The Currency of Love

by Jill Dodd

  Living on opposite sides of the world isn’t helping, and Japan would be farther. I hate going back on my word, but with a heavy heart, I cancel Japan. I will return to Paris and Italy to be close to Adnan. But just before I buy my ticket, he calls.

  “Jill, is this you?” he says in his playful Buddha voice.

  “Adnan? Where are you?” I say, shocked and slightly angry.

  “I’m very close to you,” he teases.

  “Where?”

  “I’m in Las Vegas.”

  “No. I can’t believe it!”

  “Come see me. I’ll send you a plane ticket.”

  My heart jumps. I feel so relieved our love isn’t just a crazy fantasy in my mind!

  Growing up, I spent several weeks a year in Vegas visiting my grandparents. I thought I knew it well, but I am about to see another side. Because there’s regular Vegas, and then there’s Adnan’s Vegas. The one I know is a tacky tourist town filled with casinos; disgustingly large all-you-can-eat buffets; and supersize 99-cent shrimp cocktails.

  Adnan’s Vegas is a hedonistic rush of glamour and consumption, secret dining rooms, private gambling rooms, bulletproof limos, private planes, cocaine, nine-course feasts, diamonds, and, of course, Paris Couture.

  I drop my car at LAX’s Parking Lot C, and in forty-five minutes I’m in Vegas. It’s a strange flight, visually. You take off in Los Angeles, fly out over the ocean, and make a U-turn. Then you pass over smog-filled, brown, flat urban sprawl. You blow by a sliver of green trees on the San Bernardino Mountains, and then the earth becomes instantly flat again; a barren desert of white salt beds and sand, and clear blue skies. The Las Vegas Strip appears in the middle of the huge sandpit, its main vein branching into the desert on either side. When I was little, we used to drive five hours through the hot desert to get here. Now it takes under an hour.

  Adnan stays at a private compound at the Sands Hotel, given to him by Howard Hughes, the aircraft billionaire who owns the hotel. (The Venetian stands there today.) Adnan’s compound is behind the main hotel, a series of one-story cottages and suites.

  Someone from the front desk shows me to my suite. The first thing I see is a collection of couture dresses hanging from the closet doors and draped on the bed. I drop my bags to take a closer look. Yes, Dior, Chanel, Valentino, and Givenchy are all here.

  I hear a knock at the door and I open it to a hairy, muscular man with a massage table under his arm.

  “I’m here for your massage, miss.”

  “But I didn’t ask for . . . oh, okay, come in.” I strip down and get on the table. I’m Jell-O when he’s done.

  The phone rings. “Hello?”

  “Jill, is it you?”

  “Yes, Adnan. It’s me!” I’m freaking out.

  “So we can see each other! It’s been so long!” He sounds happy too.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here in Las Vegas! Where are you?”

  “In my suite. I’ll have Keith come get you.”

  Keith comes right over. We hug and kiss cheeks. I always want to be closer with Keith, but he’s so professional and guarded. He wears a suit, even in this heat.

  “Jill, how are you? Long time no see.” He smiles.

  “I’m good. It’s so good to see you. How’ve you been?” I ask.

  “Good, good, did you see the dresses I picked out for you?” He motions toward the bed.

  “My God, they’re beautiful!” I touch the beading, velvet, and lace. “Isn’t this too much? Are they all for me?”

  He nods. “You’re gonna need them for all the dinner parties you’ll be going to.”

  “Well, okay, when you put it that way.” I raise my eyebrows, looking up at him. Keith is very tall.

  “Come on, I’ll take you to AK.”

  The Sands compound isn’t as impressive as Adnan’s other houses. It’s outdated and original to the sixties, when Howard Hughes stayed here. It looks like Elvis’s Graceland. His private suite at the Sands is the only part that has been updated with marble floors and modern furniture.

  Adnan walks in, smiling, in his usual white thaub, arms spread out. “How are you, darling?” We hug and kiss.

  “I’m good.” Ahhh . . . the relief I feel in his arms. I relax instantly.

  “What have you been doing in California for so long?”

  “I’ve been working, you know.”

