England. The odds of this happening were less than winning the Lottery, but people did win the Lottery and some long-lost children did eventually reappear. Huge numbers of Saudis visited London annually and increasingly large numbers of them bought homes in the more affluent boroughs of Kensington, Knightsbridge and Chelsea. For some reason that was not immediately clear to me, there were always large numbers of Arabs along the Edgware Road, just around the corner from Marble Arch.
I decided that if Anna was to be located anywhere on a visit to England, it would be in West London. I resolved to haunt these areas in the coming years. If nothing else, it would make me feel that I was doing something rather than passively hoping that somebody somewhere would do the right thing.
Once a month, and occasionally more often, I would make my excuses to Philip and take myself to London for the day. Eventually, he became curious as to why I went so often on my own. Pleading interest in ‘such and such’ an art exhibition or opera performance began to sound flimsy excuses. Besides, Philip would often want to come with me and have to be fobbed off. I was safe going to see an opera since he found it a bafflingly weird art form. But there were only so many operas one could see. Eventually I had to come clean and confess to my hopelessly optimistic strategy.
He smiled sympathetically and put his arms around me. ‘If it makes you feel better about our impotence and inability to find her, then go ahead. You know it is probably not going to produce results but we are both living in hope.’
Over the coming months and years, I came to know the Royal Boroughs of Kensington and Chelsea, Knightsbridge, Belgravia, not to mention the Edgware Road, as well as I knew the back streets of Riyadh. The staff of Harvey Nichols and Harrods looked at me as if they were thinking, You look familiar. I hoped they wouldn’t think I was intent on shoplifting since I rarely bought anything. The place I always zoned in on was Harrods toy department. Knowing my daughter’s fondness for Hello Kitty merchandise and anything else at the kitsch end of the toy spectrum I thought she might persuade her new ‘parents’ to take her there. Harrods had some very expensive toys but also a surprising amount of glittery tat. They also had a range of dressing-up clothes which would entrance any young girl – princesses, fairies and flamenco frocks in a range of vibrant colours. Hmmm. She would like them.
We took Jake and a friend to visit Whipsnade Zoo on one occasion and came across a Saudi family admiring the camels. Needless to say, I closely scrutinised the children in the party. I decided that the zoo should be added to my list of places to visit and London Zoo as well. Jake was always keen to come with me. Like both of his parents he enjoyed drawing so I turned the visits into drawing lessons. We became quite accomplished at producing fairly accurate depictions of the animals.
I frequently passed by the Saudi Arabian Embassy in Belgrave Square. I recollected the ‘mass’ interview I had attended when trying to get a teaching job at the Madrassa. The chaotic visa office in the basement operated for a number of years before moving to other premises as, eventually, did the embassy itself. The double and treble parking outside always made me smile. The drivers in their large black limousines wearing vaguely sinister dark glasses knew they were immune from being booked for parking offences. Most cars bore Corps Diplomatique badges. The drivers of those cars that didn’t have CD plates worked for people who thought nothing of running up parking tickets like the rest of us buy bus tickets. It was just one of the many expenses of living in London that they could well afford.
Over the years, I noticed more and more Arabs in the streets, driving top-of-the range cars and presumably living in the expensive houses in that area. There were always plenty of well-heeled Middle Eastern guests milling around the Carlton Tower Hotel in Cadogan Place where I sometimes treated myself to a coffee. The local shops were predominantly high-end outlets for Fendi, Dior, Versace, Bulgari and the like. The wealth created by Gulf oil was pouring into the area and Saudi women were only too happy to clothe themselves in ostentatious raiment and festoon glittery baubles about their bodies. It was what Mrs Thatcher called the ‘trickle-down factor’. The rich splurge their money and the less well-off make expensive stuff to feed their demand. A friend of my acquaintance worked at a high-end emporium. A request came in for matching plaid dog coats which they didn’t make. However, they had plenty of plaid of the desired design to hand, so two coats were manufactured. ‘How much?’ enquired the delighted dog owner. Everyone in the office looked at each other and someone suggested £3,000 per coat. The dog owner was delighted and so were they!
The Edgware Road catered for a different class of Arab. Not so much the wealthy citizens from the Arabian Gulf, but the flotsam and jetsam that sought refuge after periodic paroxysms of unrest in the Middle East. After chatting to various shopkeepers in the area, I gleaned that migrants had come to the area as long ago as the late 1800s but most had arrived after the 1950s and subsequent Middle Eastern unrest. It seemed unlikely that Anna would be found in this area but it was an interesting neighbourhood to explore.
