by Qanta Ahmed
“Qanta, that is ridiculous. I have worked with him, for him, for five years but there is no way that I can speak to him about this. I guarantee you this is absolutely incorrect. You will embarrass both of us, and I assure you he will run for the hills. Imad is a very formal man. He has never had a girlfriend as far as I know. The answer is no!”
Even pleading with Saraway's wife to manipulate her husband's decision was out of the question.
“No, Qanta, Saraway will not do it, though it is a shame. He does seem very nice and I hear you both seem to get along well. We don't know that he has anyone, but then our relationship with him has been very professional. We don't socialize with him or other Saudis in fact. You know how it is here for expatriates. We can't really break out of our parallel worlds.”
An unmarried status conferred suspicion on men and women alike in the Kingdom. In me this usually raised questions of a prior divorce. Saudis would come out point blank and ask me if I was divorced. But for a man to be unmarried into his thirties was even more unthinkable. In this, well into his thirties, Imad was extraordinarily controversial. Many were suspicious of Imad because he was such a private, quiet man; very few people really knew him well.
Single men in the Kingdom invited intense scrutiny, though not of the kind I as a single woman had experienced. Unmarried men were constantly defending their sexuality. Homosexuality, a grave sin in the Kingdom, punishable by death, was the most feared rumor of all. Saraway and I both knew several of our Western colleagues were unmistakably gay.
Heath was a very well-known, flamboyant figure. He had an extremely camp inflection to his voice indicating (to any Westerner at least) that he was openly homosexual. Imad was often seen accompanying Heath to various committee meetings. They ate their lunch together in the male section of the doctors' canteen. They seemed to be friendly and at ease with one another, but no more than a decade-old collegiality would breed. Others were probably much more damning in their assessment.
Heath was, however, known to have a parade of young, Saudi, male friends who regularly visited him in his apartments on the compound. He lived in an identical apartment building to mine, just a few blocks away. Saraway and his wife Iman lived in a neighboring block and noted the comings and goings, which were well-known in the neighborhood. We wondered how exactly Heath made these friends and if they ever stayed over. Some of the boys were not old enough to be employees with us, judging only by appearance. The rumors about Heath's sexuality abounded, but it was more taboo in the Kingdom to discuss homosexuality than any other topic. While adultery was discussed within earshot of patients and mutarjums, even discussing an unimaginable fall of the Saudi monarchy was easier to broach than this dangerous subject.
One of the nurse managers who ran the ICU was also overtly gay. An Irish American of part Italian stock, Mark was friendly, efficient, and effective. He did a terrific job. He was also friendly with Heath and together they often discussed their dreams of settling in Sri Lanka, where both had acquired separate properties paid for by long years of work in the Kingdom. I would occasionally enter Mark's small office, interrupting their conversations about Sri Lankan emeralds and the lush landscape, utterly removed from our stark surroundings. Even though I was comfortable talking to Mark about almost any subject (simply because of our experiences of working long nights on call in the setting of a trauma ICU) I never dared endanger him by enquiring about the gay lifestyle in the Kingdom. Questioning him about the “Kingdom in the Closet”22 was a violent intrusion. Some things were better left unknown.
Nevertheless several factors probably facilitated homosexual tendencies to be embraced by many men in the Kingdom: the severe, same-sex gender divisions in the Kingdom sanctioned by legislation which prevented men from comfortably being with women; the long forays overseas for workers who arrived in cohorts from the Far East and lived in intensely cramped conditions (sometimes six laborers sleeping in a single room on triple bunk beds) where physical proximity inevitably led to homosexual behavior (whether invited or compelled); and simply the climate of repression, suppression, and severe curtailing of even innocent exchanges between the opposite sexes all led to an intensified and completely unmanageable mass of sexual desires, driving some to appease their uncomfortable libido by seeking acquired homosexual behaviors.
Stories of attractive Filipino rent boys were rife; some of the Filipinos were overtly camp and feminine in their voices and deportment. Jeddah was reputed to be more liberal, where these affectations were openly flaunted. Some of the Saudi behaviors among men who observed the very courtly mode of greeting other men with serial kisses and a deferent squeeze to the hand or a brush of lips against a clothed shoulder seemed to linger by miniscule moments, a trace too long. I watched men as they went about their business. My detection of latent homosexuality was probably accurate.
