Diplomacy and Diamonds

by Joanne King Herring

  Bob had a few acquaintances among the senators and he had his sterling reputation as being one of the cleverer innovators in the oil sector.

  And we had Ardeshir. To maintain this relationship we had to reciprocate. What did he want and need? He wanted and needed people to enjoy his parties enough to secure his goals for the shah. Our “job” was therefore to help entertain. During the day, the problems of the world rested on the shoulders of this group. Thus at night they liked to laugh and have fun. Many of these men were good dancers and loved to show off their talents. They did not have the slightest interest in me except as an amusing companion. We laughed, drank a little champagne, and went home with our mates. It was “Scarlett at the picnic,” a game I knew so well. Bob was equally successful with the women. He made them feel important in his inimitable way, and, in so doing, we became known and made real friends.

  But all of this was under Ardeshir’s umbrella. What if we stepped out and invited these people to our own parties? Would they want us without Ardeshir?

  All of my life was a challenge, and now I faced a big one. We could not match the splendor with which Ardeshir entertained. Our parties had to be different, fun, a real diversion. We were now one of those twenty-five invitations arriving every night, and I worried that no one would accept—but they all did.

  I did everything but backflips to ensure that our guests had fun. I invented diversions such as having the guests change seats after every course. As we always had five courses, including coffee, each guest got to have five different dining partners, a new one with each course. This was in fact extremely difficult to orchestrate because I needed to give careful thought to ensure that every new dinner partner was interesting to the other. The guests were all interesting, of course, but not all were compatible. I agonized over each move, even though I invited the most beautiful women and the most fascinating men, and naturally the young and delicious girls that flocked to Washington, as well. I was never afraid to have these young, fresh beauties around. I liked them and they liked me, and they appreciated the attention because many hostesses overlooked them unless they were heiresses.

  I looked for the lonely and shy, as well. The new ambassador to Washington from the Emirates, Saaid Ghobash, was one such. Twenty-eight years old, from a rich, distinguished family of sheiks, he moved with ease within his world of men and sequestered women. Washington was another world entirely. I could tell he felt alone and disassociated (just as I had felt in Saudi Arabia) when he first arrived. His friendship, though, was such fun. I teased him unmercifully about the girls. He would blush and smile and, I think, feel comforted to have a friend that did not ask him for favors but liked him only for himself. A brilliant man, in years to come he became a great bridge between our two cultures. The support of the oil-rich Emirate states was essential to our security and to our oil supply.

  I tried to make everything I did different from other parties. I gave after-dinner speeches, for example, that I tried to make funny yet comfortably complimentary. Betty Beale, a top Washington columnist, said my remarks were a “tour de force.” I’m glad to say, I made our guests laugh. They went home happy and lighthearted, a real change from the daily grind of their days, during which millions of dollars and millions of lives were at stake. They needed this respite and I gave it to them. Bob was always there as ballast, quietly using his amazing abilities to make people feel comfortable, to do the business he was there to accomplish.

  This is how we worked together. On the way to Washington, he would coach me in the nuances of what he needed to enhance his business and the fortunes and jobs of his employees and stockholders. I listened, using the skills of memory retention I had perfected to conquer dyslexia.

  I could explain Bob’s needs succinctly (due to my experience in TV) as I sat next to the congressmen and senators whose votes could make the difference. They enjoyed hearing the requests and recommendations from me rather than from somebody in their office. They listened and nodded. The next day Bob went to their offices and often closed the deal by getting their vote or support. I set the deal up, then went on to play, ending the evening in fun and games. Bob followed through with the details. It was a strategy that seemed to work very well.

  Bob’s business soared. He bought every pipeline in sight, every form of energy known, and helped every person who had an idea to develop alternative energies if he thought it had any merit. He saw far into the future, recognizing the problems that face us today long before they became realities.

