by Young
“It’s too revealing. The neckline is too low,” Ain vociferated.
“She looks beautiful,” Ayisha opined excitedly.
“She looks like one of Allah’s angels,” championed Fatima.
The sales attendants, Hussain, Victor, Andy and I looked on in obfuscation as the ladies continued their banter in Arabic. The two men in our group who understood their facetiousness were the attaché and my professor, but because they were males, and not in the Assalamu Alaikum inner circle, they kept their mouths shut. That was until the tongue-in-cheek sarcasms turned malicious. Only then did Hussain give the final word to put a halt to their trivial bickering.
Shahria had not uttered a word throughout the squabble until Hussain inquired of her, “Do you like this dress?”
Instead of making her own decision, she turned to me for counsel. All eyes turned to me for validation.
I remained silent. Instead, I lifted my index finger and made a twirling motion for Shahria to rotate and sashay towards me. She did as told.
I watched her movement as if I were an accomplished fashion maestro. She looked like a princess. I held my thumb up. This was one of the only times I saw Fahrib’s principal wife smile. She gave her approval for the purchase.
I rested my case. Not only had my gesture made allies of Shahria, Ayisha and Fatima, I had also made an adversary of Ain – even if I wasn’t aware at the time.
The conservative sat sulking behind her burka while her jovial compatriots tried on dress after dress. By the time we left the salon, two “Green Men” were trailing behind with the ladies’ purchases.
Way In Boutique
Roya, Kifah, Iba, Lina, Safiya, the attaché and the shopping consultant were nowhere to be found within the Gem Room. They had gone to Way In Boutique, Harrods latest addition, as proclaimed by one of the sales assistants.
Elsie escorted us to one of the hippest shops in Swinging London, the Way In Boutique, launched nine months prior to our arrival.
In contrast to the dignified haute couture salon, sixties pop music filled this shopping floor. Groups of artfully arranged mannequins stood in exaggerated poses atop display platforms, as if they were posing for the latest editions of Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar.
I was in seventh heaven. Young, hip and pumped full of vitality, this was my scene. Unable to help myself, I pranced and swayed round racks of stylish ‘throw-away’ fashions.
We found the other half of the Assalamu Alaikum women crowding around one of these contemporary carousels. Like adolescent girls, they behaved as if they had discovered the joys of being Disneyesque princesses for the first time. These women played dress-up, emerging from their respective dressing rooms in arrays of maxis, midis and minis with interchangeable tops and blouses. I had never witnessed such frivolity among these women in Sharjah – but swinging London had shattered their reservations the way Cinderella was transformed by her fairy godmother.
Even the pregnant diva went to town, trying on pretty empire-line dresses and flowing chiffon ensembles that were the epitome of 1968 Spring/Summer fashion.
Ain, the one true conservative, did not care for such frippery, even though her sisters in crime encouraged her to don an ensemble or two. Her staunch refusal only served to augment the other ladies’ frivolity.
This traditionalist commented with cynicism and mockery on every stylish outfit that emerged from the dressing rooms. In her good books, these fun-loving ladies had become worthless infidels and would suffer Allah’s wrath if they wore the outfits in public.
Amid her disapproving sarcasm, I had a hunch that she, too, would like to be adventurous. Like the beauty she covered with her burka, she believed that modesty had to be contained and not flaunted. So deeply ingrained were her religious and cultural prejudices that all hell would break loose if her Pandora’s Box were allowed to open.
The Pet Shop
While the women were rollicking at the Beauty Department, Triqueros, Andy, and I found our way to the clamorous Pet Shop, where Margaret, Tad and Jabril were ogling at Precious, an adorable baby leopard.
“Animals have a long association with our store,” Margaret expounded. “One Christmas, Noel Coward bought a pet alligator as a gift for himself.” She paused before resuming, “Two years ago, a baby elephant was bought and presented to the governor of California, Mr. Ronald Reagan.
“Once, a cobra was used to guard a pair of diamonds and sapphires studded sandals worth £62,000,” she added to her sales pitch.
