by M S James
‘The one thing I don’t know is exactly how old I am or the date I was born,’ continued Anna.
She was amused to discover she was actually six months older than she thought she was and that her birthday was several months after the date of her disappearance.
‘If you come to England in July we can organise a birthday party for you!’
She said she would like that very much.
‘My husband is an ophthalmologist, an eye surgeon – many in his family are doctors. His father owns and runs a clinic.’
‘When you were little, we took you to the Riyadh Eye Hospital. Does he work there?’
‘Yes, how strange. Why was I there?’
‘Jake threw a paper dart at you in the back of our car. Point blank range. The dart went into your eye and cut the cornea. He was in bad trouble for doing that.’
‘Where is Jake?’ she asked.
I glanced at my watch. ‘He’ll be here shortly. You won’t recognise him.’ I gave her Jake’s photo.
‘Good gracious!’ she exclaimed. ‘So dark! He’s very good looking.’
‘Yes, we have produced two very attractive children!’
Anna laughed and stared at Jake’s photo. Despite being white blond when she last saw him, he was now more of a Mediterranean colouring. When he was a teenager his hair went darker and darker. He had strong symmetrical facial features and, if he had grown a moustache and worn a thobe and ghutra, could have passed as an Arab.
‘What does he do?’
Philip explained, ‘He studied product design at university and now runs his own sports equipment company.’
Right on cue, the doorbell rang. I let him in and as he surveyed his long-lost sister he threw caution to the wind saying, ‘Hi, sis!’ and gave her a bear-like hug. We all laughed but she took this embrace from a stranger with aplomb.
Over a picnic lunch we exchanged family information and gradually a degree of informality crept in. She was intrigued by photographs of her grandparents. She could remember my mother and being hugged by her. ‘Granddad used to give me a tube of Smarties!’ she suddenly recalled.
‘Do you mind if I look at the back of your neck?’ I asked. She looked mystified but nevertheless shyly removed her headscarf. At the base of her skull was a red birthmark, exactly the same as the one on her grandmother’s neck. She had never seen it or knew it was there. ‘You have your granny’s fingernails as well,’ I said as I took her hand and showed them to Philip. She was our girl, alright.
Over the course of the meal we tentatively discussed how we could take things forward. She said she would not mention to Faisal’s family that she had met us but would speak to him as soon as she returned to Riyadh. The orthodontist had told her that he would fit ‘rail-tracks’ to her teeth to straighten them in six weeks’ time, the earliest she could return to England. I suddenly felt cross with her ‘new parents’ that they hadn’t sorted the problem when she was a child. Her teeth weren’t too congested, but Anna hoped some orthodontic work would help. ‘Perhaps Faisal can come with me next time and you can meet him?’
‘And Ya’cub?’ I added.
‘Insha’allah,’ she replied. We all smiled. Yes, if Allah willed it, we would all be fine.
Happy ever after?
Well, not entirely. Our daughter didn’t come home to us but at least we knew where she was. Thousands of parents around the world are separated from their children who live across the globe. We just happened to have one who lived in Saudi Arabia.
Our parents were thrilled beyond measure that Anna had been found. ‘God has answered our prayers,’ my mother intoned in the voice she used when imparting News of Great Importance. And who could argue with her? But I made a silent ‘Thank you’ to Saint Anthony who possibly had a hand in the miracle. Elizabeth and David cheered and clapped and rushed to open a bottle of bubbly. All three were desperate to see her again but we cautioned them that it might take some time to get her family ‘on board’ with the turn of events.
Six weeks later, on Anna’s return visit to see her orthodontist, a meeting was arranged for us to congregate in the Marriott’s Gillray’s café after her appointment. Faisal would be there as well. We were more than apprehensive about meeting him since he would heavily influence his wife as to whether the relationship would blossom or not.