  “You know that business goes nowhere. Why don’t you stop and travel with me? We could have been together all this time. I thought you were returning to Paris.” He leads me to his adjoining bedroom.

  “So did I. I almost went to Japan, but had a gut feeling I shouldn’t. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to go, because I was supposed to see you here.”

  “I’m so glad you listened to your intuition, because now we’re together again.” He hugs me.

  He made his views on modeling clear many times. He wanted me to give it up so I could travel with him. There is no way I could let go of my safety net of an income and a career. What if things didn’t work out with us? I’d have to start all over again from square one. I was too afraid to depend on a man for financial security.

  “Did you receive my letters?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But you never wrote me back.” I scowl.

  “I’m not good about writing letters, but I called you.”

  “Almost three months later! Did you really read them?”

  “You don’t believe me?” He smiles, sensing a challenge.

  “No. I don’t. Then what did they say?” I cock my head.

  He goes into a long recitation, declaring everything I had said in detail, even describing the stationery. I’m stunned. “I’m right, aren’t I?” He laughs. When I dispute a few facts, he says, “Would you like to bet?” and picks up the phone, calling Paris and requesting copies to be faxed immediately. “You’ll see. My memory is never wrong.”

  Minutes later, the faxes start spitting out from the machine and to my horror, he reads them out loud. Listening to my own corny love letters is excruciating. He’s right about every detail; he smiles and pushes me onto the bed. We make love because I cannot resist him.

  As I snuggle into his neck, he repeats, “Why do you have to work? Why can’t you be with me, and travel with me? Why can’t you be like other girls and use your spare time to take tennis or dance lessons?”

  “I can’t imagine doing that! I need to work! I like working. I’d go crazy just taking tennis lessons. That’s not me.” Since I was a teen, I had wanted to move out from my parents’ house and be free. How could I give up on my dream of freedom and independence? How would I spend my days? Lounging on a ship? Napping in a hotel room? Playing tennis? I have way too much energy for that. Resting and being pampered while on vacation is one thing, but I can’t imagine living on permanent vacation at twenty-one years old.

  “Okay then, why don’t you go and take a nap and meet me here for dinner at eight?”

  I return to my suite to find the bathroom stocked with Moroccan mint bubble bath, vanilla candles, and Adnan’s favorite soap: African Black Mango. On the dressing counter is a tub of Queen Bee cream that he loves, made from beeswax and honey. I’m back in pure luxury.

  I light every candle around the marble tub, pour the sweet mint liquid under the warm water, and relax into my private paradise. Warm and totally limp, I climb into bed and request a wake-up call. After a nap, I do my makeup and pull on stockings and shoes. I choose the black velvet-and-lace Dior dress for tonight and pull it from its hanger. It must weigh five pounds. I step in, zip it up backward, and twist it around the right way. It fits perfectly. I look in the full-length mirror. This dress is so beautiful—I can’t believe it’s on me.

  I meet Dominic, Ines, and Bob Shaheen in AK’s salon, along with several other new people. I’m so excited to see Dominic and Ines again. I missed them so much after spending all those weeks in Spain and Africa together. Dominic introduces me to everyone, and we toast Adnan as he wal
ks in.

  We are driven in limos to the back entrance of the MGM Grand and ushered to a secret dining room. Once again, a long table glows with candles and sparkles with crystal. Always a gentleman, Adnan tucks me into my chair and goes to sit across from me, but one seat to the right.

  Moments later, a woman walks in looking like a young queen. She is escorted to the chair next to mine, directly across from Adnan. Her dress is full length, made of purple velvet and red silk, which makes her look like a real-life Disney princess. Her long black hair falls in curls around her shoulders. Heavy eyeliner is drawn around her blue eyes, and her lips are red. She looks about thirty-five. At twenty-one, I feel like a child next to her. (In reality, she is only twenty-eight.)

  Adnan introduces us. “Jill, this is Lamia. Lamia, meet Jill.” We shake hands and then she graciously ignores me. She makes me so nervous. I want to connect with her, girl to girl, but she’s not interested in getting to know me. She knows why I’m here.