  Talking to anyone at all was second nature for me by now; no one frightened me. I used every ability I had spent years acquiring. I had the foundation of the European grandees to make me feel comfortable anywhere and often knew crucial people from almost any country. All that I had learned, every day of my work on TV, topped with the educational base my father had provided, prepared me for this new stage of my life, the most difficult of any I had been asked to face. This was business. Every word I said could be used for or against Bob and his company. It was a heavy responsibility.

  Hosting parties was business. It was fun, sure, but ultimately it was business.

  Washington wasn’t the only place we threw parties, either. We entertained everywhere, mixing business and pleasure in such popular spots as Acapulco. Many times we had dinner in New York, breakfast in Paris, and dinner in Riyadh.

  The years my mother made me be nice to the chaperones at parties, the years of trying to live up to what I thought was honorable and right: these early lessons paid huge dividends at these times. When the press made caustic remarks my powerful older friends (Princess von Bismarck, Duchess de la Rochefoucauld, Lady Barbara Colyton, and Helen Coolidge, to name a few) stood staunchly in my defense, so I never experienced lasting damage. These older bastions of society were my best defense; they stayed loyal to me when Bob died and I was vulnerable.

  Of course these remarks hurt. I would be crazy to say they didn’t. Sometimes I would anguish over them, but then I would say to myself that it was ridiculous to dwell on it. When someone told me that so-and-so didn’t like me, I replied, “I don’t blame them. I don’t like myself all the time either,” which invariably made people laugh. In the end, no matter how much they shot at me, I was just fine. My life went on exactly the same. Sally Quinn of the Washington Post wrote a half-scathing, half-flattering article, her special talent. It saddened me, but Henry Kissinger cheered me when he said, “Joanne, nobody since John Kennedy’s funeral has had five full pages in the Washington Post. Be flattered that they think you’re important!”

  CHAPTER 17

  Exotic Adventure in the Middle East

  Bob told me over and over how much it meant to have me travel with him. Running a major company is hard work, and with many lives depending on his decisions, he said being with me gave him something to look forward to after a very hard day. I was despondent about leaving my children, but they were not alone: my parents moved into the house with them while we were gone, and there was always our dear Leonora Gaudin (a beautiful woman from Honduras), who, more than anyone else, gave them continuity. Later, Reverend Stevens, the man who had worked for Bob King and me previously as a nanny and a driver, had financial problems, so he moved in too. Somehow, though, knowing all these loved ones were there didn’t help at all. I wanted to be there!

  But it helped to know how much my presence meant to Bob, who was carrying a major burden not only for our family but for his thousands of employees as well. If he felt he needed me, I had to be with him. I was a sounding board for him, he said; he had never before had anyone like me on his travels. “You have changed my life,” he told me.

  Bob’s business took us to the Middle East for oil, Saudi Arabia in particular. Saudi Arabia was a challenge in 1973. Today it is a brilliant world of skyscrapers and every modern convenience. The government of Saudi Arabia has shared the wealth and created a new world in the desert that would rival the dreams of any city planner. When Bob and I first visited, however, this incredi
ble change had not yet occurred. Riyadh was a city of unpaved streets and buildings made of mud. (Mud made an effective barrier against the desert heat.)

  We stayed at the Sahara Palace Hotel, which was similar to a Motel 6 in a ghetto. There was little air-conditioning, and what there was rattled like a screen door in a tornado. There was no room service and there were no restaurants. Arab families did not go out; dinner was eaten at home.

  We knew nobody except our lawyer, who had been hired to introduce Bob to the ministers Bob needed to see. The attorney, who was kind enough to invite us to his home to eat our meals, also had a big party in our honor. As it turns out, people are the same everywhere, and parties work! You can meet several people at a time at a good shindig.

  Parties in Saudi Arabia started at seven p.m. and went on until one or two a.m., and for good reason—the heat! The people lived at night to escape it, but we were not accustomed to this schedule. Our body clocks were on U.S. time, and so were our workdays and playtimes.

