SETTLING IN during the first week is challenging. I blow two electric sockets because the plug of my hairdryer is too loose. I use Mona’s hairdryer, but it’s obvious that she doesn’t like it. Most of the instructions on my new laptop are in Arabic. My new mobile phone is much more difficult to operate than the simple one I have at home – and much of these instructions are in Arabic too. Trying to figure out everything is time consuming and fraught with frustration.
I am at work at two in the afternoon on day three. I start my first inventory in the kitchens as foodstuffs are perishable – the linen can wait. There are kitchens on four of the five floors of the villa, the main one in the basement where most of the princess’s food is prepared. On the first floor – the entrance level – a designer kitchen contains every up-to-date appliance you can imagine, though most of these are still in boxes. This kitchen is untouched. It awaits a husband.
In all the kitchens, the cupboards are brimming with groceries bought on the royals’ most recent trip to Paris. Twice a year they travel to France and Italy to shop for groceries and other luxuries. During these trips, our job entails boxing everything to send back to Saudi. I listen to Mona’s stories of the last trip to Paris and, frankly, it sounds like a nightmare.
The previous year, the Filipino servants were taken along. But that was the last time, as the royals fear that they could escape to their embassy, to be sent home. All the work now falls on the butlers and PAs. They are on standby 24 hours a day, covering everything from hand washing clothing right down to cleaning toilets because hotel staff are not allowed over the threshold to the royals’ rooms. So much for the romance of Paris.
On a previous trip, Mona had a free moment at the pool while the royals were out for the day. She ordered a glass of wine, for her own account, but there was a mistake with the billing. When Princess Arabella found that it had been added to the royals’ account, she shouted at her in front of her own and the hotel staff in the reception hall. “You are disrespectful and a disgrace!” Mona retreated to her room in tears.
I rope in the two women I think will be best suited to helping with the inventory and we tackle the first cupboard. This takes me on a culinary trip of foodstuffs I never knew existed. It is an efficient operation; one of the women unpacks the shelves and calls out the dates, the other cleans and I document and categorise.
I fill 18 boxes with expired goods from the last couple of months. I am appalled at the waste. The women tell me that serving a food item that has expired, even by one day, brings on a wrath in the princess that I have yet to experience. The following month will see further boxes filled, as will the month thereafter. Tins and jars of sauces, pestos and curry mixes – it is not so much the variety that is fascinating, but the quantity for one person.
The basement kitchen has 34 large cupboards so the kitchen inventory will take a whole week to complete.
After that, I’ll make my way through five large boxes stacked in the lounge area in the basement. These contain expired French cosmetics – eye creams, skin toners and moisturisers dating back as far as six years. And not just one of each – I count 29 bottles of toners. The same goes for the creams and lotions. The two last boxes are filled with expired medications – boxes and bottles of pills in every form for any ailment imaginable. Lilly, who is in charge of replenishing the cosmetics and medications, points out what each is used for. At least half the medication is for the treatment of depression.
The princess calls me up to her room. I have to wear a uniform, so she shows me several designs she has stored on her flash drive, each uglier than the one before. I eventually choose one, only for her to change it to something she prefers. I just go with the design she favours, consoling myself with the thought that no one will see me anyway.
I will have six uniforms, one for each work day. She chooses awful colour schemes, mixing colours that really don’t belong together. The khaki with olive green resembles the colours worn by prisoners at home; I dub the navy blue and maroon combination my nurse’s uniform. It is out of my hands.
Mona pops into our villa in the early evening. I am glad to see her. She is about to go upstairs to the princess’s quarters, when I ask her to give me a minute – the princess has instructed me to announce the arrival of any visitors.
Mona is incensed but doesn’t show it yet.
The same evening, an elderly Indian man comes to take my measurements. The princess speaks to him at length in Arabic, smiling often. She is in a jovial mood and the presence of the tailor seems to enhance this. Eventually she returns to her room.
The tailor shows me how to stand, legs apart and arms spread, in line with my shoulders. When he measures from my waist down to my crotch, I am shocked as his hand lingers too long while he writes down the measurements with his other hand. This is repeated at the back. Then he indicates that I should open my legs wider by slapping both of my inner thighs. He lodges his hand firmly between my legs and draws the tape measure down to my ankles.
Am I mistaken in thinking he is out of line? As he measures across my chest, there is no doubt about it – this tailor is too thorough. Why does his hand rest on my breast? I don’t know how many lashes or years in jail I could get for slapping a man albeit an Indian man, not highly regarded by locals – so I resist. The experience leaves me pretty irritated.
I push his hand off and scowl at him. He backs off and this gives me the opportunity to call Lilly. He doesn’t speak English, so I tell her to ask him if he has finished.
After I explain what has happened, Lilly is as annoyed as I am. The others have had the same experience.
On my way to the gate that evening, I look around to make sure no one is around before I remove the container from my bag and fling the pellets into the bushes.
Feeding the palace cats is risky, but later, during my second month there, the problem is solved.
Eli, the palace gatekeeper, lives in a tiny room right next to the gate. The drivers congregate here while waiting for their orders. I have such a soft spot for Eli but he is unaware of this.
I notice that the palace cats look healthier, and that they often hang around Eli’s room. Late one evening, I announce my presence at Eli’s door as he is sometimes required to phone the drivers to summon them from their accommodation when we are ready to be taken home. I spot one of the wild cats lying on Eli’s bed.
On the way home, Sultan tells me that Eli shares his dinner with the cats. He never leaves the small room at the gate, and never has a day off, so I imagine that befriending the cats alleviates an otherwise very lonely existence. I ask Sultan to stop at the shop, so that I can buy a big bag of pellets to give to Eli. He might be the catalyst but I intend to make it as easy for him as I can.
As we arrive at the palace the following afternoon, I ask Sultan to stop at the gate for two seconds. I jump out of the car as quickly as I can, hiding the bag of pellets in the voluminous folds of my abaya. When I hand Eli the cat food wrapped in several bags to hide its contents, he frowns.
Curtly, in broken English, he tells me that he cannot keep it in his room. I nod, and immediately get back into the car. Sultan explains that Eli’s room is searched from time to time. He doesn’t say this but I understand that getting caught feeding the cats will lead to a beating.
Every night from then on, I hand Eli the plastic container with just enough pellets for one meal for all the cats. Whenever there are too many drivers around, I give the bowl to Sultan, who passes it on to Eli. It is a happy arrangement, a conspiracy that forges a friendly bond between the three of us. With Eli, though, it doesn’t go beyond the knowing looks of kindred souls.
Back at the compound, at the end of the third day, music is blaring from the poolside. The mood is happy.
Mona is home. She states (in capital letters) that there was no need for me to announce her arrival at the villa – she comes and goes freely. “I am just following protocol,” I respond. Her nose is out of joint but at this early stage I don’t know how to fix it. She continues to sulk at the perceived affront, so I say goodnight early just to get away from her. My closed bedroom door allows no further conversation.
I try to fall asleep but the noise coming from Mona’s room is deafening. Our headboards are head to head on each side of the plasterboard wall and Mona snores like a Massey Ferguson. Sleep takes a long time to come.
The next morning, when I come back from the pool, Mona is sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. The greeting is strained. I rearrange my bedroom so that my headboard is against the opposite wall. I don’t think this will help much but after a couple of sleepless nights, I am willing to try anything.