The Currency of Love

by Jill Dodd

  He laughs like a demon. The more I plead, the faster he goes. When we finally make it back, I’m so pissed off at this idiot trying to prove his manhood. Asshole. When I tell Dominic he says, “Oh no, he’s done that before. He took Adnan’s kids on a wild ride once, and Adnan almost fired him. I’ll let the chief know.” I’m not satisfied with this answer, but move on.

  “Well, when is he coming? I can’t wait to see him.” I try to calm down.

  “He’ll be here tomorrow.” I can’t wait.

  Adnan’s Kenya house is brand-new and construction has just finished. No one has even slept in it yet. We are to wait till Adnan arrives to stay in the house, so everyone is assigned to dilapidated construction trailers, the kind you drag behind a pickup truck to go camping. Luckily, I am used to camping. Nora and I share one.

  Getting ready and dressing in Paris Couture for dinner in a grimy, old construction trailer is a weird world of opposites. Torches light our way through the surrounding property to the house, where wide porch steps lead to the grand living room with dark wood floors and white overstuffed furniture. A painting hanging over the fireplace of an oil pipe dripping black spots onto a pure white cheetah makes me wonder if Adnan is in the oil business. All I know is that he sells tractors, trucks, and airplanes to the Middle East.

  The architect of this new home and his wife join us, along with Keith, Adnan’s mild-mannered, sweet, gay butler.

  As we gather for drinks in the living room, I become acutely aware of how quickly strangers can bond when they’re isolated together in a foreign country. I’ve only been traveling with Dominic and Ines for a couple of weeks, yet I feel so connected to them. My guard isn’t up. All I feel is pure trust and love for them.

  Keith calls us to the dining room where the table is festively decorated with banana leaves, flowers, and candles. As we’re served a creamy green soup, Keith says, “Guess what kind of soup this is—no hints.” We shout, “Alligator? Fish? Turtle? Zucchini?” It’s turtle. I’m becoming accustomed to eating all kinds of things. After all, eating frogs and snails is de rigueur in Paris.

  After dinner, Nora and I tromp through the brush to our trailer. I unzip my glittery, black silk dress and climb between the sheets of the tiny cot. When I look up to turn out the light, I see a spider as large as a dinner plate. I leap out of bed and run back to the house to find an estate worker to get it out. When I close my eyes though, all I can think about are spiders.

  The next day, we fly to Nairobi for supplies. We need pants, socks, and boots to protect us from bugs and snakes. Plus, we need to buy and start taking malaria pills. The dirt roads are a deep shade of terra-cotta, and clotheslines hang between shops and food stands. A rolling cart loaded with bananas thrills me; bunches hang along ropes strewn high. We visit the grand Jamia Mosque, with its silver-pointed domes gleaming in the sun.

  Back at the house, the rumble of a plane sends us all out to the airstrip. Barefoot Kenyans in traditional Maasai attire—brightly printed batiks wrapped and tied, with layers of bright, hand-beaded necklaces and Halloween masks added to the mix—mob Adnan with singing, dancing, hugs, and kisses.

  “Why are they so happy to see him? It’s like the king has arrived,” I ask Dominic.

  “Adnan built a school for their kids. We’re celebrating tonight.”

  Adnan’s right-hand man, Bob Shaheen, and Tony, the masseur, arrive with him. I have never heard of an entourage, but I’m in one now. We are Adnan’s portable family. Private planes, chefs, a masseur, and housemaids create a bubble of false security. Everything is taken care of, and all my energy is saved for him. I guess that was the plan, because Adnan and I go directly to his bedroom.

  The housemaids move our things from the trailers to the bedrooms in the house. Later that night, as we gather for drinks in the living room, I get a shocking glimpse of Adnan’s power.

  “Ronald Reagan is going to win the American presidential election,” Adnan says confidently.

  “How could you know that? The election hasn’t even happened,” I say.

  Adnan, Bob, and Dominic laugh. “We know.”

  “What do you mean, you know?” I ask.

  “You’ll see,” Bob says, laughing.

  I don’t understand their political conversations.

  Ines tries to convince me that Adnan is, in fact, completely connected and intertwined with the American political power players. Then she suggests, “Why don’t you run for president, AK?” AK is what close friends call him.

