Eight Months on Ghazzah Street (11 page)
Read Eight Months on Ghazzah Street Online
Authors: Hilary Mantel
What she remembered now was the sound of sobbing she had heard, echoing through the bathroom pipes. She was not sure any longer which flat it had come from. Best to assume that it was Samira. Did people cry a lot, in arranged marriages? Marion’s complaints nagged at her. People seemed to cry enough in the marriages they fixed up for themselves.
Perhaps Abdul Nasr had been exercising the right the Koran gave him to beat his wife. She saw him once more, midmorning, striding out to his car. His sandals skidded over the marble, and the ends of his
ghutra
whiplashed out behind him. Yet Andrew said you never saw a Saudi in a hurry. She had time to notice only his frown, and the flash of his wristwatch. The contrast stuck in her mind—the clean Cartier lines, and the cloying odor of goatflesh which floated day after day down the stairs.
ghutra
whiplashed out behind him. Yet Andrew said you never saw a Saudi in a hurry. She had time to notice only his frown, and the flash of his wristwatch. The contrast stuck in her mind—the clean Cartier lines, and the cloying odor of goatflesh which floated day after day down the stairs.
Frances had a headache. Perhaps, she thought, it was the effect of living with the air-conditioning; it couldn’t be healthy, could it? Or perhaps it was the tension which was building up at the back of her neck.
She mentioned it to Andrew. “What have you got to be tense
about?” he asked. Then, “Guess what, I’ve been paid. I’m going to the money changer’s. Want to come?”
about?” he asked. Then, “Guess what, I’ve been paid. I’m going to the money changer’s. Want to come?”
He would have to drive downtown to the bank first, and turn the Ministry’s check into cash. Riyal notes are what work here—not personal checks, not credit cards. He would extract a bundle of notes which would be their housekeeping money; and later they would subdivide it into smaller bundles, and stow it about the flat in cunning hiding places.
Then he would need to take the cash that was left over, and exchange it for a sterling check. The money changer’s sounded interesting: as if there might be a table in the open air, with people standing about in biblical attitudes. But it was just an ordinary office, in an ordinary street. She sat in the car, waiting for Andrew, watching the passersby. Jeddah is a cosmopolitan city, it is said. All languages are heard, all colors of people mingle in the souks and squares. But they do not merge. Ghettos are formed, even on the pavement; garments are twitched aside. The stranger you see today will be stranger still tomorrow. People fall into their national stereotypes; you note the beef-red complexion, the kinked hair, the epicanthic fold.
She fiddled with the radio dial, trying to get some news from the World Service. It was the usual news when she found it, sliced through with a static crackle: bombs in Belfast, bombs in Beirut. But everything that concerned her seemed to be happening close to home. You see, she had said to Andrew, I was right; I did hear footsteps in the empty flat.
It was hot in the car; with the window open the dust blew in. A litter of ginger kittens ran like spiders up the side of a rubbish skip. Some larger cats, covered in scabs and scars, dragged a chicken carcass down the street. Old residents say that stray dogs used to be a menace, roaming in packs around the building sites. But they were rounded up by the municipality; and we hear no more of them.
Behind her sunglasses she could watch the Saudi men, and say to herself that if they returned her glance they would see a blank face, no expression, nothing more revealing than they would see if she were veiled. What an unflattering garment the
thobe
is, she thought.
Before she came she imagined that they would wear flowing robes, not these stiff elongated white shirts. The late afternoon light shone through them. She saw spindly legs, and string vests.
thobe
is, she thought.
Before she came she imagined that they would wear flowing robes, not these stiff elongated white shirts. The late afternoon light shone through them. She saw spindly legs, and string vests.
But why should they dress like the cast of a nativity play, just to please her?
She looked at her watch. Go after him, why not? They have separate “ladies’ banks,” but she has never heard of a ladies’ money changer. Nobody seems to know exactly where women are allowed and where they are not. At least the South Africans put up notices: NIE BLANKES.
Once she was inside the money changer’s, no one took the least notice of her. The place was crowded; she threaded her way through to Andrew and touched his arm. He jumped, and gave her a blank, dazed look, as if at first he hadn’t recognized her. “You’re here,” he said.
It was down-at-heel: far from the pleasure domes. As if this was where the serious business of the Kingdom was transacted, and comfort for once did not matter; the stuffing was coming out of the vinyl chairs. The customers shuffled from one disorderly queue to the next, thrusting banknotes at one grill, flourishing forms at the next; collecting signatures, amassing stamps, their eyes flickering constantly to the wall clock, to see if prayer time was imminent, and they were going to be locked in—locked in and left to mill and shout for thirty minutes, sweating, their clothes adhering to their backs and their earnings to their hands. Even the air-conditioning didn’t seem to work properly. There were cheap carpet tiles on the floor, cigarette butts spilling out of ashtrays. Torn scraps of carbon paper lay where they fell.