Philip and I entered the café and scanned it for son-in-law material. No one fitted the bill so we settled down with a coffee each. Through the window, I eventually spotted Anna with a young man in a suit holding hands with a young boy, our grandson. They entered Gillray’s smiling, Anna beaming, but her husband’s smile was more circumspect. Little Ya’cub smiled apprehensively. We stood, also smiling in welcome, shook hands with Faisal, kissed his wife on the cheek and ruffled their son’s hair.
Faisal was, like most Saudis, tall, dark and of slim build. He wore a well-tailored dark grey suit, brilliant white shirt and conservatively coloured tie. He had the ubiquitous black moustache but was otherwise clean-shaven. Altogether, an attractive man.
Initially, it was an awkward encounter. Anna was friendly, introducing us to her husband and son. Ya’cub was easily won over by a toy we had brought him which he unwrapped and played with whilst we talked. Faisal was pleasant but wary; what, he wanted to know, were we anticipating from this unexpected reconnection with Anna.
I left much of the opening conversation to Philip. He was more in command of his emotions than I was and was able to convey our delight at finding Anna again but also that we recognised that her life was vastly different to what it would have been and that she now had obligations to her family which we would respect. With some difficulty I restrained an impulse to say I wanted as much contact with her as possible. I knew this would kill the relationship stone dead.
‘Hannah told me that she went missing in the desert outside Riyadh during a sandstorm?’
‘Yes,’ replied Philip and once more repeated the sorry saga. The fruitless searches in the desert and later around the streets of the city. The searches by the police including one by helicopter. Our visit to the Governor of Riyadh’s majlis to ask for help, our visits to the British Embassy. None had produced concrete news of our daughter’s whereabouts.
‘Do you know how Anna’s – Hannah’s – parents came by her?’ I asked.
Faisal looked uncomfortable. ‘Her family and mine are related, distantly, but I do not know the full details. I believe she was given to her parents by other relations where there had been a death in the family. Hannah’s parents did not have children so were happy to take care of her.’
I bet they were, I thought to myself. ‘Didn’t anyone notice she wasn’t an Arab?’ I could have bitten off my tongue.
After a few moments of embarrassed silence Anna said, ‘If you think about the photo you showed me at our first meeting, I did look like an Arab child.’ She was quite right – she did. I took out the photo from my purse and handed it to Faisal. He smiled as he studied it and glanced down at the living replica, playing with his new truck. ‘Yes, she was a beautiful girl. Ya’cub takes after his mother.’
Looking at me, Faisal said, ‘You must have been in a living hell.’
‘Yes, until six weeks ago, I have nursed a broken heart. Finding her again has been beyond happiness.’ Anna and I were now both red-eyed.
‘How would you feel meeting Hannah’s parents?’
Feel?! The thieving bastards who stole my child! Who deprived us of a happy life with her! Who knowingly took her away from the family who loved her! Feel?! I clamped my teeth together until the rage subsided. Philip, sensing I was about to ruin everything, saved the situation with emollient words: ‘We are grateful that Anna had loving and caring parents. We cannot rewrite past events and hope that all of us together will build a future relationship.’
Faisal looked directly at me. ‘Kate?’
I took a deep b
reath and marshalled my thoughts into a positive response. ‘Yes, Anna’s happiness is all that matters to us. We will do whatever we can to build bridges between her two families.’ I somehow conveyed the words without resorting to sarcasm or bitterness.
‘Well,’ replied Faisal, who was now looking positively cheerful, ‘perhaps you would like to meet my family? My parents and sisters are in London at the moment. Hannah’s family are not here, though.’
Thank God for that, I thought to myself.
‘Are you free tomorrow?’
We readily accepted the invitation, even though work in Philip’s office would again be disrupted. My school would have to do without me, yet again, but the staff were very supportive and understanding.
