by Young
I chirped, “Shouldn’t he be open-minded and be willing to learn something new?”
My professor resumed, “In my opinion, the lad should demonstrate gratitude, give praise and recognition where it is due. Humble people habitually recognize great contributions and find it easy to say thank you and acknowledge someone for the way they make a difference in the world.”
He sighed before he added, “But I don’t see that in the Moroccan.”
“He doesn’t practice forgiveness, let alone gratitude,” Andy remarked.
“My words of advice to you, Young is to ask for honest feedback and act on it,” my professor advocated. “My mentor once said that feedback is the breakfast of champions. To do a better job; we need feedback from others. Make a habit to ask for frank, direct, and to the point criticisms. When you get them, don’t just sit and do nothing. Act on it.”
I commented wittily, “I’ll take your advice to heart, sir and act on it.”
And acted on it, I did. I approached Kalf to obtain his egotistical point of view.
A Talk with The Moroccan
Since the teenager was footing the bill, Kalf was preening from the attention by the new E.R.O.S. recruits and their chaperones. They had latched onto the big spender like bees to honey. The Moroccan looked at me cynically when I approached.
I complimented, “Kalf, I’m glad to see you so radiant.”
He gave me a duplicitous glance to my sudden interest in his wellbeing.
I spoke, “I come in peace. Can we let our bygones be bygones, so we can start anew?”
“I’m not like you, I don’t forget the past that easily,” he grimaced. “I’ll never forgive you for standing in my way.”
I explained, “I mean no harm. I was doing my Master’s bidding to bring Mario, him and you together.”
The lad mocked, “I’m regarded as a boy toy to those who profess their love for me. While you are everybody’s pet, and they love you unconditionally.”
I was shocked by his disclosure before he lashed out loud. “You get all the good things in life while I, I get nothing but scornfulness. I hate you!”
His confession brought on a shockwave to those around us. Silence fell over our entourage.
“I didn’t know you feel that way about me?” I declared. “We can be friends rather than enemies.”
The boy broke into tears. I reached to comfort him. He pushed me away and continued to sob. His good-time mates watched without coming to his aid.
Even though it was not my fault that he felt lesser than me, I apologized, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
I reached to console the lad again. This time he did not brush my hand away. Instead, he leaned into my chest for solace and wept uncontrollably.
Kalf’s pals scattered like ants and dissipated in the face of a dilemma. I was left with the neurotic Moroccan.
A Heart to Heart Chat
Kalf confided in me his inner fears under a tearful face.
He professed, “I’m never good enough for my parents.”
“You mustn’t think that way. You are doing well, and I’m sure they are proud of you,” I muttered soothingly.
“You don’t know my parents. Ever since I was a child, they nagged me to be what I am not,” the Moroccan declared.
“All parents want their children to do well and succeed in the world,” I heartened.
“My parents want me to be like my brother, Bushr, a man’s man. I tried to imitate him and failed miserably,” he announced dishearteningly.
“You are your own man and is living the life you created for yourself. Isn’t that a good thing?” I encouraged.
He rebuked my comment. “My old man wants me to repent from my sinful ways and fulfill my filial duties as a cogent son of Islam. He wants me to marry and produce heirs to continue my family’s name.”
“Can’t your brother do that?” I inquired.
“Yes and no,” the boy uttered.
I beckoned him to continue.
He mumbled, “Bushr is married, but he is childless. Although he sees other women outside the marriage, he treats them as playthings to be had and discarded at will.”
I discerned, “Did your brother treat you like a plaything when you were a child?”
He nodded and looked away ashamedly. It dawned on me that the root cause of the Moroccan’s bad behavior was due to his abusive and overzealous family and religion. Subconsciously he had taken on the role of an object to be used and discarded at whim. His fears had become his reality and manifested as neurotic dramas. This revelation brought on a new understanding I had of the Moroccan. My heart reached out to the teenager with compassion.
“You have to understand yourself before you can relegate your fears,” I proposed.