Andy enquired, “What happens to these exotic animals when they grow up?”
“They are released back into the wilderness,” came her reply.
“How do they fend for themselves when they have been raised in captivity?” my Valet continued to question.
Before Mary could respond, the sales assistant had brought Precious out from his cage for our inspection. As I cooed, oohed and ahhed at his beauty, Mary added cheerfully, “Our store’s motto is ‘Omnia Omnibus Ubique’ (Latin meaning – ‘All things for all people, everywhere’). Our goal is to provide everything our customers desire.”
Tad suddenly made a temerarious request: “I’m buying Precious.”
We stared.
“What are you going to do with him?” I blurted in astonishment.
He gave a Cheshire-cat grin before he answered, “It’s a gift to a beautiful boy named Young.”
I was stupefied. “I can’t accept such a precious gift. I’ve nowhere to accommodate Precious,” I chirped.
The athlete whispered in my ear, “You will if you accept my proposal.”
Although I was still toying with the idea and had not confided his proposition to Andy, I knew if I became a kept boy, I would become a caged nightingale. I would be like Precious, a plaything to be fussed over and pampered before being released into the wild to fend for himself. Even if the idea of being kept was romantic and luxurious, it wasn’t the life I wanted.
My cognizant Valet shook me back to reality when he expressed, “Young is right. He can’t accommodate a big cat. He wouldn’t know how to look after Precious. This baby needs a good home.”
I had to agree with my chaperone, even if I desired such a priceless gift.
My feline Persian, Husni, had been a gift from the Hadrah, and I hardly saw the cat after leaving him to the care of the Sekham household. Having another pet would be too problematic.
For once, I acted sensibly. I declined Tad’s present. But the philanderer did not give up easily.
While my chaperone, Tad and I bantered back and forth, Jabril and Victor browsed the other animals.
My guardian pulled me aside. “Young, since you are so in love with Precious, you can keep him for now and later present him to Jabril and Kifah as your wedding gift,” he advised.
“That’s an excellent idea!” I agreed.
It was finalized: my precious cargo would be delivered by Harrods to the Ship on our departure day from London to Sharjah.
Little did I realize that Sharjah would not be my destination; it would be Madras, the capital city of the Indian state of Tamil Nadu, India.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Windows To Secret Realms
“And the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles.”
Frances Hodgson Burnett
(The Secret Garden)
1968
Window Dressing
Thanks to the English-American novelist and playwright, Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett - best known for her three children’s novels Little Lord Fauntleroy, A Little Princess, and The Secret Garden, I stood captivated by the window display at Selfridges, a famed London department store, second only to Harrods, with 540,000 square feet of retail space. I had read all three of Burnett’s books on the good ship Victoria, when I was vacationing in Hong Kong with my family.
That merry month of May, this magnificent store had taken Ms. Burnett’s imaginative children’s stories and transformed its entire array of Oxford Street windows
into a series of Edwardian English country fantasies!
As I marvelled at the window displays, I was transported to the magical realms so cleverly constructed by the window dressers. I fantasized about what life would be like in Edwardian England. But was quickly teased back to the present by my Valet and teacher.
“Young, have you gone to la-la land again?” Victor razzed.
“These window displays are mesmerizing. I wish I could go back in time and experience life in Victorian and Edwardian England,” I replied dreamily.
“Don’t let these depictions fool you, kid. If you want to know the ‘real’ England, come into the store, and I’ll tell you,” Señor Triqueros remarked.
Miss Selfridge
Victor, Andy, and I sat waiting at the café within Miss Selfridge (the young fashion section of the department store) for our entourage to finish shopping. I took this opportunity to seek their advice.
“Tad proposed to me at the Oriental Club,” I declared nonchalantly.
“I know,” came Andy’s reply.
Boggled by his response, I questioned, “Why didn’t you ask me about it?”
“I was waiting for you to tell me,” he answered. “He also gave you a key to his town house.”