The change from Oxford Street to Edgware Road was startling. One moment you were in a bustling shopping street similar to one in any major city in the country but, rounding the corner by Marble Arch, it suddenly looked like Cairo. In fact, it is colloquially known as Little Cairo. Women were veiled and dressed in figure-enveloping garments whilst the men also wore clothes more often seen in Egypt. There were numerous hookah cafes with men sitting around tables puffing away at their shishas. Shops had signs and advertisements in Arabic and sold newspapers from all over the Levant. There was an ample choice of restaurants catering for Turkish, Lebanese and Egyptian tastes. I noted with interest a shawarma restaurant which I resolved to introduce to Philip and Jake – we had developed an appreciation of Middle Eastern cuisine in our time in Riyadh. Not all
of our memories were bad.
The Foundling
Meetings with Cousin Faisal’s branch of the family were not frequent until I was about twelve, when we moved back to Riyadh. By then he was at university studying to be a doctor but he was often the subject of discussion amongst the family. Aunt Salma made no secret of her intention that one day he would be her son-in-law. Amal would smirk at me on these occasions. Her resentment of me had got worse, if that was possible, since my scooter ride down the mountain.
‘I can’t think how Aunt Noura and Uncle Hammad are going to find a husband for you,’ she would explain with false concern. ‘Nobody in the family would want you – they wouldn’t know what sort of family you came from. Not a nice family, anyway. Not if they could just dump you like they did.’ I had heard enough of her snide remarks to become hardened to them and I just shrugged my shoulders.
‘Perhaps I will have to find one for myself,’ I surmised.
‘Oh no, Uncle Hammad would never let you do that. That’s not the Saudi way of doing things. You will just have to stay at home and wither away.’
‘No, I shall be a teacher and will love being with cheerful young students who want to learn.’
‘Well, that won’t be good enough for me!’ she remarked as she flounced off.
My parents sent me to the best girls’ school in Riyadh and were gratified that I worked hard and showed aptitude in mathematics. They approved of my ambition to teach and even encouraged me to think of going to university. I would be the first woman in the family to go. My math teacher was English and took an interest in my development. It was she who first put the idea in my head that I should study math in Riyadh for my first degree and then go to England for a Postgraduate Certificate in Education. She had been to Homerton College in Cambridge and thought that it would be a good place for me to study. I had somehow to convince my parents that this was not a step too far. They were already under some disapproval from the rest of the family for their encouragement of my educational aims. I would enlist the help of my math teacher when the time came and I certainly needed it. Whilst studying for my math degree I discovered that I had to apply to Homerton College a year before I intended to go there and that the college would have to be assured that my English was good enough. Fortunately, I was able to sit my Cambridge Proficiency exam at the British Council in Riyadh, although I would have to go to the college itself for an interview. Thanks be to Allah that I had been on summer courses in Switzerland to improve my language skills. Getting into the college was going to be tough.
Life for women in Saudi Arabia is far more constrained than in other countries, or, at least, Western countries. We have a ‘guardianship system’ whereby a woman must always have a male guardian to protect and guide her. In practice, it means that you have no control over your life. Your guardian is usually your father but it can be your brother or, amazingly, even your son. Without your guardian’s permission you cannot get a passport, travel outside the Kingdom or get married. You need to be escorted when leaving the house, even to go to the doctor. Some of my friends complain bitterly about their lack of freedom and one was even beaten by her brother who had seen her at a print shop by herself where she had wanted to print out her college essay.
I am so grateful that I don’t have brothers and that my father is quite reasonable. Even so, I try not to cause my parents trouble.
I secured a place at the King Saud University in Riyadh on the women’s campus; the women-only university would have been freer in some respects but the qualifications of the lecturers are generally not as high as those in men’s universities. Since men and women are completely segregated I had to attend open lectures by video link. Besides studying mathematics, I also studied Islam which has given me a new insight into my religion. When fundamentalist scholars say ‘so and so’ is the law, we women scholars can point out that there is no such stricture in the Koran. Nowhere in the Koran does it say that women may not drive a car. For that matter, it does not say that men can!
