You can brew beer, too, from the cans of non-alcoholic malt drinks that you find in the supermarkets. A few years ago these were banned for a time, because the religious authorities were afraid that the smell and taste of them might make the faithful imagine that they were the real thingand that would be a sin. Theres also a spirit called siddiqui which you can get expensively on the black market. Its just sugar and water distilled but when people try to make their own they usually blow their apartments up. And if you want it, and know who to ask, and are prepared to pay about ten times the UK price, you can always lay your hands on whisky or gin.
I am glad I have got that down. It will be sure to fascinate my cousin Clare, and she can tell it to her pitiful suburban neighbours when they have their Beaujolais Nouveau parties this year.
As Pollard says, you have to drink something. Here you are amongst all these people with whom you dont necessarily have anything in common, except that perhaps you work for the same outfit, and youre drifting through each others lives, in transit, trying to make a go of your casual friendships so that even if you get bored you dont get lonely. But its difficult to make conversation, difficult to keep each other entertained. The risk seems extraordinarygaol, flogging, deportation (and who knows if this theory is true about how the police are supposed to behave) but I needed a drink really to get through the evening with Jeff his silly sniggering jokes, and the way he seems to hate the Saudis and resent them because they have all the money and he (comparatively) hasnt. Andrew got quite angry when he had gone, and said, whats he complaining about, hes coining it, hes on the take; whats he got to complain about, hes working the system to suit himself. Then Andrew said more thoughtfully, he probably hates himself for doing that, for what he has become. And we were very quiet, thinking, perhaps we shall become it?
We felt rather miserable, sitting in that impossible room with all the unused chairs, so we drank the bottle of Jeffs own wine that he had left behind for us, and next morning I was sick.
Now the prisoner is released. Frances could walk in the street; but to what purpose? You could not get anywhere. Only, after long hot miles, to Medina Road, where the traffic goes screaming by, out of town to the bypasses and motorways and on to the Holy City. Walking is pointless; but she can go out into the hall, where gritty dust blows continually under the big front door, and makes patterns on the mottled marble underfoot. She can go up to the flat roof, with her basket of washing, and hang it out, to bring it back an hour or two later, dry and stiff with heat, burnt-smelling, and covered in dust if the wind has veered round in the interim. There are washing lines for each of the flats, but she hasnt seen her neighbours use them. Perhaps they have more sense, or tumble-dryers.
She likes to be on the roof, and to look down on to the street, and on to the big secluded balconies of the two upper flats, and into the branches of the brown tree with its brown leaves. It is a secret view, a private perspective, and she reminds herself of some lonely woman, her own mother perhaps, peeping at the doings of the neighbours through a lace curtain. Not that she has learned much. The Saudi woman does not come out to take the sun and air; the doors to her balconya solid affair, like an extra room remain firmly closed.
And the fourth flat is empty. Curious, that, because on her very first morning she had heard footsteps above her head. She remembers it she remembers every detail of her first day as the incident which jerked her out of her maudlin state, and made her know that there were people around her, and a new life to be lived. But Andrew says she must be mistaken.
From the roof of the apartment block there are long views over the dusty street; over the big turquoise rubbish skips that stand at each street corner, the property of Arabian Cleaning Enterprises; over the rows of parked cars. Fierce cats spit and howl and limp in the purlieus of the building, their fur torn into holes or worn away by skin diseases. As the first week of comparative liberty passes, the view comes to seem less edifying, the reasons for the climb fewer, and she begins to resent the two closed doors she passes on the way up, before she negotiates the final turn in the stairs and the short flight to the roof: Abdul Nasrs door, and the door of the fourth flat. And she begins to hate the stairs themselves, because they are made of that kind of marble patched with slabs of irregular rufus colour, flecked with black and a fatty cream, revoltingly edible, like some kind of Polish sausage. She avoids them. She phones up Eric Parsons and tells him that she is not happy and must have a tumble-dryer herself. A van arrives with one the following day. Nothing is too much trouble for Turadup.