  And here I am, thinking I’m part of a big happy family. Lamia is Adnan’s only legal wife after his divorce from Soraya. Ines had told me about her while we were in Spain, saying her name was Laura, she was Italian, and she had known Adnan since she was seventeen. Ines had pointed out old photos of her playing tennis at the house when we were in Spain. If they were involved since she was seventeen, then maybe it was Adnan who left the marriage first.

  I find it hard to stop staring at her. Her massive emerald-cut solitaire diamond ring covers the whole area between the knuckle of her ring finger and her hand. I try to focus on not screwing up my table manners, instead of looking at her royal dress, ring, and makeup. She even smells good.

  After dinner, Adnan and I hole up in his bedroom for days. His chefs intermittently bring food and champagne to the lush, quiet room, where we make love, laugh, talk, read, and sleep. We share his supply of cocaine, and I’m safe again with him in paradise.

  Dominic and Ines invite me to dinner. “And Adnan too?” I ask.

  “No, just the three of us. We’ll pick you up at eight.”

  They are the ones who had welcomed me into this world, and I trust them one hundred percent. Dominic arrives in a suit, with Ines dressed in ruffled white taffeta, dripping in gold and diamonds. I wear the Dior and Ungaro skirt and blouse Adnan gave me in Paris when my zipper broke.

  We sit down for dinner at Caesars Palace, when Dominic starts in, “Jill, you’re such a lovely, intelligent girl, but that’s not why we’re here. We’re here to teach you formal European table etiquette.” Shame and humiliation rush through me. What was I doing wrong?

  Ines adds, “You’ll thank us later, darling.” Then, in a serious tone, she says, “You’ll be attending important business dinners with politicians and princes from all over the world, and I’m not sure you know how to hold a fork and knife properly.” She unfolds her napkin into her lap. “See, Jill, you eat like an American. We’ll teach you to eat like a proper European.”

  I remember back to my confusion over the silverware at our first dinner on Adnan’s yacht, and every single one since. Which fork was for which course?

  Ines continues, “First of all, when you sit in your chair, you must sit with your back completely straight. Never lean on the back of your chair and absolutely no leaning on the table.” I had never heard of such a thing as not using the back of a chair.

  Dominic says, “Ines and I noticed you slouching last night, and sometimes you lean with your elbows on the table.” My heart drops into my stomach. I nod, blue-collar girl from Downey.

  Ines continues, “When the gentleman pulls your chair out, you sit yet lift yourself up a bit so he can push your chair in. Then, you unfold your napkin, placing it in your lap. Notice your glasses are on the right. We drink champagne first, and then white wine with the first course, red with the second. You will always be poured both still water and water with bubbles.” I think, So that’s how it works. “Start with your outermost fork and knife and work your way inward. The fork is held in your left hand, upside down with your index finger on top.”

  “But I’m right-handed,” I counter.

  “Your knife is held in your right hand.” She demonstrates. “Cut a very small piece and slide it up the back of the fork using your knife. Rest the knife at the edge of your plate. Place the bite into your mouth with the fork upside down.” This part’s tricky, and takes me a while to master.

  As our meal is served, they continue demonstrating the proper use of the salad fork, the fish fork and knife, the dessert fork and spoon, and the café spoon. I don’t talk. I sit up straight, nod, and try to memorize these rules. Knowing they’re watching me and my manners, I think back to my humble beginnings in Downey, where we didn’t have a fish fork or a fish knife. I still have no idea what Dominic does for a living, but evidently I’m one of his responsibilities.

  It doesn’t dawn on me until years later that I was in a modern-day harem. It took me years to admit. I already had enough shame shoved upon me by anyone I told about Adnan. My friends were troubled enough about the fact that he was twenty-four years older than me. Whenever I tried to explain the situation to friends, they’d say, “So, you were in a harem?” I’d respond, “No! It isn’t a harem. Are you thinking it’s like the movies with a bunch of girls lying around on velvet pillows in belly-dancing outfits?” Admitting it was a harem would have added yet another, even worse layer of scandal and humiliation, and I wasn’t able to be honest with myself about that.