  “I wouldn’t want to be president. I can do so much more if I stay behind the scenes.” I wonder if a Saudi Arabian man could even run for the American presidency.

  The other topic of conversation tonight is Soraya, AK’s ex-wife. Everyone is speculating who she’s seeing now. I keep hearing Winston Churchill’s name, among others. No one mentions that she just gave birth to her daughter, Petrina Khashoggi, in July. Not that I can remember anyway. Although guessing who the father is is probably what started the whole conversation. (Soraya keeps the identity of the birth father a mystery until Petrina figures out later, through DNA testing, that Jonathan Aitken, the former English politician, is her birth father.) It seems to me that Adnan is still hurt over Soraya. Otherwise, why would he keep bringing her up or care who she’s dating?

  When we go on safari, I don’t want to miss a thing so I stand up through the roof of the Jeep. We pass a bridge with a handmade sign that reads, ATTENTION! ALLIGATORS! A man has recently been swallowed. My mind wanders to the two pools on the estate, especially the black-bottomed one outside AK’s bedroom. Could an alligator crawl in there?

  We venture into open terrain for miles and finally spot a herd of giraffe munching the tops of acacia trees. They’re so large and graceful they seem to move in slow motion. Herds of gazelle, bongo, and zebra roam and play. There are huts made of mud and stone walls with cone-shaped, palm-frond roofs. Two adorable young boys sit on theirs. We yell “Jambo!” to one another, then stop to throw them our extra clothes, as theirs are torn rags. The highlight of the safari is when we get to see a lion. He is majestic with his wild mane.

  We visit the Safari Club that Adnan owns, and several animal preserves. We feed sugarcane to black rhino and watch water buffalo chill in the river. At Iris and Don Hunt’s preserve, I get to bottle-feed an orphaned baby elephant and giraffe. Their house pets, two full-grown cheetahs, jump in and out of open windows and one sits with her front paws on my thighs while I sit on the couch! She licks my face with her sandpaper tongue. I’m beyond thrilled. In the plane back to the ranch, we spot a massive herd of elephant on the move. It’s paradise on earth.

  Most of my time is spent with Adnan in his bedroom. Elephant tusks adorn the entry table, and there’s a breakfast nook that opens to a private pool. The bed linens are embroidered with African animals. Every detail is perfect. His closet has a complete wardrobe of formal suits, casual clothes, and thaubs. Again, his bathroom has solid gold faucets and sinks and bulletproof walls. Adnan explains, “Any wall where I stand for more than a few minutes must be armored.” At least the bodyguards aren’t here. “I’m tired of living in fear,” he says. “I don’t like traveling with bodyguards all the time.”

  The absolute wildness of Kenya is the perfect contrast to the softness of each other’s skin. We crave each other. After making love yet again, Adnan brings me to his closet. We stand nude, as he opens his safe and pulls out a huge twenty-carat diamond ring. “I want you to have this.” He slides it onto my ring finger.

  My heart jumps, but not in a good way. It scares me somehow. I’m overwhelmed. “I can’t. I’m sorry, it’s too much!” I push it back into his hands. The jump from poor Paris model to twenty-carat diamonds is too big a spread.

  “Why? I want you to have it. It means a lot to me.”

  “I’m sorry, really I can’t.” I think I offended him because his boyish excitement darkens as he returns it to the safe. Then he abruptly pulls a white dress shirt off a hanger.

  �
�How about this? Can you take this?” I nod, looking at him as he wraps it around my shoulders. I feel like such a baby. I’m sure he’s wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

  “Did you ever figure out the kind of fruit I gave to you in Paris?”

  “No, what was it?”

  “An African horned melon, and here we are in Africa. Did you eat it?”

  “No, I couldn’t figure out how to open it or if it was even edible.”

  “You have to use a knife.”

  “Good to know. Next time I’ll use a knife.” We embrace.

  Later in the week, Adnan gives the big diamond ring to his house manager, Frank, the asshole who terrorized me in the African brush. I feel betrayed, stabbed in the chest. Maybe that ring didn’t mean that much to him anyway.

  Our time in Kenya is totally hedonistic—sex, food, swim, safari, repeat. Even though AK has explained his pleasure wife situation, I don’t realize that Sabine, the girl who had joined us in Spain, is also his pleasure wife. When I look back after the fact, I understand why she was so cold toward me.