The manager and his assistant sat behind their desks, in full view; the manager’s desk had a black mirror surface on which the dust lay thick. His assistant’s desk was metallic, less imposing, shorter by a foot and with fewer drawers; its dust lay even thicker. Sometimes the assistant, and after him the manager, would stretch out a careless hand, and sign with a flourish what the frantic queue pushed at them. But they seemed, on the whole, detached; like lords of the manor looking in at a villeins’ feast. They grinned, talked on the
telephone, scratched their chins. A contingent of Thai cleaning workers, still in their scarlet overalls, revolved from counter to counter in a fatigued minuet. An American, in a baseball cap and sneakers, waved his papers above his head; his eyes were bright, his belly swamped his belt. Three Brits, temporarily
hors de combat,
leaned against the wall. They were blue-chinned and balding, they sported sagging chain-store trousers, the polish had long worn from their shoes. They had an air of purposeful frailty, like Jarrow marchers. The hot burnt stench of money was in the air.
telephone, scratched their chins. A contingent of Thai cleaning workers, still in their scarlet overalls, revolved from counter to counter in a fatigued minuet. An American, in a baseball cap and sneakers, waved his papers above his head; his eyes were bright, his belly swamped his belt. Three Brits, temporarily
hors de combat,
leaned against the wall. They were blue-chinned and balding, they sported sagging chain-store trousers, the polish had long worn from their shoes. They had an air of purposeful frailty, like Jarrow marchers. The hot burnt stench of money was in the air.
Andrew had no time to talk. He brushed her touch off his arm. Outside the traffic swarmed by, and the sun was setting over the sea. A little wooden cupboard disgorged yen, and thousands and thousands of Swiss francs. Two cheap suitcases stood casually under the stairs, as if for the use of more ambitious customers, and as Andrew, his face gleaming with aggression and sweat, signaled that they were finished, a rotund Arab descended the staircase, and picked them up; as he flexed his arms his cuff buttons strained, and his Rolex Oyster gleamed fatly. Outside, at the bottom of the steps, a vendor had spread out a tablecloth on the ground and was selling pocket calculators. Andrew took a deep breath of cooler air. The heat inside the office was increasing; the glass front doors were opaque with greasy smudges, the desperate palm prints of the patrons hurrying in.
“The pound’s fallen,” Andrew said, as they climbed back into the car. “Shall we go and get something for the headache?”
“Have you got one too?”
They were turning under the flyover by the Pepsi-Cola plant when the wail of the muezzin broke over the racetracks. The cars kept speeding; the Prophet said that travelers need not pray. “Bugger,” Andrew said, hearing the prayer call. “You always lose a half hour somewhere.”
The night, now, in long purple swathes, in soft gradations of lemon and pink, hung over a vast car park; a sky like ruffled silk. SANYO SANYO said a neon sign, beginning to wink. “Why are Jeddah sunsets so beautiful?”
“It’s all the dust in the air.”
“There’s no wind today. It’s not coming in from the desert.”
“No. It’s from the cement works.”
“Andrew, what you told me … about the empty flat—”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Don’t go on about it, Fran.”
I was wondering, how often … ?”
“How should I know?” They sat in silence for a moment. The spaces around them began to fill up, as the end of prayers approached. Black shapes were disgorged from cars. Maids, and a few blond nannies, clutched the hands of the small children. Little girls too young for the veil, with saucer eyes and beribboned topknots, wore sequined dresses with bouffant skirts, sewn over with scratchy lace. Charm bracelets clinked around their thin brown wrists; and sometimes a mother’s
abaya
would drift a little, and you would see that she was draped and weighted with gold, with mayoral chains of it, from which hung gemstones the size and color of boiled sweets.
abaya
would drift a little, and you would see that she was draped and weighted with gold, with mayoral chains of it, from which hung gemstones the size and color of boiled sweets.
“Just the average Saudi housewife, having a casual evening out,” Frances said. “They look like … I can’t think what they look like.”
“Prussian empresses … on coronation day.”
“The little girls look like a formation dancing team.”
“Women aren’t allowed to dance.”