  Our first night there, I thought I would die of hunger. Numerous cups of rose-flavored tea were served in crystal glasses resting neatly inside beautiful filigree holders. I did not enjoy rose-flavored tea. Plus it was served hot and I had never sipped from a crystal glass cup before; it burned my lips. (Think how hard it is for foreigners to adjust to U.S. food and customs.)

  The men sat alone and talked business. I was left with the ladies, who had never met an American; coincidentally, I had never met a Saudi. The women, all wives of critical cabinet ministers—very crucial to Bob’s business—sat silently, unaccustomed to mixed parties. (Most of the time, Saudi men and women entertained separately.) Even though in this instance the men and women were seated separately, we were all in the same vicinity. It was a great honor for me that the ministers’ wives all appeared together to make me feel at home. They had prepared several delicacies themselves to honor me, brought on beautiful silver trays. I was touched by their kindness, but I starved until we finally ate at around one o’clock in the morning.

  I thought, “How do I interest these lovely women who have been so kind and are probably as nervous as I am?” Actually, these ladies were much more sophisticated than I realized at first. Under the veils, they wore Yves St. Laurent dresses cut above the knee and the last word in snappy shoes. They were very knowledgeable about what was in, but none of this was evident as I sat down with them that evening, my knees knocking.

  Their lives had been so different from mine. I thought, “Nothing has prepared me for this.” But I was wrong. People are the same everywhere. “Just do what you did in Colombia at age fifteen,” I told myself. “You have been a foreigner before.”

  They were so kind, and they spoke English perfectly. I was ashamed that I didn’t speak Arabic. I wanted to be careful of every word so as to not damage Bob by my ignorance. “Oh, Lord, help me,” I thought.

  Bob was doing just fine, as usual, sitting comfortably among the men, talking animatedly. I took a deep breath, said a prayer, and jumped in like a kid at the swimming hole. I was supposed to make friends and talk. So I talked.

  “How did you meet your husband?” I asked of one. “He is a famous man. You must be very proud that he chose you.” This was before I knew anything about the Middle East and the acknowledged tradition of arranged marriages. Most brides in this era never even saw their husbands before the wedding night.

  The woman replied that her husband had seen her at her school. He fell madly in love and went immediately to her father to ask for her hand. He was years older than she, and I wondered about their compatibility because she was interested only in conversation about movie stars, fashion magazines, and girlish chatter. She was a plump little dumpling but delightful, as dumplings always are.

  The next minister’s wife was very different. A sharifa, she was descended directly from Muhammad and had black hair and startling blue eyes. She was studying to become a doctor. When she told me of her daily responsibilities, I was stunned and asked, “How do you do it? When do you study?”

  “After midnight when the family is asleep,” she said.

  I was lost in admiration. I thought my life was complicated, but I had much to learn. I was on the first of what would be eighteen trips in seven years to Saudi Arabia. My misadventures were just beginning…

  On another trip, I was sitting in a beauty salon and had almost dozed off—the relative comfort of this salon was much better than the one I had tried during my first visit. There, the attendant washed my hair in a toilet used as a shampoo bowl. The wire curlers were full of previous customers’ hair and pressed indentions in my head. The ladies of Saudi Arabia, I learned, have their own private beauticians, while ladies on the street—and American visitors—are forced to use a toilet bowl. But since hair must be curled and coiffed wherever you are, I sat, waiting… drowsily.

  Suddenly, a woman in a veil and flowing robes grabbed my hand. This got my attention because it was my left hand, which not coincidentally had my twenty-carat diamond ring on it.

  I was tempted to squeal, “Who in the devil are you, and why are you attaching yourself to my ring?” It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the attention. In fact, when you wear a twenty-carat diamond, it’s hard to pretend to be surprised when people notice. This was my working diamond, remember, and it worked well, helping me to fit in among the higher echelon of this society.

  This Saudi lady had a killer grip. She twisted and turned my hand to reflect the light. Perhaps, I thought, it was time to start a conversation.

  “I’m Joanne Herring from Houston,” I began. “I’m here as a guest of the king.”

