Gigi burst out laughing.
Kamal pulled her ear lobe in mock reproach. ‘Well, well, Gigi, sometimes I wish you were my daughter, not my daughter-in-law. Where’s Tarek? Call him in here.’
8
Jedda
At Jedda Airport the young man behind the passport inspection counter was firm but polite. ‘You can’t come into the country without a male relative to act as your guarantor, your mihrem.’
‘I know that,’ Gigi answered, ‘my husband is in Jedda, he will be my mihrem. He’s supposed to meet me here.’
‘And I’ve been with the family forever,’ Om Khalil proclaimed. Instead of her usual black, she was dressed all in white in anticipation of her pilgrimage to Mecca.
‘That’s all right,’ the dark young man with the thin moustache smiled. ‘With a lady your age, we don’t worry too much about whether or not you have a mihrem to guarantee your moral behavior.’ He turned to Gigi. ‘Please sit down and wait for your husband.’
Gigi sat down on one of the lounge chairs and Om Khalil sat down beside her, a little piqued by the man’s tactless reply. Gigi was getting worried. What if Yussef had forgotten, or mixed up the flight numbers? There would be nothing to do but to get on the next flight back. But he was probably just late, he was often late.
The call for afternoon prayers sounded over the loudspeaker. The passport control officer came out from behind the counter, slipped off his shoes and stood up to pray, head bowed, hands folded. Several people followed suit.
‘Look,’ Om Khalil whispered to Gigi, ‘at the currency exchange counter over there. The man who was behind it just left and walked out through the gate to go pray. And he left all that money lying there on the counter, just stacks and stacks of bills in rows!’
‘Don’t even look too hard at the money, Om Khalil,’ Gigi teased her, ‘you know what they do to thieves here.’
‘Allah preserve us,’ Om Khalil shuddered.
Gigi looked at her watch. It was half past three. Then Yussef came striding through the gate, smiling and waving. Gigi tried to erase the tension from her expression. They avoided touching in greeting. Public displays of affection were frowned upon here, even if the offending couple were legitimately married.
The passport control officer carefully examined their passports, then let them through.
‘You were so late, we were getting worried,’ Gigi tried not to sound as if she were complaining.
‘Sorry about that. Guess who I met in the lounge on my way over here? Bassil Sirdana! I hadn’t seen him since he left London. He’s married now. Anyway we made plans for tomorrow night, I’ll tell you about it later. So, how are you, Om Khalil?’
As they headed out of the airport the sliding doors opened, letting in a warm, humid breeze. A white Mercedes was waiting for them.
‘Gigi, did you bring a veil?’ Yussef asked.
‘Yes. But do you think I need it just to ride in the car?’
‘This is one of Emir Bandar’s cars, and they’re recognizable by their special plates. Anybody riding in them is assumed to be a member of his household. So out of courtesy for our host we have to be careful. Jedda is a lot more relaxed than Riad, though.’
Yussef helped her in, and Om Khalil got in beside the driver. Gigi covered her head with the veil although the windows of the car were tinted and she was sure nobody could see into them.
Within a few minutes they drove into the palace complex. The guest house, or salamlek, was only a few meters from the palace but completely private. Yussef had explained that there was no one else staying there at the moment.
‘Come on, Gigi. We’ll let Om Khalil unpack and we can have a nap.’
‘This late?’ Gigi stood in the gilt and mirror bathroom, surveying the array of French perfumes, bath oils and lotions set out on the counter.
‘We’d better. We’re invited to dinner with Bandar and his family tonight and nothing starts happening here till very late. There’s nothing much to do in the afternoons.’
She slipped on a salmon-pink silk nightgown and sprayed a mist of Chanel No.5 on the inside of her wrist.
‘Gigi, what’s taking you so long? Come to bed.’
At around ten o’clock in the evening Gigi followed the maid towards the Emira’s quarters. Yussef had gone to join the Emir in the men’s quarters. The understanding was that they would get together later for dinner, in honor of her first night there. As a rule the women in the Emir’s household did not socialize with men who were strangers to the family, but Bandar was an open-minded man who had spent many years in Cairo, in virtual exile as a result of falling out of favor with his brother the king. During that time he had become fast friends with Kamal Zeitouni. Gigi had met him once before, at her wedding with Yussef. Since then the old king had been assassinated and Emir Bandar had returned to Saudi Arabia.