“I know, Yasmin told me that. Men dance. When they have a get-together.” She turned her head away, and caught sight of her face in the wing mirror; her obstinate mouth. “Andrew, about the flat, the point is …”
“The one thing I have never understood,” Andrew said angrily, “is this way you have, of suddenly developing concern about complete strangers.”
“Why? Don’t you think I care about people, as a general rule?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know whether you do or not. But you’re very down on people, aren’t you? You take them apart.”
“Is that what I do?”
“You have your own ideas, about how people should live. And God help anybody who doesn’t come up to your standards.”
“Oh well then, I’ll stop.” She seemed spiritless, withdrawn; she
licked her lips, dry from dust. “I’ll try just to have everyone else’s ideas, shall I?”
licked her lips, dry from dust. “I’ll try just to have everyone else’s ideas, shall I?”
“That might be better, for the while. And everybody’s idea about the empty flat is that it’s a bit of a joke. And none of our concern.”
“Okay,” she said meekly.
He squeezed her hand. “Come on. Prayers must be over now.”
These monotonous marble halls again. The supermarkets are all well stocked, but there is always some elusive item; this breeds the desire to go to more supermarkets. Shopping is the highest good in Saudi life. Every need and whim under one roof—Lebanese pastries, a Mont Blanc pen, a diamond snake with emerald eyes; a pound of pistachio nuts, two tickets to Bermuda, a nylon prayer rug with built-in compass. Perhaps some blueberry cheesecake ice cream, and Louis Quinze
fauteuil;
a new Toyota, and a portrait of the King. The car parks consume acres, the facades glitter like knives. Glass-fronted lifts whisk the shoppers from floor to floor; grooves of dark green plants drip costly moisture, and dusky armies, with a slavelike motion, polish the marble at your feet.
fauteuil;
a new Toyota, and a portrait of the King. The car parks consume acres, the facades glitter like knives. Glass-fronted lifts whisk the shoppers from floor to floor; grooves of dark green plants drip costly moisture, and dusky armies, with a slavelike motion, polish the marble at your feet.
They made for the pharmacy. There was a young Indian behind the counter. “Could I have a bottle of paracetamol?” Frances said.
The man looked down at the glass-topped counter. He heard. His face, impassive, was dimly reflected; his black mustache, his melancholy eyes. “Or aspirin? Something for a headache?”
She felt Andrew’s presence behind her. The pharmacist looked up, over her left shoulder. “Sir?” he said. “Large bottle, sir, or small?”
They stood outside by a goldsmith’s shop. “Am I visible?” she asked.
“Perhaps too visible,” Andrew said. “Shall we get some takeaway pizza, and save you cooking?”
She seemed to have come to a dead halt—mulish, the bottle of pills in its blue plastic bag held between her hands.
“There’s Marion,” Andrew said. “Hi there, Marion.”
There was a small fountain, greenish water against mosaic tiles: THESE SEATS FOR FAMILY ONLY said a notice. Saudi youths occupied them, stick-thin, aquiline, blank-eyed, and watched Marion advance, puffing a little, pushing her shopping cart, her thin Indian smock pulled tight across the bolster of her bosom.
“Hi,” Frances said. “The man in the pharmacy’s just ignored me. He gave me what I wanted but he pretended that Andrew had asked for it. As if I were a ventriloquist’s doll.”
“Oh, well, yes.” Marion scraped her foot along the floor, as if in embarrassment; her baby-blue eyes were downcast. “That’s what they do.”
“They’re afraid,” Andrew said. His voice seemed unnecessarily loud. “They’re afraid of looking at strange women. In case they’re accused of something. Where’s Russel?”
“He’s at his field-camp. I’m with Jeff. He’s buying a newspaper. Jeffs very good,” she said to Frances. Her soft, toneless voice, if it had expression, would have been defensive. “He takes me shopping. You know Russel never will.”
Frances too shuffled her feet; looked at her watch not too surreptitiously, to indicate, let’s not wait around for Jeff.
“What have you been buying?” Marion asked.
“Headache pills.”
“Oh.” Marion sounded disappointed, as if she would have been just as happy to take part in someone else’s spending. She indicated the pharmacy. “Only they’ve got an offer on Chanel No. 5.”
They made for the nearest exit. The indoor streets were kept icy cold; as they stepped outside, the door held open for them by an overalled Filipino, the hot air would drop over their heads like a blanket. A dozen TV sets, in the shop windows, showed Prince Sultan arriving at an airport; the screen flickered, the scene changed, and there Prince Abdullah was arriving at another. Between the bursts of commentary the national anthem played; it was a frisky, unmemorable tune. Before the Pierre Cardin boutique, turtles swam in gritty pools.
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