by Abdo Khal
There had been only a few beggars to start with, but one Eid the Master had been so generous that they were soon joined by others who had heard them bragging about their good fortune. Hundreds of beggars set up camp outside the Palace gates and the swelling din of supplications and crying infants became a source of thrill for the Master.
The sound gratified him because he was experiencing a new pleasure, one he had not encountered before. He instructed the guards to allow the beggars their rugs and cushions but to keep them confined to the area immediately adjacent to the gates, and to placate them with assurances that handouts would soon be distributed.
The Master went in and out of the compound repeatedly, and every time his car passed the ragged figures intoning blessings and prayers for his prosperous life, he felt he was in heaven. The sound of those beggars was so different from anything he had ever known, it went straight to his heart. He made up his mind to distribute the alms personally.
He went out to where the beggars were gathered and began scattering banknotes of every denomination about their heads; the crush of people very nearly tore him to pieces as they clawed at the paper money in the air. He felt so rewarded by this experience that, for a while, he became a serious philanthropist, donating to charitable associations and homes for the elderly and insisting on the media’s presence whenever he did so. The depictions in mass-market newspapers were invariably angelic, portraying him as one who relieved the suffering of the huddled masses in the swoop of his wings.
However, like all his previous pleasures, this one also proved short-lived. He soon grew tired of the beggars, whose numbers augmented daily, and he became so irritated with them that a vehicle from the city’s anti-vagrancy agency was stationed outside the gates so that the approaches to the Palace could regain their stately splendour.
Now, instead of decrepit and haggard bodies at the gates, there were supple and vivacious bodies crossing the threshold of the Palace to deploy their charms, passions and resonant laughter in the pursuit of fame and lucre.
It was a transaction pure and simple: the women bestowed light – or heavy – favours and in return were paid handsomely. They left at the end of the evening, hoping for similar opportunities in the future. A single evening of lascivious dancing at a Palace party typically earned a woman more money than it took to silence all the beggars outside.
Maram was sexy and provocative.
She belonged to a group of dancers who had been brought in to liven up the evenings at the Palace. Though young, she showed early promise as a professional seductress.
Maram was reserved and coy to begin with, but when she saw that her takings paled in comparison with those of the other dancers, she dropped her demure manner. She would take the dance floor by storm and flash plenty of flesh to fire up the men watching. Whenever she felt she had been short-changed, she negotiated a private deal with a guest to make up the difference. However, unlike her charms, which were stunning, her negotiating skills left a lot to be desired; had it not been for the Master’s eye falling on her, she would have worn her body out for piastres.
I was reminded of young Souad and how the child-sized seductress haggled over one riyal before accepting my nail in her plank.
I had encountered Souad again more recently, when I was sent to the Palace gates to organise the mêlée of beggars. I was told to count the people and collect their requests after the Master had lost interest in going out to scatter money over their heads.
Souad was begging for charity with the other destitute women and had a child with Down’s syndrome beside her. I saw her standing there, holding a piece of cardboard over the boy’s head to shield him from the scorching sun, giving him sips of water from a half-empty water bottle. I asked one of the guards to show her into the reception lobby and she picked her son up off the ground and ran in carrying him, ignoring the snickering comments of the women around her.
As the cold air from the air conditioning in the lobby hit her face, she exclaimed, ‘Dear God, may our graves be as cool as this.’
One of the guards blocked her path and asked her roughly, ‘What do you want, woman?’
‘Bread. What else do hungry folk dream of, brother?’ she replied. Seeing that he was about to push her outside, Souad added urgently, ‘Someone here sent for me.’
I told the guard to let her be and as he went on his way, Souad inched closer and launched into her fevered entreaties, seemingly unconcerned that her face was not properly covered or that her shrivelled breasts were visible from the opening of her tattered dress.
How she had aged! Her two front teeth were broken, her hair parting was streaked with grey and her eyes were set deep in their hollows. Some women wilt like weeds.
I expected her to be at least surprised to see me again. But she just kept mumbling the prayers and pleas of beggars everywhere.
‘Is this your son?’ I asked, interrupting her.
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘and I have three others who are older than him.’ Then she proceeded to itemise her long list of needs, starting with her electricity bill and ending with her youngest son’s costly treatment.
‘Doesn’t your husband work?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s in jail. He got ten years and he’s got six more to go.’
Our lives are full of ups and downs. Some of us rise and some fall. I had always known Souad to be close to the bottom of the pit, and I was not that far behind her. She and I were alike in that we were both fallen. The only difference was that she had hit rock bottom, while I was still falling and could see myself falling much further.
I pulled out my wallet and handed her 4,000 riyals. She gasped and bent to kiss my hand, but I withdrew it. ‘This isn’t charity,’ I told her. ‘This is to pay back my debt to you. It’s taken a very long time.’
Souad was bewildered. She held on to the money with both hands while her son squirmed at her feet.
