Читать книгу Behind Palace Walls - Cay Garcia - Страница 13

SHE IS BEAUTIFUL. She has the innocence of a little girl about her even though she has just celebrated her 27th birthday. She is wearing no make-up, only an eager smile. Her long black hair is pinned back with hair clips decorated with the word princess written in a gaudy pink.

She is elegant in casual sweats. Inviting me to sit, she exclaims with girlish delight, “Mrs C, you look so much younger than in your photos.” So much for Photoshop. I tell her to call me Cay but she shakes her head and tells me that as I am older than her mother, she will call me “Mrs C” as a mark of respect. We are served fresh orange juice. She doesn’t take her eyes off me. I give her the yoga DVD I got her as a gift and she looks at me as if buying her a gift is unheard of. At least she is still smiling.

I ask her what she would prefer me to call her – Amira, Princess or Your Highness – as my protocol list says any of the three. This princess has firm ideas. She likes the sound of “Your Highness” although “Princess” is acceptable as well.

She tells me that she found a very good yoga instructor in Riyadh and the “coach”, as the princess calls her, comes three times a week. Does this mean my services as a yogi will no longer be required? I don’t ask.

As my contract states, I am to be a companion and shoulder to cry on. She immediately begins to confide parts of her troubled intimate life that seem inappropriate for a first encounter. I detect a neediness that I’m not sure I can fill. She tells me of the many people who have wronged her. I can only listen.

My princess, although the second oldest of four children, was the first of the children to marry so it was a lavish affair. Top international designers were flown in to Riyadh to take measurements and the Amira’s favourite hairdresser was flown in from France.

After only four months, her husband, without the princess knowing it, uttered the three lines, “I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee” – all it takes for a man to annul his marriage. The princess moved back home, this time to her own villa.

This was not an arranged marriage. Her ex-husband is a cousin and, according to her, turned out to be abusive.

Forced marriages happen to this day and females are not involved in making decisions about their own marriages. The marriage contract is between the husband-to-be and the father of the bride.

Polygyny is legal in Saudi Arabia. Saudi men may take as many as four wives, provided that they can support each of their wives equally. Women are allowed only one husband and cannot marry non-Muslim men unless they are granted official permission.

After the breakdown of her marriage, the princess retreated to her bed where she has been hiding out for five years. She rises only for regular weekly family dinners and for appointments with her psychiatrist three times a week. And sometimes – not always – for the desert dinners.

She sits on her bed with three laptops around her and updates her four Facebook profiles daily. On one of the sites, she is a 21-year-old girl who likes champagne and partying. She spends most of her life on different forums in cyberspace as there is not much else for her to do.

After two hours, I’m dismissed. I head to the gate. There seems to be a lot of fussing as I stand to one side waiting for the driver. “Madam, is this your purse?” asks one of the drivers. He hands me my purse. Somehow, while searching for hand cream in my too-big bag on my way to the palace it must have fallen out and onto the back seat. The driver insists that I check the contents.

All the money I arrived with in Saudi earlier in the day is gone. I converted ten thousand rand into dollars only the previous day at the airport. The driver had only one passenger after dropping us, the royal hairdresser. She handed the purse to the driver – but clearly not before emptying it. In a land where you can get your hand chopped off for theft, I am at a loss for words.

Mona tells me that when the woman entered the palace, she was flustered and avoided eye contact, disappearing upstairs without greeting anyone. She added that there is just no way that the drivers would even be tempted to steal as their jobs mean too much to them. They support large families back home.

That night, lying in bed in the dark, I yearn for home and for contact with loved ones but I still don’t have any means of communication.