THE DRIVE to the palace is a stressful one as we are collected in the van that transports fish and fresh vegetables from the market at the crack of dawn. The palace cars are unavailable because the Amir has gone to the farm for the evening. The amount of staff, luggage, food and luxuries that are taken with on such a trip, even just for one night, leaves the royal women disgruntled as there are no drivers left to pander to their demands.
The heat and the stench in the van turn my stomach but I manage to hold myself together.
As I enter the villa, I immediately sense the tension. The girls are scurrying around, absorbed in their own thoughts and not easily drawn into answering my probing questions. I am trying to find out what the problem is but no one is talking. I’ve learnt that when the staff are behaving like this, it means the princess has woken up in a bad mood, which severely affects how she treats them. I change out of my abaya and before I start my rounds, I go up to greet the princess. Her door is closed. This is never a good sign.
I start up in the laundry. As usual, Lilly accompanies me as we go through the day’s laundry and dry cleaning list. Her dedication amazes me. She refuses to look at me. I can see that she has been crying. No matter how hard I try, I cannot get anything out of them. They seem scared to death.
At half past six, Lilly comes down to the kitchen and informs us that the princess wants us to gather in the pool house for a meeting. She will join us in 15 minutes. I grab my notebook and pen, happy that there is some action to follow yet with an unease I can’t explain. The girls wait inside the lavishly decorated pool room while I sit at the patio table outside. Fifteen minutes pass slowly, then I hear the unmistakable click of the front door. We are locked out. I call Lilly and when I tell her this, she looks terrified. Obviously they know something I don’t. Has this happened to them before? She is evasive.
An hour and a half passes. I keep myself busy with the lists in my notebook in case the princess makes an appearance but I am sure this was never her intention. Suddenly piercing screams and what sounds like sobbing come from the princess’s room. After two hours, we are called back inside. I have a call from switchboard advising me that the driver is at the main gate, waiting to take me home. I am still clueless.
I find it strange that my bag is not quite in the same place as I left it when I arrived. Before I leave the villa, I go upstairs to say goodnight to the princess but her door is closed. I can’t get out of there fast enough. I head straight downstairs to pack up my laptop. There is a text message waiting for me, “I am waiting for you on the gate with cake.” Oh my God, I had completely forgotten that I would be meeting up with Serge tonight. On the gate?
The traffic is not as congested as usual and sooner rather than later we arrive at the compound. I am tense as I try to make sense of what has happened tonight. I don’t think meeting up with Serge now is good timing but at the same time, I can’t cancel. It is, after all, just tea. Another text message has me laughing as I read, “Captain and crew awaiting your arrival . . .” Perhaps this won’t be too bad, though the timing could have been better.
I freshen up and change into something comfortable. As I come around the corner, I am surprised to find Serge standing in the doorway of the passage leading to his flat, with a smile so sweet and an arm outstretched to take my hand. He leads me into his flat. I follow him into the lounge where he suddenly turns for the customary kisses on the cheek. His smell eradicates the last of my common sense for the day.
Twelve cupcakes in assorted flavours line the coffee table. That’s not unusual but Serge doesn’t eat cake so it is all for me. My love for tiramisu is born. Much to my delight, the quiet man at the pool turns out to be quite a conversationalist and comedian. We laugh often, and I note his good manners with pleasure.
He tells me about his family life in Lebanon. I am mesmerised. He shares stories of the joys and ordeals of producing the yearly quota of arak on the family farm.
I go very still when he says that he is still married, though he and his wife have been separated for three years. The reason that neither of them has filed for divorce is that they are not only Catholics but Maronites.
Traditionally, Maronites are the most powerful cultural group in Lebanon. According to the Lebanese constitution, they hold the Lebanese presidency. Divorce is forbidden for Maronites.
Their house is rented out; his wife has moved back to the family farm where her parents live. When Serge goes home, he stays on his parents’ farm. He has two children, a daughter of 19 and a son aged 17, in his last year of school. They are a family of architects and lawyers, his daughter just entering her first year of architecture at the University of Lebanon.
His son is a racing fan. Although he doesn’t yet race, he dreams of doing this, a nightmare for Serge. He throws his hands in the air, grinning broadly as he says his son his headstrong. Serge beams when he speaks about them.
After two cups of tea, we progress from the uncomfortable Victorian couch to the floor onto duvets and pillows Serge has piled around. At four in the morning, we are still absorbed in conversation but what I am likely to face in a couple of hours’ time forces me to call it a night – or, more accurately a morning. How fast time flies when I am with him.