I WAKE up the following morning not knowing quite where my limbs start and where his end. I open my eyes to see Serge smiling down at me. He smells so good. We drink our coffee in bed, our talking interrupted with bursts of laughter. What a wonderful way to start the day.
Today I am meeting Serge’s family for a traditional Lebanese lunch at his cousin, Mustafa’s house. I am excited at the prospect of a day outside the compound with Serge but a low-key nervousness about getting caught stays with me.
Serge holds the car door open as I get into the front seat. As I have been instructed, I drape the hijab over my head as Serge walks around to the driver’s seat.
“What you doing?” he asks as he looks at me, his eyes serious. I explain. “No habibty, that is a sure way of drawing the mutawa’s attention.” I don’t understand. He clearly doesn’t look like an Arab, so sitting next to a woman who appears to be a Saudi local is bound to draw attention, he says. I remove the hijab and feel surprisingly vulnerable.
It’s an amazing feeling, being out of the compound, and sightseeing. Serge is a constant stream of information as we drive through the city. I watch him behind the wheel and feel such a surge of love, I put my hand on his leg as he talks. He squeezes my hand before placing his on the steering wheel again.
I am not always aware of the mutawa’s vehicles, but Serge can spot them a mile away. At a busy intersection, Serge gently takes my hand off his leg as we pull up next to a huge 4x4 at the red light. Under his breath, he mutters one word. “Mutawa.” I stare straight ahead. It is a tense moment, but they turn right as the light changes to green and I breath out deeply in relief. We laugh at the narrow escape.
Serge tells me that Mustafa’s wife is a great cook. She makes the best kibbeh nayyeh, which is the Lebanese version of steak tartar, quite often made from lamb. I am not overly impressed at the idea of raw lamb but I don’t say anything. My expression gives me away, though, and Serge laughs.
At the following set of traffic lights, in the car beside ours, I see a sight that chills me to the bone, a boy no older than about 10 behind the steering wheel. He is barely able to see over the dashboard. “What the hell?” I ask Serge. He explains that it is quite accepted and a common sight. Traffic officials turn the other way. And they wonder why the accident rate is so high.
Eventually we stop at a four-storey building. I am a bit apprehensive. The front door opens and Serge hugs the big man standing in the doorway. I am waved in as if they have known me forever. Once inside, we are introduced. The big man is Mustafa. There are two women and three men at the dining room table. The two women get up immediately to make space for us at the table.
Mali, Mustafa’s wife, comes over to me with a welcoming smile, and indicates that she would like to take my abaya. She speaks no English but graciously takes the abaya, pulls out a chair for me at the table, then joins the other woman in the open plan lounge, where they sit and watch us.
While the men exchange pleasantries in French, I look around, feeling slightly self conscious. Mustafa walks around the table with two smallish glasses and as he places one in front of Serge, then me, he says, “Arak, good Lebanese drink.”
I pick up my glass at the same time as everyone at the table and Mustafa makes a toast “to the woman who has made Serge happy and makes him look 10 years younger”. Everyone bursts into raucous laughter as Serge explains to me that at a previous Friday lunch, he had told his cousin about me when he was asked why he was looking so smooth.
Serge is a year younger than me. He likes to keep a week’s stubble, but it makes him look much older as his beard is peppered with grey. No one has seen him clean shaven for some time and it really does take 10 years off him.
I take a sip of the arak; the men knock it back in one gulp. It makes my eyes water. I guess it is good if you like aniseed. Next comes a bottle of red wine. Homemade, of course. Again the men make a toast, this time in Arabic. The wine is better than anything I have tasted before.
I catch Serge looking at me with a faraway look in his eyes and it is evident – to me, anyway – that he is reliving last night. I hold his gaze for a while, and what passes wordlessly between us, speaks volumes. We are interrupted by something Mustafa says in Arabic, and everyone laughs.
By this stage I am ravenous. It seems as if everyone has already had lunch as Mali carries the dishes out to the table again. Serge asks if I would like him to dish up for me, which I welcome. Lebanese people are very proud of their cuisine. Their food does not merely satisfy hunger, it is a work of art, reflecting the warm colours of the Lebanese culture.
Spread in front of us is the traditional mezze of falafel, baba ganoush, the ever present tabbouleh salad, chicken kebabs, shish-kebabs, skewered lamb cubes and, of course, kibbeh nayyeh. After the explanation in the car, I can do without this dish, but Serge tells me I have to at least taste it and adds a small portion to my plate. It is pink in its rawness.
The men at the table keep up a steady stream of conversation, peppered with broken English for my benefit. No one notices as I swallow the kibbeh whole, washed down with the delicious wine. They tell fascinating stories of their home towns in the mountains of Lebanon. We laugh often. How at home I feel among these warm, hospitable people. This is one of the happiest days I have spent in Saudi Arabia.
Early evening, Serge and I say our goodbyes. Mali brings my abaya and helps me as I struggle with the metres of material. She tells Serge to tell me that I am welcome any time. For the first 10 minutes, we drive in a comfortable, happy silence, helped no doubt by the amount of arak and wine we’ve enjoyed.
I ask Serge what Mustafa said when everyone laughed. He smiles and says, “He asked if we want to hire a bedroom.” I can’t help but laugh. I didn’t realise our feelings were that blatant.
We arrive back at the compound and arrange to meet at the pool bar in an hour. I go to feed the cats, which has become a nightly highlight for me. I shake the plastic bowl, which never fails to make them come running. The numbers have doubled – 20 cats at last count. They know me by now and about five of them fight for my affection. Mr Grey has become far more demanding, crawling onto my lap and pushing his little face into my hands. If I had my way, I would take them all home with me.
I have a leisurely shower and pack a bag. Mona is like a cat on a hot tin roof, in her efforts to find out why I did not come home last night. What she doesn’t know is that I ain’t coming home tonight either. Of course she realises I was with Serge but she wants details. Not happening. She invites herself to the pool bar.
Serge is sitting with his group of friends. As we approach, he gets up and pulls out a chair for me. I greet everyone and make a point of greeting Serge as if we haven’t seen one another in a while. Unbeknownst to us, we are not fooling anyone – the “pack” has also noticed Serge’s happy disposition and youthful transformation.
His attentiveness around the table is a dead giveaway too, as he walks to the counter to place my order for espresso.
He doesn’t take his eyes off me and is smiling like an idiot looking for a village. I leave before he does. I have a key to my second home, which beckons like an oasis in the desert. Pun intended!
Our reunion is a joyful one. Serge takes my overnight bag and puts it in the bedroom. He is in such a good mood, his energy out of proportion with the one-bedroom apartment.
Full of good food, and with an extra bottle of wine as a gift from Mustafa because I raved so much about it, we are both ecstatic at the prospect of the evening together. Serge selects the music then scatters extra pillows on the duvet spread over the soft carpet.
Engelbert Humperdinck is singing “How I Love You” in the background. I can’t help thinking that if he’d selected anything by Tom Jones, it would have been the end of this newfound friendship.
In the dim light of the room I look at this man and think, “Where the hell did you come from?” What has transpired is beyond intoxicating – but I am also scared to death. It gives Mona a heap of ammunition to sink me with.