  I was always unconventional enough without adding a harem, so I tried to focus on our love and relationship—not the fact that it was a harem with multiple wives. I always defended the arrangement with Adnan because he was honest with me about it from the beginning.

  Still, all harems, from the beginning of time, have fierce competition between the women. This was no different. I suffered occasional hurt and jealousy, and all of us women kept an eye on one another, but as long as I was his favorite, everything was fine in my world.

  I’ll never forget when Adnan came into my suite in the middle of the night and set a box on my bedside table and kissed my head. I wake up and turn to him. When he sees me, he whispers, “Oh, I have the wrong room. Sorry, go back to sleep. Keep the gift,” and leaves. Before I can respond though, he is gone. Then, it hits me hard. My heart drops into my stomach. He thought I was another girl. I turn on the light and pick up the box.

  There is no joy opening a gift not meant for you. Inside is a delicate, gray suede envelope, and inside that is an eighteen-carat solid gold necklace, curved to the shape of a woman’s neck like a treasure from King Tut’s tomb. I picture the two of them making love, and my heart physically aches. Doubt sinks in, and I am not sure I can handle this after all.

  A day or two later, Adnan takes me on a date, alone, to a Japanese restaurant at Caesars. He may have been trying to make sure I wasn’t angry. His limo driver takes us, and his bodyguard follows us into the restaurant. I think he reserved the entire restaurant because it is completely empty. It has a tropical jungle theme with palm trees, a waterfall, and even a river and bridge.

  After we order, he excuses himself, saying he left something in the car. When he returns, there is white powder around his nose. If he is that tired, I think, we shouldn’t have come out in the first place. Once the coke kicks in, he is his animated, engaging self again.

  When he notices my goose bumps from the cold air-conditioning on my bare shoulders, he says, “Come on, come with me!”

  I follow him out into the adjacent shops and he pulls me into a fur-coat store. “Pick one,” he says. They’re so beautiful and soft. I don’t think about the cruelty involved and choose a hip-length white fox. The lining is white silk satin, and the whole thing is soft and warm. We don’t return to our food; instead, we go gambling.

  Adnan loves to gamble, and we always play at private gaming rooms where he can gamble big money. (He is known as a “whale,” one of the largest gamblers in the world.) We sit at the 21 Table, gambling stac
ks and stacks of $10,000 chips. We’re both competitive, so we try to beat not only the dealer, but each other. He lets me play with the $10K chips too. He must have lost $300,000 in one sitting, but he’s not bothered in the least. Afterward, we return to his suite and his bed. He succeeds temporarily at getting my mind off his mistaking me for another woman.

  I need to return to Los Angeles for work, but promise Adnan I’ll come back as soon as I can. Dominic makes my flight arrangements, and I am transported back into the real world. I fly commercial to LAX and take the shuttle bus to Long Term Parking Lot C, to my light-green 1970 Ford Fairlane 500. Cruising down the 405 Freeway with all the windows down, I blast Queen on the stereo, shedding all the layers of Vegas life with Adnan. As I pull into my parents’ driveway, my hair is blown in a thousand different directions, and every trace of Vegas is packed tightly away.

  Adnan and me in Nairobi, Kenya, 1980

  THE SANDS

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  The flight into the desert is my new weekly routine. Taxis adorned with showgirls swirl around the Vegas McCarran airport. The marquees at Caesars Palace, the MGM, and the Hilton spell out in bold letters—Cher, Tom Jones, Liberace, and Wayne Newton.

  Sometimes, I go visit my grandparents straight from the airport. They live in a suburb three miles from the Strip. The limo driver always says, “Sure you know where you’re goin’?” As we pull up to the chain-link fence that surrounds their tiny, pastel-pink home, he repeats, “Sure she lives here? Should I wait, or you wanna call me when you’re done?” I tell him to leave because the neighbors are already staring at the limo. He’s always surprised when I tip him, saying, “You know, all those high rollers? They don’t tip me. They act so rich, but they don’t tip.”

  I have happy memories of my grandparents’ house. As a kid, my sister and I stayed with Nano and Grampy for several weeks every summer. The rooms of Nano’s home are painted in various shades of pastel from mint green to pink, baby blue, and yellow.