The following morning, we travelled back to London and made our way to South Kensington tube station. From there we walked along the Brompton Road to The Little Boltons, where the family owned a London residence. The Little Boltons is not quite so swanky as The Boltons but, nevertheless, is a very desirable address. The Al Murrai house was approached by a flight of steps to the front door, although it wasn’t exactly a house, but a three-floor apartment that started on the first floor. We followed the Filipino maid up a wide staircase that opened out into a large reception room. Faisal, Anna and Ya’cub were waiting for us. We were warmly welcomed and seated on ornate chairs not unlike the ones in the Governor’s majlis. The room was furnished with chairs and tables that looked expensive but not exactly at the cutting edge of design. Two pendant candelabra illuminated the room. The carpets were very beautiful, placed randomly over the parquet flooring.
Ya’cub looked at us shyly and then with pleasure when his grandfather handed over another present. We could hear crockery being moved about in the neighbouring room and surmised that refreshments were on the way.
‘You would like some tea or coffee?’ asked our host.
‘Coffee, please,’ we replied in stereo.
At that moment his parents entered bearing trays of cups and saucers and pots of coffee. Plates of petits fours were carried by two young women whom I took to be Faisal’s sisters. They had gone to some trouble to put on a good show. We stood and greeted everyone in our slightly rusty Arabic: ‘Salaam aleikum’ and ‘Wa ’aleikum as-salaam.’ The three younger women were unveiled but Faisal’s mother had a black veil draped over her hair. We were very new to the family but they had obviously decided that a degree of uncovering was permissible.
All of the Al Murrai family could speak English so we tentatively made conversation with each other. Dr Al Murrai questioned us about where we lived, what we did for a living, how many children we had (thin ice at this point) and why were we in Saudi when Hannah was lost. Having established that we were a family of good standing, he seemed more open to the idea that our families could be connected.
‘Hannah has been brought up a good Muslim woman,’ he said somewhat pointedly. Philip replied that he had assumed that was the case. ‘You have no problem with that?’ Well, if we had, we weren’t going to admit to it.
Philip explained, ‘We have to accept that Hannah has been brought up differently to the way that we would have done it. I am sure that, over time, we shall all get accustomed to our differing viewpoints.’ Dr Murrai nodded at this remark but didn’t go so far as to agree with it.
All the women had been listening silently so I thought it was about time the ladies had a turn. I turned to Mrs Murrai. ‘I love your carpets. Did you bring them from Saudi?’
She was slightly surprised to be addressed but readily joined in. Yes, they had brought the carpets with them but had furnished the house from Harrods. It was nearby and easy to shop there, she explained. I got the impression that she wasn’t aware how Anna and I had discovered each other so I changed the subject to Leighton House Museum which was only a few streets away. Had they been there? None of them had so I was able to wax lyrical about the wonderful tiling that had been inspired by Arabian architecture and decoration.
Faisal clapped his hands together and said, ‘Why not go today? Kate and Philip, would you like to come to lunch with Hannah and me, and Ya’cub? We could go to Leighton House afterwards?’ This seemed a highly suitable way to end the interview; the ice had been broken and we could perhaps have a more relaxed visit the next time.
There was a restaurant nearby serving Middle Eastern cuisine, which suited us all. Seated around the table, Faisal said, ‘Sorry about the grilling from my father. We Saudi men are very protective of our women. My father wanted to be sure you would not expect Hannah to change her life if she had regular contact with you.’
‘Do you think he was satisfied?’
‘Yes – and before you ask, I am too!’
‘And you, darling,’ I turned to Anna, ‘are you happy to be part of our family again?’
‘Yes, Mama. We’re all going to live happily ever after!’
After lunch we all made our way up to Leighton House to continue our Arabian-themed day. Faisal and Anna were astounded to find a mini Granadan Alhambra cum Sevillean Real Alcazar existing in their Kensington neighbourhood.
‘I had no idea there were such lovely examples of Islamic ceramics here in London,’ exclaimed Anna. ‘I love these designs!’ she enthused.
‘I make ceramic tiles,’ I said. ‘In fact, I have just made a tiled table based on a wall design in the Alhambra.’