  I want to stay in Kenya and go on to the Canary Islands with Adnan, but I have promised to be a bridesmaid in my friend’s wedding in California. Adnan’s pilot takes me from the ranch to the airport in Nairobi in a small prop plane. We hit a terrible storm and lightning strikes all around us. The plane drops hundreds of feet at a time. I’m terrified, but I surrender to the storm, trusting and hoping something bigger has got the situation under control.

  As the pilot lands the plane at the Nairobi airport, he says, “We made it! I didn’t want to tell you, but that was the worst storm I’ve ever flown through.”

  I proceed into the terminal, still shocked that we survived. Cheating death makes me ask the bigger questions of life: Why was I spared? What is the purpose of my life?

  The Nairobi airport is the absolute opposite of my time with Adnan. The poverty of Africa is everywhere. Sad, gaunt faces, dirty rags for clothes, duct-taped boxes instead of suitcases. I am firmly back in reality—the words “disturbing,” “depressing,” and “confusing” don’t begin to scratch the surface of my thoughts. After three hours in this tragic terminal, I board a crowded, smelly, eleven-hour flight to Paris.

  I rush to my apartment to pack a few things and let Madame know I’ll be gone for about a week. I stop by my new agency to the news I’m booked for three weeks of magazine editorial in Milan, Italy, right after the wedding. Then, it’s off to Charles de Gaulle and another eleven-hour flight to Los Angeles.

  On the long flight, I reflect on the changes in my life over the past eight months. I’m finally making it as a model, but don’t care as much about it as I thought. I hated Paris at first, but now I love it—it’s my new home. I left a bad relationship with Jack, and am in a great new one with Adnan. I lost some friends I grew up with, but have a lot of new ones. I used to be blind to the games of modeling, but now maybe I know a little too much.

  I’ve also fulfilled my lifelong dream of going to Africa. I’ve swum new oceans and seas. I’ve gone without food, and I’ve been fed too much. I’ve been poor, and lived in wealth. I’ve worn flea market clothes, and handmade Paris Couture.

  My Karin Models composite

  TOKYO OR MILAN?

  Halloween 1980, Downey, California

  After customs at LAX, I make it just in time for Penny’s rehearsal dinner at the Pleasant Peasant, a French restaurant in Downey. It’s a nice transition to speak French with the owners of the restaurant, in my hometown. Since it’s October 31, after dinner I meet friends at a Halloween, backyard keg party—just like old times.

  In the morning, I join Penny and the bridesmaids in the bridal room of her church. These are what I considered conservative and rich North Downey girls, not South Downey, like me. They giggle nervously, undressing in front of one another like it is such a big deal to strip down to their bras, long slips, pantyhose, and grandma panties, while I’m fresh from strolling topless at the Indian Ocean. All these girls are from protective, loving families who shelter them from the world. I’m here for only one reason: Penny.

  After the ceremony, when the wedding photographer takes photos, the scene is so surreal that I have to actually get into character. Young guys in rent-a-tuxes pose with us, in our long, floral, chiffon dresses and with baby’s breath and plum-colored roses in our hair, the whole banana. It is a total juxtaposition to my life. Not just life with Adnan, but my entire life.

  The next week, I go check in with Wilhelmina. I haven’t had contact with them since my brief visit in August, and they assume I am still in Paris. Steve, my favorite booker, is on the phone, so I hide behind him till he hangs up. I put my hands over his eyes and he spins his chair around. “Oh my God, Jill! What are you doing here?” He jumps up to hug me.

  “Just visiting. I’m going back to Paris soon, then Italy.”

  “You should stay, we need you here. It’s so busy I could book you right now.”

  “I can’t. I’m booked in Italy next week.” As I hear the words come out, I feel a surprising tinge of doubt about my plans. “But you know, I’m not really sure how I feel about it now,” I say.

  “What do you mean?” he says.

  “I don’t know. It’s great editorial, but I’m so tired of getting paid shit. I wouldn’t mind making some money.”