I was able to persuade Ummi to start a course in child welfare at a women’s college in Riyadh. My father was somewhat taken aback at this suggestion but when he was assured that his home would be run as efficiently as ever, he agreed. Aunt Salma thought it was complete nonsense and could not understand why she would want to do it. I kept in touch with my school math teacher and invited her for visits to our villa when my parents were there. Gradually they gained confidence in her opinions, which were respectful of our Saudi way of doing things. She spoke with enthusiasm of her time at Homerton College, emphasising how for most of its history it had been a female-only establishment and women students had their own accommodation. She somehow forgot to tell my parents that the college was now co-educational and that I would be studying with young men. Most of all, she thought my job prospects would be enhanced if I was the proud holder of a certificate from Cambridge University. The Saudi Government was giving out bursaries and scholarships for students to study abroad so, it was likely that it would be cost-free to my parents. The drip, drip, drip of propaganda for my educational ambition wore down my parents’ reservations. Except one: who would be my guardian?
Padua
Archie and Jenny stayed on in Riyadh and kindly took on the role of being our local ‘eyes and ears’. They periodically visited the police station and also the British Embassy. There was never any new news. I carried on with my perambulations around Knightsbridge and Belgravia. I watched with amusement the blacked-over Saudi women squatting on the pavements outside Harrods waiting for their drivers. I felt like telling them, ‘I can do that!’
But Philip and I had to carry on with no indication from any source that the situation would improve. We carried our sorrow in our hearts and only the heavy sigh that expired from either one of us would indicate that we had been thinking of Anna. The pain gnawed away at us and neither of us was far away from brimming eyes. It would only take a compassionate arm around my shoulder from a friend who knew the situation to make me well up. I could cope as long as no one mentioned her. Occasionally people would only have to say, ‘How are Jake and Anna doing?’ for my composure to disintegrate. I gradually learned to fob them off and not say anything specific.
The years passed and Jake grew into a fine young man. He was mad keen on sport, particularly hockey, so Philip and I often spent the winter weekends ferrying him around to different schools for interschool hockey matches. When he was invited one Easter to go on a week’s hockey tour of northern schools, Philip and I took advantage of his absence to make a tour of our own – around the Veneto, Venice’s hinterland, to see the Palladian villas and churches. Being an architect, Philip was a great admirer of Andrea Palladio and I was all for a spot of culture accompanied by lovely Italian food and wine.
Our hotel, La Calcino, was a small comfortable pensione on the quayside of the Giudecca Canal, within walking distance of the rest of Venice and near a vaporetto stop from where we could quickly motor along the Grand Canal to the Piazzale Roma which sounds romantic but is, in fact, a huge bus station. There we could hire a car for a few days to transport us around the Veneto. Our hotel served breakfast on a pontoon, attached to the quayside outside the hotel. It was magical sitting by the open water with views towards Giudecca Island and, a short distance away, Il Redentore, a Palladian church which was first on our list of must-see buildings. Not so magical were the passing cruise ships on their way to their parking bay at Tronchetto. Floating apartment blocks drifted by whilst their passengers waved down to us, no doubt inspecting our breakfast menu.
Il Redentore is, in the words of the guidebook, a masterpiece of harmony and proportion. The Venetians built the church to Palladio’s design, in grateful thanks for the ending of the 1576 plague. Unfortunately, we missed the annual procession to the church, reached via a concocted bridge of connected small boats over the Canal. The interior is so restrained and visually perfect, not cluttered with Baroque accretions whi
ch afflict so many churches of that period. We then took the vaporetto to the Piazzale Roma and looked in amazed admiration at the Palazzi along the Grand Canal, surely one of the most glorious journeys that one can make by municipal transport. Many of the Palazzi were the town houses of the nobility who owned the Palladian villas we were about to visit. The important business of hiring a car for the following day was somehow achieved (neither of us could speak much Italian and the staff of the hire-car firm didn’t speak any English).
We congratulated ourselves with a glass of wine and then slowly made our way back down the Canal stopping frequently at the stations en route. It was all so atmospheric. Even the scruffy sotto paggiata, passages that wound their way under and around other buildings, somehow looked aesthetically pleasing.
The next morning, we collected our small Fiat and drove over the connecting bridge that links Venice with the horrors of Mestre, the industrial hub of the region. A short drive took us to the Villa Foscari by the Brenta Canal. This Palladian villa has been called the most perfect of them all, but by the end of the week I concluded that each one was the most perfect villa. The Villa Foscari is more often known as La Malcontenta, the Unhappy One, after one of its former lady residents was locked up there due to her lack of interest in her marital duties. However, there is some justification for the villa itself to be considered malcontent since an industrial site has grown up around it and the villa had suffered consequent pollution and corrosion of the villa’s fabric. The wonderful frescoes that enhanced the interior had suffered and needed expensive restoration.
We pressed on to Padua, where we planned to have lunch and a leisurely stroll around the ancient streets. I took on the role of navigator on this leg of the journey and, as I was checking the road map, the penny dropped.