I was finding love in the Kingdom to be a complicated, secretive matter and, like everything else here, thoroughly opaque.
___________________
11Medicine in the Kingdom is widely practiced in English, and with the number of expatriates, the National Guard Hospital provided around the clock translators so that doctors could speak to patients.
SHOW ME YOUR
MARRIAGE LICENSE!
ONE EVENING, SARAWAY TELEPHONED ME at home to tell me the news. He and his wife Iman had finally decided to leave the Kingdom. They were firm in their decision; it had been something they had been considering for some time. I would be losing my first close friends in just a few weeks. Of course, immediately I saw an opportunity: we would have to celebrate by going out for dinner. Naturally, I could arrange something and include Imad in the invitation. Iman and Saraway laughed at my determination to meet him outside of work.
“Well,” laughed Iman, “that will be an interesting dinner and I think Saraway will enjoy it.”
I scrabbled to formulate a plan. The first challenge was persuading Imad to attend between what I was learning was his routine international and national travel. Few weeks went by when Imad did not travel either to Jeddah for meetings or to see his aging parents, or out of the Kingdom for his various guises as academic, advisor, consultant, or government inspector. Imad was a very busy man. When I explained to him my plans to arrange a send-off for Saraway, he sounded pleased. I began to feel excited. It looked like I would finally get to see him away from work. The choice of venue was critical.
“Just be very careful, Qanta.” Imad said no more, indicating his anxiety in everything left unsaid. I had already decided. We would eat inside the newly opened restaurant which was wowing everyone across the city.
Cristal had been open a few weeks. It was the glittering restaurant inside the al-Faisaliyah Hotel which had sprung up in a few short months, now the tallest building in Riyadh. Even though the isosceles sky scraper (testament to architect Sir Norman Foster's obsession with the triangle) was still unfinished, the building was already breath-taking. The most gorgeous landmark on the Saudi horizon, I had to admit even Manhattan had nothing like it.
Its apex wasn't even finished yet, and the spectacular glass globe suspended at the very tip of the triangle was still unfurnished inside. It would eventually house the first cigar bar for the city's überchic. Changes were afoot in Riyadh.
The astonishing tower itself was the vision of the mysterious Prince known simply in the Kingdom as al-Waleed. Prince al-Waleed bin Talal was one of the first Princes to visibly reinvest his extraordinary wealth back into the Kingdom. While in New York City we knew of his holdings in Citigroup and the Four Seasons, or of the George V in Paris, it wasn't until he built the al-Faisaliyah and, soon after, the even more astonishing al-Mumlaqa Tower, that his fellow countrymen could see evidence of his considerable confidence in Riyadh as an investment. His buildings were exquisitely planned and executed and, to me, my favorite places to escape the realities of Kingdom life. Dinner at Cristal would be a perfect setting to get to know more about Imad.
The evening arrived. I arriv
ed at the hotel with Saraway and Iman. Imad was to meet us there. We were in a festive mood.
We pulled up under the heated hotel portico studded with thousands of spotlights. Stepping out of the car we were blinded, as though stars caught in snapping flashbulbs. A columnar fountain crashed sheets of white water from a monumental height, creating a cool vapor that drifted on the chilly night.
I shivered with excitement. Around us Saudis, in small aliquots of mysterious veiled and thobed cargo, were decanted discreetly into the hotel lobby. The guests were immediately whisked from sight. The black Benzes and BMWs contained the crème de la crème of Saudi society. This was the venue to be seen at in Riyadh, though ironically that meant to be even more unseen than usual.
