A Foreign Affair

by Stella Russell

  ‘Rozzer, please, no more stories about your menstrual cycle.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Rozzer, I know you English have a story about a little boy who cried “Wolf! Wolf!” – is there another I don’t know about a little girl who cried “Period! Period!”?’ he said, chortling down the phone at me, before hanging up.

  He was laughing at rather than with me, but not unkindly. I felt as if he understood me very well, but could that be transubstantiated into love? I certainly hoped so, and that the process wouldn’t take as long as it doubtless would to secure active British support for an independent south Yemen. The quicker I took the initiative and demonstrated to southern Yemenis the extent of British interest in and support for their struggle and the sooner the Sheikh observed me strutting my stuff before an appreciative audience, the better. Still, I supposed I could spare a few hours for his wives. Who knew what jewels of information I might uncover with regard to their political sympathies and their husband’s personal proclivities?

  Five minutes later there was a knock at my door. Jammy had come to fetch me away to that Brighton Pavilion’s women’s quarters.

  ‘We’re going to Arwa’s apartment,’ she explained, waddling along at my side for what seemed like half a mile of long corridors, interspersed with gloomy spaces so large and high I felt agoraphobic; it was hard to call them rooms because they were mainly unfurnished, except for the odd mirror.

  ‘Do you all have your own apartments then?’ I had somehow imagined them tightly conforming to the western cliche, rubbing along together more or less peaceably in a sort of dim-lit and stuffy beauty-parlour, having their stars read, getting waxed and washed and perfumed and hennaed all day in readiness for their husband’s occasional call, fondling each other when the ennui got too much, fattening fast like the forcefed geese of south-west France.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, we have our own apartments; it is very important that a man who has many wives can spend the same amount on each of them – money and time.’

  I imagined Sheikh Ahmad spent his quality time with Arwa and Jammy just chatting, while sessions with Bushara would be split fifty-fifty between social and sexual intercourse. It would have to be wall-to-wall sex with Iman from Oman, unless they shared an addiction to computer games or something.

  ‘Does anyone ever draw the curtains and raise the blinds on all these windows?’ I asked her, suddenly realising why I felt incarcerated in an unsettling cross between an unfurnished Hyatt Hotel and an empty cold-room.

  ‘No, because direct sunlight would ruin the furnishings and it’s good to keep cool. Don’t worry, wait till you see Arwa’s apartment. Here we are now,’ she said, buzzing open what looked like a lift door.

  I walked into a beautifully light, open-plan kitchen space that smelt sweetly of baking and was artfully cluttered with all manner of Cath Kidston products – floral dishcloths and crockery and jauntily striped window blinds and ironing board cover – all in the colours children favour when using felt tips to colour in houses and gardens and skies. Seated around a candy-pink painted wooden kitchen table, there were three small girls between the ages of about five and eight doing exactly that, but also a boy of about seven scribbling soldiers shooting each other. Arwa – arrayed in matching Cath Kidston apron and oven gloves – was removing a tray of golden fairy cakes from the top left-hand oven of what looked like an Aga.

  ‘We thought you would feel at home here,’ said Jammy, eagerly scanning my face for signs that I liked what I was seeing. Finding none she continued, ‘The rest of us like the British style too but not nearly as much as Arwa does. I have only used Farrow & Ball paints in my bedroom but she uses them everywhere. I love cutting-edge modern Italian design and odd materials – you know, like paper and Bakelite? Iman’s apartment looks like an Austrian ski chalet with little cut-out hearts in her shutters and red and white gingham -’

  ‘What about Bushara’s?’ I interrupted her. This was vital intelligence gathering, as well as a deliberately postponement of inquiries into how many children each of them had. Already, with a sickening lurch of my vacant womb, I’d recognised two pairs of liquorice-drop eyes.

  ‘Oh, Bushara’s not interested in home improvements. She thinks it’s a waste of time, just like motherhood,’ Jammy chattered on obliviously, administering a little slap to the head of the boy as punishment for drawing some genitals on one of his soldiers. ‘She was furious the whole time she was pregnant because it took her away from her political work with Sheikh Ahmad.’

  ‘Really? Does she believe in an independent south Yemen then?’ I ventured boldly.