‘Really? I’d love to see it.’
‘You shall, darling, when you come to visit us.’
Neither of them suggested an early visit so I left the subject to bubble away in their minds. They looked in awe at the intricately decorated Gold-Domed Arab Hall and I heard Faisal tell Anna that he would bring his parents to visit the house. He may well have changed his mind when we climbed to Lord Leighton’s studio on the first floor. It had been converted into a gallery exhibiting the artist’s paintings, a number of which depicted vaguely clad voluptuous females. Islam prohibits the depiction of the human form, an injunction blithely ignored by the artists of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Mughal era in northern India. Their sublime illustrations of courtly life included many intimate portraits. But Lord Leighton’s paintings of these naked Victorian women displaying their charms would be deemed offensive to many Muslim viewers.
Without taking a huge interest in the naked women portrayed on the walls around us, Faisal asked, ‘Why is Western art so preoccupied by naked figures?’
‘Well,’ I started, ‘artists are interested in conveying the representation of human and animal form. You would think it odd to see animals in art, dressed to cover their modesty. Artists paint the human figure without clothing because that is what we look like. Clothing is often a result of climate; in the jungles of Africa and South America, people wear very little. In northern climates they wear an awful lot. I suppose Arabs, who live in a hot climate, need to cover up to protect themselves from the sun. But, in addition, from historical times, people have adopted religious ideas about modesty to ward off sexual encounters which are frowned on outside marriage.’
‘Hmmm,’ he answered. ‘Interesting. But I can’t help feeling there is a prurient element to Western art.’
‘Possibly because, formerly, most artists were men and so were the buyers!’ I agreed.
‘I think you shouldn’t show your mother these paintings,’ said Anna. ‘But your sisters are doctors; they’ll be used to seeing naked bodies.’
‘You know a lot about art, Kate,’ added Faisal.
‘Well, a bit,’ I replied. ‘I teach art so I’m interested in all forms of representation – painting, print, ceramics, sculpture. But there’s always something new to discover. I’d like to know more about Islamic calligraphy.’
‘Ah, you had better talk to my mother. She is a noted calligrapher.’
‘And I would like to talk to your mother and yours, Daddy,’ added Anna. Turning to Faisal, she said, ‘Can you do wit
hout me this weekend? Perhaps, just me the first time then you and Ya’cub next time?’
‘Sure,’ he replied. I was glad to see that she could decide things for herself and her husband didn’t mind. That was reassuring.
She came to stay at our house the following weekend and slept in the room I had made ready for her after our move to the new house. Her soft toys were propped up on the bed which still had the same bed linen. Her other toys and books were ready for her – though Ya’cub would get more use from them now. Dotted around the room were the various prayer mats that she had been given as a child as we had wandered around the carpet souk. She was surprised to see them, and vaguely remembered being given them. I nearly said, ‘You’ll be able to use them whilst you’re here,’ but managed to stop myself in time.
I sat down on her bed next to her and held her hand. ‘You know, darling, how very happy we are to have found you. But I have to ask, what has been the reaction of your parents in Riyadh? Have you confronted them with the fact that you were abducted and stolen from us?’
Anna sighed and was silent for some time. Eventually, she replied, ‘It is very difficult for them and for me. I love Ummi and Abi. They are my parents who have brought me up, cared for me, loved me. I was very angry with them on my first visit when I returned to Riyadh. I told them I was devastated to discover that I had been stolen from my real family and that they had kept me, knowing how much grief they were causing my real parents. They were shocked to find that I had stumbled upon the truth. Ummi cried and cried. The blood drained from Abi’s face knowing that he was shown up to be less honourable than he had held himself to be. He said that they had been suddenly presented with a situation of a small girl, without family, needing someone to care for her. When I asked him how much investigation he had carried out to find out where I had come from, he was silent. It was obvious that I was the answer to Ummi’s prayers for a child. They didn’t find out because they didn’t want to.’