We entered through the lobby. Almost everyone within sight was a male Saudi. Two Caucasian businessmen chatted, awaiting their rides to the airport. They discussed their recent business endeavors half within earshot. In their blue blazers and stiff ties they looked inelegant and out-of-place. By their ruddy cheeks and boyish haircuts, I guessed them to be English. In contrast, the Saudi gentlemen around us were all immaculately thobed, mostly in white robes, but one or two still persisted in wearing the deep navy or black thobes that the winter season allowed, some of which were made of the finest suit materials. This combination of dark, masculine gabardines and gray wools in the shape of the ancient medieval male dress was extremely alluring to me; a very sexy cross-dressing of Saville Row and Saudi. Unfailing, the dark thobes made every man appear handsome. I found myself wondering if we would see Imad in his Saudi finery tonight. I very much hoped so.
We stepped into an elevator, climbing several floors to reach the restaurant itself. Our table was waiting and, as instructed, the maitre d' had reserved the best spot at my persuasive request. There were probably only a dozen tables in total, almost all of which were round, perfect for deep conversations. We were seated at one such table, discreetly tucked away toward the back of the wood paneled room.
Around us, clusters of Saudis dined. Tonight we were the only Westerners here. I noticed several veiled women who ate ensconced by Saudi men, sometimes one woman eating in the company of two men. None of the women wore any facial covering but some chose to keep their hair covered even in this inner sanctum of Saudi sophistication.
Time began to pass. I found myself actually wondering if Imad would appear. Just as I was beginning to think he had forgotten, his tall silhouette caught my eye. At his usual brisk pace, he entered the room, scanning for us. I was disappointed to see he had not donned his Saudi thobe. Instead he arrived in a relaxed outfit of slacks and shirt. He appeared in neither tie nor jacket, preferring instead a blue shirt (this time Dior) unbuttoned just once at the throat. He greeted us and took his seat, the empty chair next to mine.
“The meeting at the Ministry seemed to drag on for ages tonight. I thought I was never going to get here,” he explained. I remembered on Sunday nights this was his routine. He would go to attend the weekly meetings to discuss matters at a national level. Though Imad was not Minister of Health, I had no doubt he one day would likely be selected for the role. No one else in the Kingdom was more qualified. “And then the traffic, it's really crazy in Riyadh lately. Everything is getting so congested. I was speeding to get here,” and he laughed, casting a sidelong glance at me. The evening had begun.
Another dinner guest breezed by our table, trailing a cloud of attar. His thobe brushed our table cloth and as he passed, I noticed a beautiful silver rosary, which he was rotating in his right hand. These men were impossibly elegant. It prompted me to ask, “Imad, why didn't you wear the Saudi dress? I think it looks fantastic!”
He grimaced in disgust, terminating my smile. “I hate wearing that stuff. It's just not me, Qanta. I am more comfortable in khakis and shirts. I have never worn those clothes, except on certain very specific occasions like family weddings. Ugh, I would never come out in those clothes.”
I was surprised by his vehemence. He didn't see how elegant his countrymen appeared, even in such a glamorous setting. He leaned back in his chair, his hands on each armrest. The glint of a Ferregamo belt caught the light. He was relaxing. We were almost brushing elbows. The familiar frisson I had fought to suppress returned. Transiently shy, I lowered my head. The blue black dial on his expensive watch read 9:15 p.m. Time was flying fast. Imad continued however. Tonight, he had a lot to say.
“You see, no one ever recognizes my nationality, no one ever guesses I am a Saudi,” he smiled with satisfaction.
“What do they think you are, Imad?” I asked, nonplussed.
“Canadian, American, Jordanian, Lebanese. They never believe my nationality is really Saudi.” He seemed to take pride in this. I was puzzled. I began to see the self-loathing Imad carried about his identity: eschewing his national clothes, taking pride in an ethnic ambiguity, and here in one of the finest establishments in Riyadh, among his contemporaries, clearly in his dress, a complete misfit. I wonder if his cultural distress extended to his religious beliefs or perhaps his ambitions for a future. I resolved to inquire about this later.
Knowing Imad liked seafood, as many men from coastal Jeddah do, we ordered oysters, which arrived undressed on a spectacular ice platform. A little lemon juice and we had gobbled them up; delicious. Today, on Sunday, they had been freshly flown in from New England only this morning. In fact the lobster was also brought in twice a week from Maine, all the way here to the hotel. The vegetables came from Brussels several times a week. No expense had been spared. Even so, I was not expecting a cuisine of a standard close to London or New York or Paris. I couldn't have been more wrong. The food was equal to Petrus or Jean Georges or any Michelin-starred dining room. We ate in astonishment.