Gigi followed the maid across the marble floor of a vaulted atrium in the center of the house. Jets of water from a fountain sprang up to spray the tops of the surrounding trees, fell back in defeat, sprang up again. Gigi looked up through the glass dome at the night sky, the brilliant stars.
At the end of a long gallery she was ushered into a large room dominated by a projection screen on one wall. In the center of the room a depressed seating area formed a semicircle of cushions facing the screen. Two women and three young girls were watching an Egyptian film, apparently a noisy musical romance.
The woman who turned to greet Gigi was in her forties. Her black hair was arranged in an elaborate hairdo and she was wearing a complete matched set of emerald and diamond jewelry. Gigi wondered if Yussef was right about it being an informal evening.
‘Ahlan, welcome,’ Emira Khadija smiled at Gigi and offered her a seat on the circular sofa. Gigi sat down and nodded politely to the elderly lady in an embroidered black caftan sitting at the far end. The Egyptian film was coming to a clamorous conclusion. The youngest of the three girls jumped up.
‘May I choose the next film, please, Mama, may I?’
Khadija nodded. ‘That’s my youngest, and Riha here is my eldest of the girls, she’s our little bride, her wedding is planned for next month. We were just looking through some catalogues to order sets of jewelry for her.’ The low table in front of her was piled with catalogues from Asprey’s, Garrard’s, and Cartier’s. She flicked through one of them, then tossed it back. ‘Tell me, did you find everything you need in the guesthouse? Did the housekeeper restock the toiletries and snacks?’
The selection of perfume and toiletries in the bathroom had been very thoughtful; Om Khalil had also reported that the pantry and refrigerator were packed.
‘Absolutely everything, really, thank you, you’ve been very kind.’
‘It’s been two years since it was built, and I was thinking it needed to be redecorated. What do you think? Do you have any ideas?’
Gigi thought for a moment about the proportions of the rooms, the way the light threatened behind the tinted glass, and visualized men in flowing ‘abbayas sailing through them. ‘Well, I don’t know too much about these things, but I would think a few Directoire or Empire pieces would look good, wouldn’t you? I mean, because it’s a massive, masculine style, but there’s that element of fantasy and oriental splendor: you know, the winged Sphinxes and the whole theme from Napoleon’s Egyptian campaign.’
Khadija looked blank. Gigi trailed off lamely.
‘Everything has to be new,’ the Emira pointed out, ‘and made to order. All the seating in the formal rooms has to face in one direction, so no one has their back to the Emir when he is seated. And no statues, of course.’
Gigi was embarrassed. She should have remembered the Wahabi Muslim injunction against the portrayal of animate beings.
The maid came in with guava juice and dishes of nuts and dried fruit. Khadija took a handful of pistachios. ‘Have you seen this film? No? Good. In any case you can choose the next one we get to see. I don’t think the Emir will be done with his visitors and ready to sit down
to dinner before one o’clock tonight.’
Gigi stifled a yawn. She wished she had been able to fall asleep when she had tried to nap in the afternoon.
Gigi stepped out of her dress and dropped it on the chaise longue. In the bathroom she leaned over the sink, wiping the make-up off her bleary face. Yussef was throwing off his clothes, tight-lipped.
‘Look, Yussef, I’m sorry I giggled. I couldn’t help it! I mean, I didn’t expect it, he just suddenly picked up that chunk of lamb and tossed it on my plate!’
‘Bandar was just trying to be hospitable, to serve you with his own hands.’
‘I know, I know, and I’m sorry. But I was so startled, that giggle just popped out, I couldn’t help it. But I really don’t think he was offended at all, because he was very pleasant afterwards.’
Gigi took a couple of aspirin for a headache that had been building for hours. She collapsed on the bed. ‘I’m so tired.’
He tossed the extra pillows on to the floor. ‘How did you get along with Khadija?’
‘All right, I suppose.’
‘Good. Because I think things might work out here. In that case we’d be staying for a while.’
‘Really? For how long?’
‘I don’t know – this project is just starting to take shape.’