  “Well, not to tempt you, but your new rate here is two hundred dollars an hour, twelve hundred a day, and of course, lingerie and swimwear is double. Just something to think about.” Steve smiles, while I calculate. “If you want to make money fast, though, you should go to Japan. American girls are hot now and the pay’s insane—twenty-five to thirty-five thousand a month, but you work twenty-four-seven. You’ll barely sleep.”

  I picture myself modeling at night in a Tokyo high-rise. Getting lost in a foreign country sounds good, the adventure is intriguing, and if I had fifty grand in the bank, I could travel with Adnan without the embarrassing issue of who’s paying for my plane tickets. “Know what? Let’s do it. I’d love to go to Japan.”

  “Absolutely. But in the meantime, let’s book you here. Everybody’s gonna want to hire you fresh from Paris, you know.”

  “Yes, please!” I say. He is right. Teen magazine books me, and New York Apparel News wants me to shoot their cover.

  It’s just my first week home, but I’m stir-crazy at night and want to go out dancing at clubs! I call Nicole, my friend since we were twelve.

  “Hi, Nicole, I’m just back from Paris. Would you want to go out dancing with me?”

  “Sure, how about now?” she says.

  “Yes! I’ll come get you!”

  I drive to her house, not far from mine, and visit with Nicole and her parents in their living room. Her house feels so homey. Her parents are older than mine. Her dad is silver-haired, tall, and thin, and Hungarian, like my family. Her mom is buxom, dresses conservatively, and is always either smiling, laughing, or nagging at Nicole.

  “Now, you girls don’t stay out too late tonight. And watch out for weirdos. You know, Nicole, strange men hang out at nightclubs. And don’t drink too much.”

  “Yes, Mom, I know. I’ll be careful,” Nicole says.

  It is clearly loving nagging, not bitchy nagging. Nicole’s dad says, “Nicole, do what your mother tells you.”

  “Dad, I’m twenty-one! I can take care of myself.”

  “Your mother’s right. You girls be careful out there,” he says.

  It’s so sweet. I can tell they love her. We go to her bedroom to get her purse, and I see framed family photos lining the hallway floor to ceiling—baby pictures, her parents’ wedding photo, high school portraits, her brother’s football newspaper clippings, her sister’s prom picture, and all of their graduation photos with the hats and diplomas.

  This is the opposite of my house with the embarrassing and massive wall of nudes in our den. I feel so jealous. I want a nagging, loving mom who proudly displays my achievements on the wall. I feel shame. I feel dirty, less t
han Nicole, not good enough.

  We meet up with a group of her California State University–Long Beach friends at Bobby McGee’s in Long Beach. She introduces me to Matt, a tall, handsome, half-Mexican, half-Irish guy. He’s adorable. There must have been ten in our group. We all dance till closing time to the B-52s, the Clash, the Ramones, the Go-Go’s, and A Flock of Seagulls.

  On another night with Nicole, I run into my ex-boyfriend Jack at the Red Onion. The first time I see him, I am so shaken, my knees actually buckle. I want to surrender to him and our lust, but my head screams no! Each time I bump into him, my heart pounds out of my chest a little less, until I finally get over him for good. I had run away from our relationship by going to Paris and hadn’t taken time to grieve.

  Nicole makes my life fun. It’s actually nice to be back in California. Everywhere I go I run into old friends. With work during the day and dancing at night, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s pass in a flash. No one, however, besides Nicole, knows the real details of my private life.

  I write to Madame in Paris to let her know that I won’t be returning quite yet. I feel conflicted about putting off the Italian editorial, but they say they can rebook after Japan. I want cash in the bank and another adventure. I sign a contract with Paul Rose, my Japanese agent, and am set to leave in February.

  I write letters to Adnan, addressed to his mansion in Paris, to let him know my plans and I jump back into work in Hollywood while I wait for February to roll around. Since Wilhelmina’s clients want to hire a model fresh from Paris, I’m working a lot.

  Plus my old clients in the swimwear industry need me for fittings. Stick me in a sewing factory and I’m one happy girl.

  Hello? Los Angeles

  99-CENT SHRIMP COCKTAIL

  Winter 1981, Las Vegas

  Japan in February approaches fast, and with unexpected anxiety. Something doesn’t feel right. All I can think about is Adnan. Why hasn’t he reached out to me? I write letters telling him where I am, but he doesn’t get back to me. I’m used to guys pursuing me like crazy. I don’t get it.