He looked at me puzzlingly and did not comprehend my suggestion.
Silence shrouded our exchange.
He finally whispered, “Will you help me?”
“Of course, I will,” I responded wholeheartedly.
That day marked a new beginning of my relationship with the Moroccan.
A House of Cards (Chapter Forty-One)
“Human rights are praised more than ever and violated more than ever.”
Anna Lindh
Mid-September 1968
Aldhdhib Dann الذئب دن (Wolf Den), Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
My Master sent a chartered helicopter to collect my Valet and me from the Bahriji. As soon as we touched down Aldhdhib Dann (Wolf Den), Tad’s ancestral home in Riyadh, several Abds (Arab boy servants) collected our luggage and showed us to our lodging. I was amazed by the size of the property; not to mention the twenty-bedroom mansion, together with several outbuildings that housed Tad’s relatives and a staff of forty.
A pristinely kept swimming pool and a well-equipped gymnasium awaited the athlete’s use when in residence.
A twenty-car garage housed luxury models of the latest sports and sedan vehicles that any automobile junkie would envy.
A man-made lake with frolicking swans and mandarin ducks glided buoyantly within this manicured oasis, surrounded by an extensive variety of fruit and flowering trees. This desert sanctuary also harbors an aviary and a zoo, filled with exotic animals; cared for by a crew of gardeners hired by the Maison keeper, Jean-Pierre Saad. This knowledgeable French-Arab horticulturist, hired by Tad’s father, Abdul Kabir Hafiz was born and raised in Paris, and Riyadh.
Besides, maintaining the grounds at Aldhdhib Dann, Jean-Pierre also worked closely with the Horticulture Science Department at the Université Paris-Sud in the developments of hybrid plants. Andy and Curt Eberhardt took to Jean-Pierre instantly. The men had a lot in common, and one of them was the quest for spirituality in nature.
Although Tad has many enlightened people as friends, he was the complete opposite. The athlete’s primary objective was to make money, and the more, the merrier. Sports was his channel to fame and fortune, and he trained energetically to be the best in his game. His trainer was also my private tutor, Herr Curt Eberhardt who was an accomplished sportsman in his own right.
Herr Curt Eberhardt
Tad recruited the German as his full-time trainer when they met at a sports event in Munich. Besides being my Master’s coach, Curt also doubled up as a private tutor and translator to the Aldhdhib Dann’s household, especially to the E.R.O.S. recruits. The sportsman was already at Wolf Den when Andy and I arrived.
“Welcome to the ‘House-of-Cards,’” he jested when we shook hands.
My Valet and I looked perplexingly at him and wondered what were in store for us at our new ménage.
He said cheekily, “Don’t worry guys, you’ll maneuver through this minefield in no time.”
We stared at the German in bewilderment.
“Oh, don’t look so worried. I’m being silly,” the sportsman remarked mischievously. “Come, let me show you the property. Tad asked me to be your guide.”
We got to know the professor better as we proceeded to the various dest
inations.
House of Cards
I asked, “Why do you call Aldhdhib Dann, a house-of-cards?”
“I was joking. Don’t take my pronouncement to heart,” my instructor answered.
“There must be some element of truth,” my Valet opined.
Curt glanced at us dubiously before he declared without much divulgence, “There is always something new and surprising in this household every day.”
Andy probed, “Cite an example so we can be better equipped to handle such occasions when they arise.”
The sportsman grinned slyly before he resumed, “There was a commotion in the East Wing yesterday.”
He paused and held his hand to his heart before he continued, “Allah bless her heart! Our patriarch’s younger sister, Miss Yasmin refused to eat.”
“Why?” I chirped.
“The young lady was protesting her rights to date a Eurasian man she met at a conference in Riyadh,” my teacher revealed.
“What happened then?” I inquired.
“They force-fed her,” my teacher replied.
My chaperone questioned, “Who are they?”