Gigi digested this in silence for a minute. ‘I see. Don’t you think we ought to discuss this?’
‘Papa thinks it would be a good move.’
‘But Yussef, there’s nothing to do here. And it’s so hot nearly year-round. I know everything’s air-conditioned, but that means Tarek would have to be shut up indoors all day.’
‘If you want him to stay in Egypt, he can stay with my mother. Or yours, if you insist. You can go back and forth and visit him.’
‘But there’s nothing for me to do here. I’d go crazy!’
‘Gigi, can we just drop this and go to sleep now? I’ve got things to do tomorrow.’
‘And what am I supposed to do all day tomorrow?’
‘What?’ He yawned into his pillow.
‘Never mind. Good night. Or good morning, rather.’
She heard the call to dawn prayers, amplified by loudspeaker, start up and echo from minaret to minaret.
‘So does Bassil live here in Jedda now?’ Gigi asked as they drove to the hotel.
‘Well, he’s based here, but he travels around a lot. I gather he’s doing very well, he’s managing one of the major hospitals in the entire region.’
In the hotel lobby Bassil was waiting for them, looking sleek and impeccably tailored.
‘So nice to see you again,’ he smiled at Gigi, ‘it was such a pleasant surprise to see Yussef in the lounge at the airport. Come and meet my wife.’ Bassil led them to a seating area in the back of the lobby. A full-figured woman with long chestnut hair and a pleasant smile rose to greet them.
‘This is Mona,’ Bassil introduced them.
The elevator took them up to the Swissair Restaurant on the tenth floor. They sat down and ordered. When the waiter had taken away their menus, Gigi turned to Mona.
‘How do you like it here in Jedda?’
‘Oh, well, there’s the weather, of course, for so much of the year. And I can’t drive a car here, but we have a driver. Our building complex has all sorts of boutiques, a beauty salon, even a spa, which I should use more often, I’ve put on a few kilos since I’ve had the babies. It’s just that I’m home with the children all the time, I snack too much. We have two little boys; of course the Filipina nanny is very reliable, but I’m home a lot anyway, there isn’t much to do here…’ She patted her hips in the tight foam-green lace dress she was wearing. ‘Now Bassil plays tennis at six o’clock in the morning to beat the heat in summer, but I can go for weeks without sticking my head out of the air-conditioning. I don’t mind, really. We take vacations in Europe twice a year, and we go home to Cairo for short visits all the time.’
Gigi listened with half an ear to Yussef and Bassil, who were reminiscing about their school days at the Jesuits. Yussef seemed to be doing most of the talking.
‘Do you remember Father Anselme? He used to make us write one hundred lines for dropping a pencil. He made us run up and down the stairs for ten minutes just for talking in class.’
‘You used to get out of it, though, Yussef, I always wondered how.’
‘My mother sent a note saying that I might have had rheumatic fever as a child.’
They laughed. The waiter brought the first course. ‘After dinner let’s all go back to our apartment and have some liqueur. We keep a half-way decent bar at home,’ Bassil offered. Gigi raised her eyebrows.
‘Oh yes, even here, as long as you’re careful,’ Mona nodded.
At the airport Gigi claimed her baggage and pushed the cart through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ line at customs. Om Khalil followed, pushing an overloaded cart. Gigi glanced at it. She could have sworn Om Khalil had not had that big red suitcase with her when they set out for Jedda. The customs inspector motioned Om Khalil over to the side and Gigi, sighing, followed suit. If Om Khalil had customs duty to pay she probably would not have enough money on her.
‘Why really, young man, you don’t have eyes in your head! Can’t you see I’m a pilgrim in white, just back from the Holy City? What do you expect to find in my suitcase?’ Om Khalil grumbled as she fumbled with the lock of the red suitcase and reluctantly flung it open. On top lay a prayer rug encrusted with a compass and a clock displaying international time zones. The two combined would allow a Muslim to orient himself towards Mecca wherever he might be and to calculate the exact time for the five daily prayers anywhere in the world.