  ‘Does she ever! But she’s also much more interested in environmental questions and recycling than any of the rest of us. We always say she should have been born a boy, except that she’s so pretty, so graceful! But she hates us saying that because she thinks that women are equal to men. She should be here any minute; I think she’s just giving Sheikh Ahmad a hand with something…’

  Giving him a hand, was she? My jealous mind conjured that feisty feminist sitting beside him in his office, one hand dialling a telephone number for him but the other nimbly slipped under the flap of his futa… The more I knew about “delicate and graceful” Bushara the less I liked her. It irked me terribly to hear that, by giving birth to male triplets the previous year, this firebrand feminist had succeeded in presenting the sheikh with no fewer than 75% of his male heirs. Between them, Arwa, Jammy and Iman from Oman between them had spawned only one son and twelve daughters.

  I had barely settled myself on the chintzy sofa – sensibly positioned between the Aga and the air-con unit - then most of those daughters were crowding around me, giggling and chattering and insisting on painting henna designs on the backs of my hands, fiddling with my earrings, stroking my hair. I soon felt as I had at the bin Husis: a bit huffy.

  It might have been all the fuss, or the close climate in that wadi, or just the fact that Bushara never did show up, but I wasn’t my usual sunny self that day. Consequently, I confess I’m not much enjoying reliving it all now, so I’m cutting to the chase. Instead of a minute by minute account of the interminable hours I spent with the overgrown schoolgirls and their multiple progeny, I’m simply going to represent the useful intelligence I gathered in that time in the form of a neat table.

  Allow me one of my digressions here, while I explain my rare passion for tabulation. Seeking adventure and temporary employment with a humanitarian aid agency in war-torn Bosnia way back in 1993, I was astonished to learn that my useful grasp of Serbo-Croat counted for nothing if my IT skills weren’t up to scratch. Once having mastered a few of those skills, I spent hours at the computer every day, rationalising every scrap of data that came my way. Tables, charts, diagrams, graphs and even power-point presentations became my means of rendering all the chaos of a warzone - the rape-camps, refugees, food shortages and mass graves – tolerable for myself and my colleagues. I noticed how much calmer we all felt about destruction on an industrial scale once I’d given it all the Microsoft Office treatment. Similarly now, the act of itemising and rationalising the threat that my rivals for Sheikh Ahmad’s attentions posed is making me wonder why I worried so much. Sitting down with a bottle of water, thick pad of paper and a pen, I drew up my own table clearly outlining the strengths and weaknesses of the five women in Sheikh Ahmad’s life. The table consisted of four main categories; sexual allure, influence over the Sheikh, devotion to the cause of pro-independence for South Yemen, and finally love for the Sheikh. After filling in the blank boxes with scores ranging for zero to five I looked over my findings. Arwa and Imman came in joint last, both with ten points. Arwa’s disinterest in freedom for South Yemen made her practically irrelevant, while Iman’s seemingly lack of influence over the Sheikh made her obsolete. Jammy came third, scoring high in influence but possessing little sexual allure. It was Bushara who proved my highest scoring competition. Coming in second with 15.5 points her apparent hold on the Sheikh could be put down to her
passion for the cause and obvious physical assests. She did not, however, come close to my 19 points, which clearly established me as the winner amongst those vying for Sheikh Ahmed’s approval and desire.

  I decided that while my table did convey some important information, including my clear lead in the contest, it signally failed to communicate some essentials, which I gleaned by reading first between the lines and then the women’s body language.

  Here are some rough notes I jotted down the same day:

  Arwa and the sheikh have not had ‘a proper chat’ for three months, and she is menopausal, and strongly opposes independence for South Yemen. Her Saudi nationality means that she believes Saudi Arabia should annexe Hadramaut to gain direct access to the Indian Ocean. This would circumvent her country’s need to rely on either the Iranian-controlled Straits of Hormuz or the Egyptian-controlled Suez Canal to ship oil safely. (NB Sunni Saudi Arabia and Shiite Iran are arch enemies).