“They were Yasmin’s three male relatives. The men held the girl down and forced food into her mouth. She convulsed. Then they locked her and her ladies-in-waiting in her boudoir,” the German stated.
“How inhumane!” my lover voiced. “Why didn’t Tad and the other relatives intervene?”
“Tad’s mother, Najiyah and a couple of his siblings did intercede. But Abdul Kabir, the senior patriarch refused to budge when Tad and Najiyah begged for leniency. After all, it was Abdul Kabir who ordered the deed,” Eberhardt expressed despondently.
“That’s barbaric!” Andy exclaimed.
“That is correct. My advice to the both of you is to keep your affections discreet. Most of the Aldhdhib Dann residences are not like your Master,” Curt counseled.
“In Saudi Arabia, women’s rights are subject to the whims of men. My friend and student, be vigilant when it comes to women’s issues.” The German cautioned.
“Is that the reason you warned us to maneuver through the Aldhdhib Dann minefields with discretions,” I pegged.
My tutor nodded before he dispensed these final words. “There is a fine line between what is acceptable and what’s not, in this country. Be mindful of the way you behave. You’ll notice that your Master is quite a different person when he’s in his home turf.”
We proceeded to the aviary and the zoo to be acquainted with Allah’s animal kingdom and with the horticulturist cum zoologist, Jean-Pierre Saad.
At the Aviary
My mind wandered to the story of The Nightingale as we strolled through the avifauna refuge to marvel at the plumed birds of paradise.
“These songbirds have beautiful voices, but they can’t sing their ballads to the world,” I admonished.
The men looked at me with consternation before my Valet enjoined, “Indeed, that is true. But they are protected from the woes of the world.”
“I’m sure Allah didn’t create them to be held captive in a cage; no matter how large, spacious and airy the oubliette,” I negated.
“You are correct. Although traditions are hard to erase, these feathered creatures are showing signs to make themselves heard,” the horticulturist commented.
“The birds are screeching to be released and to fly free. Rather than be caged for a few to appreciate their graces,” I concurred.
Andy and Curt gave me unseemly glances to indicate for me to shut up. On the contrary, I felt emboldened.
I evinced, “I’m sure you are familiar with the story of The Nightingale by the Danish author Hans Christian Andersen. It is about a Chinese emperor who prefers the tinkling of a bejeweled mechanical bird to the songs of a real nightingale.”
“Me raconter l’histoire à nouveau. Il semble que j’ai oublié. (Tell me the story again. It seems I have forgotten),” Jean-Pierre sallied.
He was having fun with me.
I began, “Once upon a time, there was an emperor in China who learns that one of the most beautiful creatures in his kingdom were the songs of a nightingale. He commanded that the nightingale be brought to him. One of the kitchen maids directed the king’s men to a nearby forest where the nightingale resides. The songbird was captured and forced to sing for the Emperor. Unlike the uplifting songs she chirped when she was a free spirit, her ballads turned sad and melancholic. Soon, the emperor grew enervated of her disheartening arias.
“One day the emperor was given a bejeweled mechanical bird, and he lost interest in the real nightingale. He cast the bird back into the forest as a piece of garbage. Shortly after that, the mechanical bird broke down, and the Emperor was taken seriously ill. The real nightingale learned of the emperor’s condition and returned to the palace. She sang her healing songs to the dying sovereign. ‘Death‘ was so moved by the bird’s ballads that he granted longevity to the emperor.”
As soon as I finished iterating the tale, Saad quipped amusingly. “What is the moral of this story, young man?”
Before I could speak, my Valet intervened, “The moral of the story is that beautiful melodies and well-sung arias can heal despondent spirits.”
Andy covered my allusion if my outspokenness might endanger my position at the Wolf Den before I began service.
“I see. It’s a revelation I must take to heart,” the horticulturist teased.
Without publicizing the nuances, he was aware of our double entendre.
Just then, Curt Eberhardt suggested we visit the zoo. We followed.