She looked down at the banknotes, unsure. ‘I’ve never lent anyone money,’ she said. ‘Are you making fun of me?’ Holding out the wad of cash, she choked back a sob. ‘Here, take back your money!’
‘No, Souad, this is a very old debt,’ I insisted.
At the sound of her name, she peered into my face and asked, ‘Do you know me?’
‘Don’t you recognise me?’
Gathering her abaya around her and shrinking further into her already shrunken frame, she apologised profusely. ‘I’m far-sighted,’ she said. ‘Life has worn me down … I can’t afford glasses.’
‘I’m Tariq. Tariq Fadel.’
‘Tariq?’
Slowly her face brightened and she flashed a grin. ‘Our childhood – what a wonderful time that was,’ she said earnestly. ‘Since you owe me a debt and if you are able to, could you get my husband out of jail?’ She pulled out a piece of paper documenting her husband’s charge and showed it to me. ‘They say that if someone vouches for him, he’ll be out the following day.’
I read the name: Yasser Muft. The boy Issa, Mustafa and I had taken turns with all those many years ago, now in Breeman Prison on drug-peddling charges.
‘Of course, Souad,’ I said. ‘I will do my best.’
She picked up her son and went out through the doors, turning back to look at me while I stood watching her against the glass pane of the reception area. She clutched both her sick boy and her abaya in an attempt to hide the tear at the back. I watched her as she stepped outside, saddened at how diminished she had become. As she vanished into the crush of bodies milling about the Palace, I wondered where that little girl who used to play bride had gone.
* * *
I was invisible to all the Palace VIPs except for those unlucky enough to cross my professional path. I was as unseemly as a genital wart kept hidden from view.
I had been hired for one specific purpose. Though over time I took on other, smaller assignments, the Master always made sure I would never forget that these were secondary functions.
One of these functions was
to remunerate the women who attended what came to be called the ‘Red-Hot Nights’. I would stuff wads of cash into envelopes at the end of the evening and hand them over to the women in accordance with the Master’s specifications. This afforded me an even more important role, that of go-between: many of the guests were desperate for the services of the Palace women and equally keen to have their affairs kept secret from the Master.
It was here that the city’s most influential men shed all pretence of personal dignity and forsook every shred of self-respect in their pursuit of novel pleasures. Before the night was even over, they would be anticipating the next opportunity for quenching some unfulfilled desire. I became the point-person whenever one of the girls was not responsive enough to the advances of the guests. As I had a list of all their phone numbers, I could provide the guests with their contact information or my services as a discreet go-between. If the Master had learned I was dishing out his Palace girls, I would have been hanged, drawn and quartered.
I started keeping records after I realised I actually knew next to nothing about the girls, who were, in effect, like my personal and much coveted clutch of golden eggs. This was brought home to me when a prominent businessman took me aside one evening and intimated he wanted the phone number of a girl he called Dalia. The women all had aliases which they switched as easily as they changed evening gowns, and I had not memorised their names. Although he laboured to describe the girl, I was unable to help him.
After that incident, I became diligent about keeping files on all the girls, with their names, brief biographies, pictures if available, interests, and family and socio-economic backgrounds. Since most of the girls provided false information, I double-checked their stories with their friends. They all delved into the minutiae of each other’s lives and whenever I came across information that seemed contradictory, I would check it against someone else’s account. The files were not for the Palace guests to see but for my own use.
On party nights, luxury cars would glide through the Palace gates with their consignment of girls. These had been carefully selected to appeal to a wide range of tastes in a process akin to a beauty contest. Girls nominated for the so-called elite brigade were subjected to an even more meticulous inspection, although they were not aware of it.
The elite brigade consisted of women from every race and breed, each of whom had a unique characteristic that set her off from the others, and they were reserved for private functions attended by select guests. These men had to be lavish spenders as well as lechers. The young women who attended the bigger events aspired to enter the exclusive circle of the private functions. Such an accomplishment indicated that a girl had attained top ranking and could name her own price and make plenty of easy money.
Maram was like a vast ocean whose surging waves could drown you if you stayed in too long. She caught my eye the very first time I paid her for attending an event.
‘Am I missing a leg or an arm or something?’ she had objected, when she realised that she had earned less than the other dancers. ‘Why am I being paid less?’
Normally I would respond roughly to this type of petulance, but she possessed such vitality that it was difficult to counter her. I explained that I was willing to increase her share of the takings but that I had strict guidelines from the Master. Maram faced me, her eyes glinting and without the trace of a smile on her lips.
From then on I began watching her and waiting for an opportune moment to be with her. She could sense that I was all eyes for her, and responded to my eagerness with every cell in her body.
We had several phone conversations before she became the Master’s trophy-woman, his dazzling beauty. She appeared naïve and unfamiliar with her new setting and did not seem fully aware of what lay ahead. Seeing myself as something of a guardian angel who could protect her, once I called her and expressed concern for her future and reputation. She hung up on me with a choice phrase spoken like a true whore.