So now she stays downstairs. From the living-room, a sliding door leads out on to the cracked pavement in the shadow of the wall. Beyond the wall, between the parked cars, boys play football in the street. Andrew is not happy about the sliding door. He no longer believes that the crime rate is low; he has heard some terrible stories. Someone he works with has advised him to block the track with a length of wood, so that it cannot be slid back from the outside, even if the handle is forced. He has done this.
If Frances is willing to prise out this piece of woodnot easy because he has made it fit so exactly she can draw back the door and careful to close it behind her, to keep the insects out and the cold air in she can stand under the shabby tree, and the wall which is a foot higher than her head. She can hear car engines revving up, and the childrens shouts, and sometimes the soft thud of the football against the bricks. When she goes inside and shuts the door these sounds still come to her, muffled, very faint, as if they happened last year.
They have been out to dinner twice now, and to a party, and met a lot of people; they are becoming familiar with Jeddah cuisine, and with the strange but addictive taste of siddiqui and tonic. A telephone has been installed. The diary is kept less attentively, because her inner ear is attuned again to other people and the outside world. And yet, the first two weeks have changed her. Introspection has become her habit. There are things she was sure of, that she is not sure of now, and when her reverie is broken, and first unease and then fear become her habitual state of mind, she will have learned to distrust herself, to question her own perceptions, to be unsure as she is unsure already about the evidence of her own ears and the evidence of her own eyes.
Within a day or two the unblocking of the hallway brought Yasmin to the door, gesturing gracefully behind her; I am from Flat 2, I hope you will come and have a cup of tea with me. Frances followed her across the hall. She felt dull and badly dressed in her limp cotton skirt. Yasmins glossy hair hung to her waist, and a gauzy veil floated about her shoulders. One slender arm from wrist to elbow was sheathed in gold bangles.
She closed the door of Flat 2, swept off the veil and handed it to her maid, who stood inside the doorway. Put on the kettle, she said to the woman. The maid scuttled away; a short, dark, low-browed woman, with a faintly pugilistic air.
She is from Sri Lanka, Yasmin said. She is not much use, but thank goodness I have got her. Raji calls so many people for dinner every night that I have no time for the baby.
People dont seem to have much domestic help here. It surprises me.
In the grander households, of course, you will find it. But the Saudis are discouraging it now. They dont like the foreign influence. Of course, it is a good point, these young girls come to the Kingdom as housemaids, and then they cause trouble.
Do they? Frances sat down, where she was bidden. What sort of trouble?
They get unhappy, Yasmin said. Because they have left children behind them at home. Also the Saudi men, you know, they find that these girls are not very moral. The maid came in; put down the tea-tray. Yasmin dismissed her with a nod. Then the poor things are trying to commit suicide. You would like some of this Crawfords shortbread?
Thank you, Frances said. She took a piece. Yasmin gave her another composed smile; poured tea. How? Frances said. How do they commit suicide?
They throw themselves from the balconies. Silly girls. But this one, I have got a reference for her. She is all right, I think.
Whats her name?
It is Shams.
Frances repeated it, tentatively. I cant quite get hold of it.
Shams, Yasmin said. As in Champs Elysees.
Oh, I see.
Means sunny. She tittered. I do not find her a little ray of sunshine about my house. But Raji was six months waiting for the work permit for her. He doesnt like to ask the Minister for favours. You are used to a servant, Frances?
Im used to help. But it doesnt bother me, either way.
Yasmin sighed. It is a problem, she said.
In Yasmins apartment, there was flowered wallpaper and patterned rugs, and little gilt tables with glass tops, and an enormous sideboard, crowned by family photographs. Yasmin with her new-born baby; earlier, Yasmin beneath a wedding veil of gold lace, her mouth painted emphatically red, and her delicate hand on the dark-suited arm of her plump husband. He looks older by some years; a handsome man, though, with a full expressive face, liquid eyes. Yasmins own age is not easy to determine; she sits swinging one slippered foot, a long-nosed, spindly young woman, with a flawless ivory skin, a festinate way of speaking, and large eyes which are lustrous and intractable, like the eyes of a jibbing horse.