  I’m pretty sure that the people in the salon didn’t understand a word I said, until I mentioned the word “king.”

  Of course, I was technically lying, but I thought I might intimidate the lady into releasing my diamond and the aching hand attached to it.

  Her eyes were wide, and I figured she was impressed to know someone who would merit such an invitation, so I prepared to excuse her so I could get back to my high calling of a toilet-bowl rinse.

  But I could tell by the looks on the faces around me that I’d done something wrong.

  She slowly lowered my hand and looked at me suspiciously, as everyone in the salon stared at me. The woman admiring my jewelry was none other than King Faisal bin Abdul-Aziz Al Saud’s daughter, a royal princess of Saudi Arabia.

  My mind raced. I’d already told her my name—and my hometown—and there just weren’t many more clues needed to trace me back to my husband’s company, with negative consequences. This society didn’t seem like the most forgiving place, and it was unlikely they’d have much patience with the Westerner who’d lied to a royal princess. It was very difficult to know the proper protocol, let alone follow it. This meant the possibility for miscommunication was high.

  I decided to just tell the truth.

  “Honestly,” I began, “my husband is here to form an oil partnership with His Majesty’s government.”

  The princess, I noted, didn’t seem to be particularly concerned about my honesty and any violations of king-knowing protocol. She continued to hold my hand, evaluating my ring with the precision of a Swiss diamond cutter. She didn’t even need a loupe. Her people had been nomads who carried their wealth with them. She must have known the real thing since infancy—just like the generations of successful traders who came before her.

  To my shock, she invited me to come back to her splendid palace for tea. How did I know? Well, realizing that Arabic in Houston was as scarce as a bikini in Riyadh, the delighted onlookers translated for me. What a story this would make around the toilet rinse—for the next week.

  Had I stopped a moment to consider the situation, I might not have been so eager to jump onto this magic carpet ride. For one thing, the possibility of my offending her was great and Bob’s embryonic operation could be shut down as a result. I had no idea of her true identity. Had she been a very beautiful, elegant thief, I easily could have been robbe
d. I had heard stories of unwary travelers who had fallen into the wrong company, been held up, and left in the desert to die. People have certainly been killed for less than twenty carats.

  Yet, presented with an opportunity to see inside the sequestered world of the Saudi Arabian princesses, I didn’t let the sand shift beneath my feet. I knew only that their world was like Ali Baba’s cave—full of jewels and wonder. So I canceled my appointment, gently took my bruised hand back from the princess, packed up my things, and joined her.

  We drove on an unpaved road that shot dust up onto the car’s windows to an expansive building that seemed to be made of dirt. Even through the car’s dusty windows, the two princesses standing at the gate saw my blond hair and started giggling. I was a novelty—a real, live American—and when I got out of the car, I was immediately examined with as much fervor as my ring had garnered previously. In retrospect, I see that the ring was my key into this palace. (That ring worked hard.) The princesses were curious about Americans but had never seen one who seemed close to their own social caste.

  Sadly, they did not speak Texan, however, and I did not speak Arabic. Our interaction was like a mime show played by kindergartners at an ethnic retreat. There were the ever-present smiles, the exaggerated gestures, and the unnecessarily loud talk… as if the speakers were trying to overcome the sound barrier instead of the language barrier. Thankfully, it was a circus that excluded spectators, although at the time we were totally unconcerned with how we appeared. The easy warmth and respectful curiosity carried us to places that words could not have.

  I gasped when my foot entered the opulent palace, a stark contrast to the dull exterior. Soft light played on the gorgeous rugs, like jewels scattered on velvet. The walls were hung with tapestries of shimmering silk, afloat with color. The depth of the colors on the walls and floors made me feel as if I was in a giant kaleidoscope, with each twist of the day providing richer and more glorious scenes. Because the Hadith (a book of the words and deeds of the Prophet Muhammad) prohibits the use of human features, animals, and flowers in the home, color and intricate designs provide the decorations.