Whenever she attended one of the Palace gatherings after that she noticed me watching her. But the Master staked out his own claim before I could make my move and once she was his, she became off limits to all other men.
Once she had possession of the Master’s heart, there was no need for Maram to come by the cash register to get her money. Now she only had to say the word and whatever sum she desired was in her bank account.
The new arrivals, especially, appreciated my role. Whenever they got embroiled in relationships at the Palace, I was their man – not so much the key to the door but rather a well-worn threshold that had to be crossed. I knew where everyone fit in the scheme of things and I could help a girl take her first step into Paradise.
A different roster of women and girls attended each function. They hoped to attain permanent status in the constellation of favourites and sought out their recruiters and minders for information on the Master’s state of mind, wanting to anticipate his every mood.
The girls were never handed any money in front of the Master. It was his prerogative alone to bestow largesse on the women who attended his functions, including those lucky enough to be his friends. He was generous with the sums he handed out and it was understood that the guests were forbidden to rival him in such matters.
One particular VIP, who had made his fortune in the telecom sector, had not been made aware of this interdiction. At his first Palace function, after he had become good and drunk, he pulled out his chequebook and wrote the girls a cheque for 50,000 riyals each. He looked pathetic as he bent down to get each girl’s full name, writing out the cheque and stuffing it into her cleavage before moving on to the next.
Knowing how the Master would react, the girls ridiculed his gift to his face. No sooner had the telecom mogul stuffed his cheque into her cleavage, than each would swiftly pull it out, tear it into little pieces and scatter it about his head. The Master was delighted by the sight of this repeated scene. He laughed heartily and instructed the servants to carry the drunkard away and throw him out of the Palace.
The matter did not end there. The Master wanted to know who had invited the man to his private function and since Joseph Essam was in charge of the guest list, he got a drubbing. This was all done for the benefit of the guests, however, because the Master knew perfectly well who had been responsible for inviting the wayward guest.
‘Anyone who had anything to do with inviting this moron needs to leave the Palace right away – and stay out of my sight,’ the Master barked.
The guests were silent as if to deny knowing any such person.
The Master pointed to an individual called Hisham Jawharji. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he roared. ‘Who invited scum like you here?’
Hisham said nothing, knowing that to respond to an outburst, even if it was to apologise, would be courting trouble. The Master came up to him slowly, grabbed his ear and spat in his face.
‘I never want to see you here again. Is that quite clear?’
Hisham nodded but did not attempt to wipe the thread of saliva dripping down his right cheek. As soon as his ear was released from the Master’s grip, he turned to go on his way.
‘How dare you turn your back on me?’ thundered the Master.
Hisham stopped dead in his tracks, terrified, and adjusted his posture to face the Master. He backed out of the room, apologising profusely as he went.
Gloom descended on the guests who remained frozen in place for fear of provoking a new outburst. The Master returned to his seat as his entourage crowded around him, bowing and scraping and wondering what to do next.
There was a prolonged silence and the guests shifted uncomfortably in their seats, looking everywhere except at the Master.
Whenever Maram was late, the Master would be irritated and the most trivial thing could set him off. She would know how to calm him when she arrived. After an interminable few minutes, Maram swept into the hall with self-assurance.
‘Where have you been all my life?’ the Master asked as he jumped up to greet her. He kissed her on
both cheeks. ‘What kept you, dear one?’
‘My mother was not well.’
‘I’ll have every doctor at her bedside – right away.’
Maram laughed, her face up against his, and wrapped her arms around him.
‘May I never be deprived of you,’ she sighed contently, kissing him between the eyes and whispering endearments. The tension fell and he relaxed. He turned and whispered something to his chief accountant, who ran off and returned moments later with two briefcases. Grinning from ear to ear, the Master turned towards the girls who had torn up the cheques and announced that they would each receive 100,000 riyals. He grabbed the briefcase closest to him, opened it and scattered more than one million riyals in banknotes at the girls’ feet. They shrieked with delight and stepped out on to the dance floor shaking and shimmying seductively to a song called ‘You Know What’s the Nicest Thing about You?’
Until that moment, no one had uttered a word; everyone knew to wait for the go-ahead, for a hand gesture, from the Master. He was generally ill-tempered but there was money to be made from his company.
Discussing politics was strictly forbidden. He was adamant nothing should mar his enjoyment of alcohol and women. No one was allowed to bring up anything connected to current events, whether inside the country or abroad. But before every function the Master was briefed on world events by his media adviser and sometimes, when the conversation turned to the stock market, a news headline would be talked about because it impacted share prices. It behove whoever was speaking to disregard current events and focus on predicting market trends and outlining how the Master’s affiliated businesses could influence trading, whether upwards or downwards.
One night when he was quite drunk, the Master overheard Uncle Muhammad talking about the trial of Saddam Hussein. As a long-standing and ardent Arab nationalist, Uncle Muhammad was following the trial closely. ‘Saddam, the hero, will expose the truth of events in the region,’ he opined.