So your husbands building is coming along? she asked.
I havent been to see it yet.
Your husband is shy, I think. He runs away.
Really?
Yasmin smiled. Samira would like to meet you.
The lady up above?
You will be surprised. She speaks good English.
I should like to meet some Saudi women.
She is very young. Nineteen. Some more tea?
Thank you.
You will see Selim, my son, when he wakes up just now. You are thinking of starting your family soon?
This question. Oh dear. Ive always worked, Frances said.
Jeddah is a good place for families.
Is it?
You have not been here long enough to see the advantages. You are still missing England, I expect. Your parents. Yasmins tone was encouraging. She proffered the biscuits again. Do take another one, Frances. You are so slim. You have seen this film, Death of a Princess?
She did rush straight at things, Frances thought. Suicidal housemaids, decapitation. She put her shortbread down on her plate. I heard about it. But I didnt see it. I wasnt in England at the time.
Relief showed on Yasmins face. Is she the custodian of Saudi culture then? I remember the fuss it caused, Frances said. Princess Misha, wasnt that her name? She was married, and she took off with another man. They caught her and she was executed.
This film has caused a lot of trouble between Saudi Arabia and Britain, Yasmin said. They do not understand why it should be shown.
Oh, Frances said, we are interested in other parts of the world. Foreign customs.
Their eyes met. In any case, it is false, Yasmin said firmly.
False?
Oh yes. These things do not happen. Princess Misha, this girl, she was extremely spoiled, always wanting her own way.
So you think she deserved what she got?
You must try to understand a little the Saudi viewpoint. She seemed to distance it from her own, by implication; and yet she seemed on edge. Her husbands position, Frances thought. She tried to go out of the country disguised as a man.
Did she really?
They caught her at the airport.
Obviously you see these things differently.
I am not a Saudi, of course. I am only givingthe Eastern viewpoint.
To me it seems incredible, to kill a woman for something like that.
But they did not, Frances. She is not dead. Her family have her in one of their houses.
This is quite stupid, Frances thought. But she was executed, Yasmin. Her death was reported.
Yasmin smiled knowingly, as if to say, how simple you are. Excuse me, she said, but it is nonsense. The execution was made up by the filming people.
Frances was silent. Then she said, Why should they do that?
It is their mentality, Yasmin said. It is the mentality of the West, to discredit the Eastern people.
It was now that Shams came in, with the baby in her arms; a little boy like a doll, half asleep, his head drooping on the servants shoulder and his curved eyelashes resting on his cheeks. Frances stood up. She felt she was blushing, burning inwardly. Have I been rude to her? But what a topic! Why plunge straight into it like that?
Gratefully, she turned her flustered attention to the baby. Hes beautiful, Yasmin. The beetle-browed housemaid put the child in her arms. How old is he?
So you think he is cute? Yasmin asked. She fluttered; her face yearned. The baby nuzzled his head into Francess shoulder. She is so anxious, Frances thought, that I dont get the wrong impression. She knows we have prejudices. She wants me to hear her version, thats all.
He walks a little, Yasmin said. So active! Do you think he is forward?
Very forward.
Ah, what a lovely picture you make, Yasmin said fondly. She spoke as if she had known her neighbour for half a lifetime. No, Selim, naughty. She untangled the babys fingers from Francess hair. He is fascinated, your hair is so light, he just wants to grasp it.
It was a leave-taking scene now. Yasmin touched Francess elbow timidly. You will come again? Any morning.
Yes, of course. Or come to me.
If there is anything you needor anything Raji can do for you. He knows this town so well.
Yasmin took her to the door. Before she opened it she plucked the wisp of a veil from the hallstand and flicked it over her head. I will watch you across the hallway, she said. Frances looked up into the stairwell. Those two closed doors at the top. She took her key out of the pocket of her skirt. Yasmin watched her until the door of Flat I clicked shut behind her; then gently drew herself inside, and closed her own door.
No introductory moves, Frances said. Just, when are you going to start your family, and then wham Death of aPrincess. How the West gets us wrong. I dont think I was super-tactful.