  Jammy loathes Bushara because, until a few months ago, she was Sheikh Ahmad’s intellectual companion. She hasn’t seen him alone since PARP was set up and Bushara began ‘giving him a hand’ when she should have been rearing her triplets, a task which has fallen to Iman, which both Arwa and Jammy think is unfair because Iman’s got twin baby girls of her own. According to the universal principle of ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’, Jammy will do whatever it takes to stick it to Bushara, especially as she intends to give birth to another son before her eggs run out. She has managed to extract a promise from Sheikh Ahmad that he will ‘visit’ her this evening.

  Iman is unable to verbalise it but she’s been feeling sexually neglected since the birth of PARP and her learning difficulties mean that she doesn’t understand that masturbating in public is ‘inappropriate behaviour’. The stress involved in looking after Bushara’s triplets has only exacerbated the problem. For all the children’s sake, Arwa and Jammy are keeping a very close eye on her.

  Bushara despises the other three. The sheikh, South Yemeni independence and recycling are all she cares about. She obviously hates yours truly because, being British and influential as well as extremely attractive, I’m clearly of far more use to PARP than she can ever be.

  Not bad for a day’s lounging about nibbling on fairy cakes!

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Aziz!’

  The sight of a homosexual in the atrium hall of that rigidly segregated Brighton Pavilion was as welcome to me as a first cold beer would have been, even if he did represent yet another rival for the sheikh’s affections. Never mind! I fell on my chubby chum, kissing him on both cheeks and clasping him so close to my bosom he was forced to thrust me away.

  ‘Please take care, Madam Roza, my nostril is not yet completely healed!’

  ‘Yes, Rozzer, please calm down!’ said Sheikh Ahmad, ‘You are not being liberated from a jail!’

  ‘Well, I have been cooped up inside all day!’

  ‘If we are all ready – Rozzer, my compliments, you look very beautiful! - let’s be off,’ he interrupted me.

  It was good to see Aziz again and to be with Sheikh Ahmad for the first time since I’d arrived at his home and to be dressed in my favourite burgundy broderie anglaise coat, over a Chloe royal blue satin sheath dress cut on the cross. It was just as marvellous to be out and about, back on the road in the champagne LandCruiser, and to be headed somewhere I could expect a drink. My good mood was infectious. I had us all singing Ten Green Bottles at the tops of the voices by the time the psychedelic Buckingham Palace hove into view.

  ‘Now Rozzer, please listen carefully while I tell you what to expect. You will be the guest of honour and certainly the only female present which means you must behave with great decorum because all eyes will be upon you - ’

  ‘I should hope so, in this get-up!’

  ‘Second, the steering committee of the movement, that is myself, our vice president al-Afoudi, our host Wuqshan and Aziz will be doing most of the talking.’

  ‘In Arabic?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘But you will expect me to say a few words, won’t you?’ I was hoping I wouldn’t regret going to all the trouble of dolling myself up for an occasion I’d mentally choreographed as my political debut, one at which I’d be required to stand on a raised platform and address a gathering of a few hundred, for no fewer than ten minutes. It was starting to sound as if I might be parked at the back of the room for the entire evening like some elderly relation, while the men yammered away in Arabic.

  ‘We will play it by ear, Rozzer’ he replied, helping me out of the car.

  ‘If there isn’t a glass of ice-cold vodka in my hand within two minutes of getting through that door,’ I half-joked, ‘I swear to you, I’ll be up at crack of dawn lecturing your wives on the subject of the male reproductive organ.’ He ignored the joke and the threat, already too busy kissing his host hello.

  The Buckingham Palace was teeming with servants, one of whom I was relieved to see stationed with a tray of drinks by the double doors at the end of a long entrance hall. I must confess that I did rather barge my way straight between the parallel lines of men in their best futas who had gathered there for the purpose of welcoming us. Leaving it to the sheikh and Aziz to do the decent thing by all of them in their Arab fashion, I headed straight for that tray.

  ‘Vodka?’ I asked the flunky, but couldn’t make him understand me. ‘Maa…maa’ he bleated back at me. I ended up taking a sip from each of the glasses, only to find they were all filled with water. Oblivious to thirty or more curious stares boring into my back, I was on the last glass when Sheikh Ahmad arrived at my side.