Shocked by his knowingness, I exclaimed, “How did you know?”
“I know more about you than you,” he teased. Both men laughed at me.
I looked at my teacher, confused. “You knew, too?”
“Of course I did. I was present when Tad sought your Valet’s permission.”
“Why did Tad come to you for permission?” I questioned.
Victor promulgated, “Because he’s an honourable gentleman and a true romantic.” Andy nodded in agreement.
My chaperone vociferated, “I’m your guardian, so he came to me to ask for your hand.”
“Ask for my hand!” I exclaimed. “I’m not planning to marry him…” Before I could continue, my Valet pronounced, “Then it’s settled. You don’t want to be his property.”
“I’m nobody’s property but my own!” I cried.
The men burst into mirth.
“I’m glad you are being sensible. In the Arab culture, being a kept boy is similar to being in a heterosexual marriage. The dominant partner has total control of his ‘wife boy,’” Triqueros commented.
“I’m nobody’s ‘wife boy’!” I burst out. “And definitely not Tad’s.”
“Very well then. It’s settled that you are not taking up his offer. I’ll convey your sentiments,” Andy finalized. Case closed.
“I can tell him myself. I don’t need you to do it for me,” I voiced.
Victor cited, “Since you are Andy’s charge, it is appropriate for him to act on your behalf to inform the intended of your decision. It’s customary protocol, as a man asks the father for his daughter’s hand.”
I argued, “But I’m not a girl. I’m a boy who can make his own decisions. I am responsible for me!”
Both mentors laughed again.
“Are you sure about that?” my lover ruffled my hair and sniggered. “You could have fooled me.”
My chaperone and I started a playful tug-of-war until my judicious professor put a stop to our silliness.
“Young, stop this absurdity,” Triqueros commanded. “As I’d promised, I’m giving you a short lesson about the ‘real’ England. The existing British monarchy.”
His words perked my attention.
A Tale of Britannia
“In 1941, an American named Henry ‘Chips’ Channon made an astonishing prediction. He wrote in his diary, ‘the handsome Philip of Greece is to be England’s Prince Consort, that’s the reason he is serving in the British Navy.’
“This turned out to be an accurate prophecy because Prince Philip didn’t propose to Princess Elizabeth until 1947. The news took the world by surprise,” Señor Triqueros stated.
Andy chirped, “How did Henry Channon have privy to such information?”
“Andy, the answer is that he received this scoop from none other than Princess Nicholas of Greece, who told him in 1941 that a marriage was ‘being arranged’ between Philip and Elizabeth.”
My chaperone added, “This is contradictory to the barrage of fairy-tale love-at-first-sight stories released by Buckingham Palace. Perhaps this is the reason why Sir Henry ‘Chips’ Channon is denigrated by many historians as an ‘unreliable diarist’ and ‘an American snob who is obsessed with titles and money.’”
Victor resumed, “Overseas newspapers and magazines claimed that the Queen’s marriage to Prince Philip was ‘on the rocks.’ They also asserted he had a long-standing relationship with a female friend who had an interest in a top-society nightspot; allegedly, there was a gigantic cover-up about his involvement in the infamous Profumo ‘sex and secrets’ scandal.”
“This titbit I’ve not heard before,” Andy commented.
I kept silent, since I had no idea what the Profumo ‘sex and secrets’ scandal was.
“A certain Stephen Ward, born in 1912 to a vicar, traveled to America when he was twenty years old. After studying at the College of Osteopathy in Missouri, he returned to London as a doctor. Much of his success came from providing relief to his top-drawer clientele - the likes of Winston Churchill, Mahatma Gandhi, Paul Getty, Nancy Astor, and Ava Gardner.
“Being a sophisticated and elegant man, Ward also sketched portraits of famous personalities, such as Princess Margaret, the Duke of Kent, the Duchess of Gloucester, and Prince Philip. This doctor was not the tradesman’s entrance type of artist who was summoned to the palace to do his sketches. He became friends with Prince Philip, and they were often spotted having lunches in central London. Philip also visited Ward’s home on several occasion.”
