Читать книгу Behind Palace Walls - Cay Garcia - Страница 12

WE PULL up to gates easily six metres high. Ornate brass and stainless steel make up the elaborate and intricate design. The doorman swings the gates open. He looks like Moses in a kiddies’ Bible – a messy beard hangs down to his chest. His name is Eli.

The palace grounds look spectacular as skilfully placed lights highlight the trees and shrubs and garden beds glow in the dark. The driveway curves around a Gothic fountain then splits into two around the majestic building straight ahead – the main palace. We walk the rest of the way over immaculate cobbled walkways adorned with tranquil water features. There is a strange but pleasant scent in the hot evening air that I can’t quite identify.

The main palace guards the foreground of the vast property while four five-storey villas, one for each child, form a half moon behind it. The gardens are beautiful but I am surprised that so many of the shrubs and flowers are plastic. They are clustered in places where shrubs struggle to grow. Two pools, one heated, dominate the centre of the garden, a favourite area in spring and autumn for dinners.

Halfway through the property, a high wall separates the quarters where the drivers and other male staff live. Sixteen garages for the royal car collection cover the left perimeter of the property and a mosque is situated to the right. Five times a day my princess’s father, the Amir, makes his way to this area, which is forbidden to women.

I will only meet the Amir once during my time at the palace. During my second week, while checking on the princess’s newly planted herb garden, he catches me unawares on his way to the mosque.

I am in casual clothes, with bare shoulders and not yet aware that when the Amir is present a woman’s head is required to be covered by the hijab. Now I understand why all the servants from the main palace always have their hijabs draped around their necks.

Still, he is polite. He simply asks me who I am. I put my hands behind my back and reply that I am new to princess Arabella’s staff. He gives a slight smile, nods and resumes his journey.

He is a handsome and dignified man in his early fifties who carries himself well. Even though he doesn’t introduce himself, I know that this is the royal patriarch. He has presence. I will come to learn that most of the staff are terrified of him.

I hear a strange noise coming from some shrubs at the side of the villa. A tiny kitten peeks out at me; its eyes are watery and speak of such suffering. I go over to pet the poor little thing but it runs away. I am shocked to see how thin and mangy it looks.

Mona explains that there are about seven cats on the palace grounds but feeding them is forbidden as they are there to catch rats. This kitten can’t be more than a couple of weeks old! I make a mental note to bring some cat pellets with me; if it is at all possible, no animal will be starved while I’m around.

We are met at the double wooden doors by a Filipino woman, her small frame emphasised by the enormity of the entrance. She offers us something to drink and shows us into the lounge. The furniture is garish. Glitzy, Liberace-style frilly cushions in different shades of yellow and purple crowd the couches, so that we are only able to sit on the edge of our seats. We are on time so we wait.

Murals of sunsets in yellow tones fill the walls from floor to ceiling. A little radio in the corner blasts out prayers – nonstop, monotonous, tuneless. Mona reminds me again that we are paid to wait.

Almost an hour passes. Keeping my eyes open is a fight without any distraction – conversation between Mona and I has long since dried up. Eventually we are summoned upstairs to the princess’s salon. We stand and wait for another 15 minutes. The yellow and purple is much more evident here. Six large lavender chandeliers that look like candy floss adorn the ceiling. The salon is a suited to a teenage girl.

The princess steps out of her room.