The customs inspector lifted the rug and Gigi’s eyes widened at the sight of the array underneath: bolts of cloth, watches, small radios – Om Khalil had obviously done her shopping in Jedda. Then Gigi saw the liter bottles of Chanel No. 5, fragrant boxes of Fragonard soap, gold-wrapped assortments of Godiva chocolates, bags of pistachios. Om Khalil had helped herself to the contents of the bathroom and pantry cabinets at the Emir’s guesthouse.
‘Oh, Om Khalil, how could you!’ Gigi whispered.
‘Well, they were there for guests anyway, and it was such a waste,’ Om Khalil shrugged.
In the car on the way back from the airport Om Khalil sat in the front, entertaining the driver with stories of her trip. Gigi sat beside her mother in the back, cuddling Tarek on her knees. She sniffed his tousled hair, his warm little neck, his chewing-gum minty breath, all the reassuringly familiar smells. Then she turned to Mama.
‘How’s Papa?’
‘The same, darling. He didn’t quite feel up to coming to the airport.’
‘Has Tarek been a lot of trouble?’
‘Not at all. We had a lot of fun together, didn’t we, Tarek? Oh, by the way, Zohra called, she’s inviting us to a party for Leila’s engagement. She asked to borrow my silver punch bowl, so it must be a big party, she has two of her own. So, how did it go in Jedda?’
9
Papa
Gigi found Papa sitting on the terrace in the dark. Lately he spent hours every evening sitting on one of the lounge chairs on the terrace, nursing his cold pipe. He didn’t read, or watch television, or check with his lawyer over the phone on the status of the ongoing appeals for partial restitution from the Sequestration Authority. He hardly ate any more, leaving the table abruptly halfway through the meal. Madame Hélène, shocked, tried to keep up appearances by repeating: ‘Faîtes, faîtes, Monsieur,’ as if he had asked to be excused.
He had given up the weekend breakfasts at Groppi’s with Tarek. ‘I felt an attack coming on as I was driving home the last time,’ he confided to Gigi. ‘I put a pill under my tongue and it passed. But all I could think of was what would happen to the boy if I keeled over at the wheel while he was with me in the car. I can’t take that risk again.’
Every evening he sat on the terrace in the dark, lost in his thoughts. Of the past or of the future, Gigi couldn’t tell. For the fir
st time in decades, there was hope of change. The pall of the police state had lifted. Sadat had kicked out the Soviets and welcomed in the Americans. He had promised free parties, free elections, free press. The buzzwords were ‘democracy’ and ‘Infitah’, economic opendoor policy.
Sadat also hoped to encourage local entrepreneurs and foreign investors. To restore confidence, he announced that he would gradually lift the sequestration decrees, and look into making some measure of reparation to the individuals and families whose property had been arbitrarily confiscated.
To Gigi, having grown up under the Nasser regime, all this seemed miraculous. But the older generation, roused to action, reacted as if to an expected, if long-delayed, return to normality.
The Pasha had been the first to take up the challenge by establishing an opposition party to contest the upcoming elections after a quarter of a century of singleparty rule. The Cairo House, so long dormant, shook off its cobwebs and sprang back to life: the great doors were flung open, the ponderous wooden window shades were drawn up on their creaky chains; the chandeliers blazed; the halls and salons teemed with people; the phones rang off the hooks; the new party newspaper was snatched off the stands. Sadat, surprised and derisive, referred to the Pasha in a speech as ‘a phoenix rising from the ashes’. Yet the Pasha had bided his time; sheer will and incurable optimism had carried him through the past two decades.
Only Papa seemed detached, as if he had given up, just when things were taking a turn for the better. Gigi sensed that he was drifting away. It frightened her. He seemed to have lost the spirit to cope with the occasional, inevitable slights and annoyances.
Gigi had needed her passport renewed before her trip to Jedda. Yussef was already out of the country, and she could not, as a young woman, go to government offices on her own; Papa had to accompany her. They were ignored and kept waiting by a minor functionary. The system was well established. On the one hand, the bureaucratic underclass was not paid enough to subsist, and supplemented its income with under-the-table kickbacks extorted by surliness. On the other hand, an entire profession of ‘facilitators’ existed for the express purpose of dealing with this petty bureaucracy: running errands, greasing palms, and smoothing the way for those who kept them in their entourage. Between the two, government offices were a no man’s land for the uninitiated or unprepared.
The Cairo House Page 10