My teacher paused for a sip of tea before resuming, “In the early sixties, Ward turned from giving the nobility back pain relief to other parts of their anatomy. He introduced them to young and pretty lasses who called themselves ‘models.’ These women, especially Christine Keeler and Mandy Rice-Davies, were delighted to oblige the nobles by having intimate liaisons with them. They even dressed up as ‘nanny’ dominatrices to spank their naughty butts!
“Then, in 1961, a British Intelligence officer named Keith Wagstaffe recruited Stephen Ward as an undercover agent for MI5’s Counter Intelligence Section. Ward’s assignment was to persuade a London-based Russian naval attaché, Captain Eugene Ivanov, to defect. Ivanov turned out to be Alexander Gorkin’s (the chairman of the Soviet Supreme Court) son-in-law and an undercover agent for the Russian Military Intelligence (GRU).”
“Oh my! This is getting more intriguing by the minute. Carry on,” Andy evinced excitedly.
“The plot went terribly wrong when Ward introduced Christine Keeler to Ivanov. The artist/doctor had also introduced Christine to John Profumo, who was then Her Majesty’s war minister.
“Profumo had several sexual encounters with Christine, and the most famous happened on the bed of Profumo’s wife, the actress Valerie Hobson. When Fleet Street got wind of this adulterous relationship, Profumo tried to silence them by lying to Parliament. He professed he had never had sex with Miss Keeler and would sue the pants off anyone who challenged him,” Victor aired.
“What was the verdict? Was he found guilty?” Andy fired in rapid succession.
Victor, proud to divulge this British tabloid titbit, added, “Of course, he was proven to be a liar. Profumo was forced to resign in disgrace. This news made international headlines and brought horrendous embarrassment to the Tory government. The British Establishment had to find a scapegoat to deflect this massive media heat, and the chosen man was none other than Stephen Ward. He was framed on charges of living off Christine Keeler’s and Mandy Rice-Davies’ immoral earnings, although both women eventually admitted they lied against Ward after being subjected to police pressure.
“Stephen Ward denied all the charges. He said he was introduced to Captain Ivanov by Sir Colin Coote, then the managing editor of the British newspaper t
he Daily Telegraph. Ward claimed he was later recruited by British Intelligence to persuade Captain Ivanov to defect, but that the intelligence boys had disowned him in order to avoid becoming embroiled in the Profumo scandal.”
“Did the court believe Ward’s testimony?” my guardian queried.
Señor Triqueros pressed on, “He was not believed at the time, but some years later, several MI5 officers revealed to a couple of journalists that Ward had told the truth and that he was indeed a British secret agent.
“Unfortunate for Ward, he committed suicide before his name was cleared.”
Victor frowned in puzzlement. “An odd thing happened when a Bloomsbury art gallery exhibited Ward’s sketches. A tall, elegant, and well-spoken gentleman came to the gallery and bought all drawings of the royal family, including those of Prince Philip, for £5,000. Then, the man vanished into thin air and was never identified. Some reporters speculated that this mystery man was Sir Anthony Blunt - a British Intelligence agent who worked at Buckingham Palace as the Keeper of the Queen’s Pictures. In later years, Blunt was exposed as a double agent for the KGB.”
Rejuvenations
Victor noticed my silence and commented, “When I saw you gazing at the romanticized window dressing of the Secret Garden, thoughts of fractional turpitude flashed through my mind, and I considered the many secrets that always lie behind locked doors.
“My advice to you boy - be suspicious of what lies behind an artfully decorated exterior. As novelist Frances Eliza Hodgson Burnett commented so eloquently in an interview, ‘Mary Lennox “comes alive” as her garden. The same goes for Colin and Mr. Craven. As they tend to something outside their own sorrow, they find joy and new life. There are several direct parallels that can be drawn for the theme of rejuvenation.’”
I asked, “Is that the reason Selfridges did the Secret Garden display in spring? A signal of new life and new beginnings?”