The Zoo
The Aldhdhib Dann zoo compressed of engendered species from every continent. A cornucopia of clacking noises pierced the visitor’s ears with unintelligible perplexities within the fenced acreages. I had no clue when or where our tour began or ended since their disconcerting sounds threw me into a state of confusion. I would have gotten lost in this lush labyrinth of wild blue yonder, if not for Monsieur Jean-Pierre Saad’s guidance. The ferocious competed with the domesticated. This zoo was in and of itself a reflection of the dissensions within Wolf Den; where members wrangle for prominent positions in this ever-changing desert-scape.
This oasis was picture perfect of a resplendent sanctum to the credulous visitant. Generations of Hafizes had transformed this expansive property into what it is now. It was Abdul Kabir Hafiz, Tad’s aging father who commissioned the zoo and the aviary. This elderly patriarch was soon to conjoin a fourth wife, Jamila, who was forty years his junior.
Tad Abdul Hafiz, the second in line to inherit this vast seigneury had spent a significant amount of time away from the estate. The best way for this intransigent athlete to escape his dysfunctional family was through his sports.
“Are you off to la-la land,” my chaperone jolted me back from my daydream.
I commented, “This is an impressive property.”
The horticulturist replied, “This land has passed through four generations of Hafizs. It was first acquired by Tad’s great-great-grandfather, Sulaiman Yusef Hafiz before it was built upon by his son and heir, Zayn Abrahim Hafiz. But it was Dawud Arib Hafiz, Tad’s grandfather who added to the original property. Dawud, an avid landscaper, redesigned the grounds to accommodate a lake and appended an extensive array of fruit and flowering trees. He developed what we see now. But it is the current owner, Abdul Kabir Hafiz who created the aviary and zoo.”
“C’est Magnifique!” Andy exclaimed.
“Who added the swimming pool and gymnasium?” I gagged and affixed, “Let me guess. Master Tad Abdul Hafiz?”
They laughed before Curt announced jestingly, “We better return to the house before this lad decides to relate another ambiguous fable and have us guess the tale’s moral.”
I had not thought to evoke another narrative to punctuate our zoological exploration until then.
I proclaimed, “I do have another story to tell.”
The men eyed me with perspicacious scrutiny to indicate, “Here goes
the wise guy again.” I launched into the story of Animal Farm.
As soon as I finished, Jean-Pierre announced, “It is an ingenious story that will illuminate the listener to act on what’s right within humanity’s framework. Treacherous deception and revolt would cause more harm than good.”
He directed his gaze at the creatures in the zoo. “The good thing is; we care and look after these animals with providence and protection.”
“Is that so?” were Professor Eberhardt’s sardonic words before we returned to the main house.
Tango Buenos Aires (Chapter Forty-Two)
“What would life be without a little Tango?”
Bernard Tristan Foong
Last Week of November 1968
The Plaza Hotel, Buenos Aires, Argentina
“Come, let’s celebrate!” My Master exclaimed after his team’s polo practice win at the Campo Argentino del Polo, popularly known as the ‘Cathedral of Polo.’ This Buenos Aires multi-purpose stadium and home to Campeonato Argentino Abierto de Polo is the most crucial polo event in the world that Tad would participate in a week.
“What’s the joyous occasion?” Andrico, one of our E.R.O.S. compatriots, asked.
The athlete replied cheerfully, “When in Buenos Aires, we do what the Porteños do. We Tango!”
The Arab grabbed hold of Kalf to demonstrate a mock tango. We stared at him as if he was bonkers.
He announced blithely, “We are going to a milango.”
“What’s a milango?” Jeddi, Andrico’s BB inquired.
Tad did not answer but continued to dance around the room.
Professor Eberhardt elucidated on the athlete’s behalf, “There is Tango, and there is Milango. Milango houses are found throughout Buenos Aires. These are venues where Porteños go dancing.”
He sipped his wine before he resumed, “The scene is genuinely romantic. The men stay on one side of the room and the women on the other. When a song starts, the men approach the women to dance.”