  ‘Rozzer, can you please wait just five minutes until everyone is settled inside?’ he said, ‘Our tradition is to offer a glass of water first, as refreshment after the dust of the journey. Drink that glassful and then we will go inside.’ His firm hand on my elbow and that stern voice of his brought me to my senses. Another thing about being in love: one worries terribly about letting one’s beloved down. I was uncomfortably close to tears by the time he’d shepherded me into the main room.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he inquired gently, walking me across the thickest pile carpet I had ever trodden on towards the furthest corner of the room before gesturing me to be seated on the moss-green velvet divan which lined every wall.

  ‘Fine,’ I answered him with a hint of a sniff, ‘Actually, I didn’t really want anything to drink – anything alcoholic I mean – because I’ve got a bit of a headache.’

  His forbearing smile only made me love him more and long to be back on that camel with him. Gone again from my side, he soon returned with Aziz whom he firmly directed to a space to the right of me.

  I began chatting to al-Afoudi, a thoroughly pleasant English speaking Hadrami seated on my left who behaved towards me rather in the way Sheikh Ahmad always had: respectful, interested, appreciative and solicitous but lacking any clear sexual agenda. In these Arab men’s presence it was almost as if, as a non-Moslem white woman, I was a rare but unsexed creature and I was finding I deeply regretted that state of affairs, especially where Sheikh Ahmad was concerned. Some respect for the fairer sex is a very fine thing, of course, but too much of it makes a girl feel like a unicorn. I have since discovered that I probably have a handful of ferociously bossy British women, characters like Lady Hester Stanhope and Gertrude Bell and Freya Stark, who preceded me into the quick-sands of Arabian politics, to thank for my lack of sexual traction in the region.

  Determined that Sheikh Ahmad should at least be proud of my interpersonal skills, I politely asked my host why none of his guests was chewing qat. He explained that Hadramis have never been as addicted to the vile stuff as other Yemenis, adding that during the Communist era the evil weed had been completely banned in the region. ‘Alcohol is really much more our thing here in Hadramaut, and very, very much mine after three years in Moscow!’ he said with a conspiratorial wink, ‘Oh good, here it comes! I hope you enjoy vodka?’

  ‘Kanyesh
na! Zamechatelnaya! Thanks to my own six months in Moscow, I certainly do!’

  ‘Stolichnaya suit you?’

  ‘Da! It certainly does!’

  I was soon in seventh heaven, glass in hand, chatting about Russian Orthodox church music, Aziz on one side of me and Sheikh Ahmad in my line of vision, all my cares melting away like snow in Moscow in March. The vodka flowed without my noticing but before very long I was finding the sight of hundreds of toes on dozens of pairs of bare brown feet, all playing in the pile of the luxury carpet, oddly mesmerising. The conversation ricocheted to and fro in an uneven series of burps and shouts. From time to time all eyes turned to me and I recognised the odd word – Britanniya… Tonny Bla… London… Brezidunt Bash – and there was smiling and nodding to respond to with a gracious tilt of my head and a raised glass.

  It was my host who at last suggested that I say a few words to the assembled company which, with my kind permission, he would translate for the others. Here, finally, was my chance to shine and I wasn’t about to pass it up, even if Sheikh Ahmad was nervously semaphoring to the effect that I should keep it short. He needn’t have worried. I only wanted to say a few words on Britain’s behalf, the sort of thing a British ambassador spouts at the start of any function, before handing over to Aziz whose campaign strategy I was impatient to learn more about.

  ‘A very good evening to you gentlemen! I bring you warm greetings from my country, and I can assure you that I am speaking for my Queen and fellow country people when I tell you how honoured I am to be here tonight supporting South Yemen’s righteous struggle for liberty and self-determination. In the half century since we English abandoned you so disgracefully to your Marxist fate we have never stopped regretting our perfidious cowardice, never given up mourning our loss of Queen Victoria’s first and favourite colony, never stopped caring about you – no, not one of us, not for one minute! - and never stopped wanting the very best for you… because you’re worth it,’ I added as a mechanical afterthought, momentarily distracted as I was, my heart skipping a beat, at the sight of Sheikh Ahmad’s oddly strained smile. ‘And I can tell you a secret tonight,’ I continued nevertheless, ‘One of our Tudor queens had the French port of Calais engraved on her heart, but our Windsor Queen Elizabeth II has South Yemen engraved on hers – and the words Aden and Hadramaut too, in a smaller font…’