Throughout dinner, I found myself laughing. Always, Imad laughed with me. He was obviously enjoying himself. Tonight he seemed unguarded, actually open. He frequently glanced at me, locking my eyes in his blue-jeweled gaze. His eyes danced and his laugh cascaded, tumbling out of his bearded, brilliant smile into surprisingly infectious giggles. The mask had fallen and the real man was shining through. I had unveiled him. He seemed unconcerned at what he was revealing about himself—a real and rather vibrant attraction for me. Periodically Saraway and Iman were glancing at one another, looking intermittently mortified and alternately genuinely pleased.
“Qanta, my face is hurting from all this laughing. I had no idea you were so funny,” Imad told me. I had come to the same conclusion about him. His sense of humor, while a little shy, was wry and droll. “You know I am so glad I came this evening. I almost decided not to show up.”
We were all surprised.
“You see, over the years, all kinds of things have happened to friends in Riyadh who go out in mixed groups. I now believe anything is possible. As you know, one can't rule out a raid anywhere.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. Evidently it was time to be serious. “Anything can happen in Riyadh, you know that, don't you? The Muttawa can disrupt any gathering, and question people for being together, especially when the Saudis and non-Saudis mix. They don't look on that kindly, as you know.”
“But Imad, we are in the company of a married couple. You do have your marriage license with you, don't you, Saraway?” I looked at Saraway and Iman who nodded in unison at a question which was idiotically naïve to the veteran expat. “So I am sure it is fine that you are here with us,” I told Imad, genuinely believing my logic and trying to reassure him. Again he laughed, but this time he sounded callow. There was coldness to his voice.
“No, Qanta, if the Muttawa were to enter here, they would ask you, ‘And who is your husband? And where is your marriage license?’ And if there was none, I would be arrested, and you would probably be deported. Sometimes the National Guard Hospital is not powerful enough to protect even a British citizen. By eating here tonight, we are certainly at risk.” He stopped short, wondering if he was spoiling our relaxed evening. He monitored my reaction. I met his inquiring, kind eyes with a puzzled star
e.
Now I recognized Imad's late arrival was more likely a reflection of his internal fear. Even a powerful man in his own nation was fearful. In his Western dress and his North American appearance, Imad was a man caught between two worlds. He was ambivalent, perhaps in more ways than one. Just at that point, a minor hubbub at the threshold of the entrance caught our attention.
In the distance a handful of brown robes condensed into an anxious fluttering deposit. A nidus of Mutawaeen had entered the al-Faisaliyah center, a very rare occurrence. The maitre d' looked up from his rostrum and glanced at us, preparing to muster any necessary action. Discreetly he began dialing a number. I wondered if he had activated a panic button. Perhaps Imad's prediction was about to become manifest. Several of the Saudi men dining at neighboring tables looked up. Yet none other than us seemed alarmed. In fact some, recognizing the disruption as mere Mutawaeen, returned to their meals at once, minimally irritated. There was no fear here. It was such a contrast to the air of menace that the same religious police carried normally here that their power was defused.
For a moment the Mutawaeen were suspended as though flies in a web, unable to enter or leave. Even though the huge entrance lacked a door, simply being a wide arch, they were repelled by an invisible barrier: the powerful force field of the Free Prince. We were on al-Waleed's turf, a Kingdom Holding Company building. Here, the Mutawaeen couldn't touch us.
Like all good things, the evening ran away before we knew it, and it was time to leave. Imad exited first to retrieve his car from the hotel's garage. He had offered to drive us all home to the compound. We agreed, even though traveling around in the city in this manner was also a risk. It was late at night, and Imad assured us he was confident he could speed us home without being stopped. With Saraway's bald pate and dark complexion which was so often mistaken as Saudi, and his wife in tow, we would probably pass as a reasonable married group. He pulled up in a seven series BMW and ushered us to enter.