In the Land of Invisible Women (23 page)

To our horror, from the rostrum of our table, he planted his sandaled feet widely apart and launched an impassioned speech. He sandblasted the room with a rabid onslaught of threats that Zubaidah was unable to translate simultaneously because of his extraordinary proximity. He was allowed to continue his diatribe uninterrupted. No one dared challenge him or even his right to be in the ladies' area, a fundamentally segregated section. Minutes turned to hours; diners turned to stone. I felt myself leaning forward as if taking cover under his stream of hate. I fixed my eye at his widened waist and wished for an end.

Darting my eyes to my left, I spied a quaking line of Bengali waiters behind the filigree screen. Like terracotta figures frozen in grimace, their expressions plead for the departure of the despotic Muttawa. The restaurant manager never came to ask him to leave, aware that his business could practice only in this atmosphere of constant monitoring and chastisement. We were all powerless in the face of the authority of a single abusive man. This time, a Saudi police officer did not appear with the Muttawa, who so boldly exercised his authority without even state sanction.

After an impassioned tirade that rained his actual spittle onto our table, disgusted, he turned on his heel and with a withering look at the Western debauchery of the restaurant-going Saudi public, he left, trailing a wake of Wahabi fear. I stared at the froth of saliva that had discreetly spattered near my table mat. It was a few seconds before anyone dared touch food again. I had lost my appetite.

Zubaidah uncovered her face. Her gorgeous skin was reddened with fury, her gray eyes glinting coals, shining with bright anger.

“Qanta, he has no right to enter here! No right! These women here like us do not have to pray. We are excused because of the time of the month. I am so upset! I wish I was in Amman or Beirut! There it is so much more civilized. I hate these Mutawaeen; they make me hate Riyadh. They ruin my home.” She spluttered into a smoldering silence, choking on her rage.

“What was he saying, Zubaidah?”

“He was saying we should not be eating, we should be praying.” (Outside the Azaan had just been called for evening prayer.) “'Salaat, Salaat!' was all he could say and then he went on to talk of the evils of women in public. We should be locked in our homes in isolation! In public he says all we represent is danger and risk, encouraging men to sin. So ignorant! So un-Islamic!”

From time to time Zubaidah was almost incoherent in her fury. I sank into a silence finding no words with which to salve her temper. She was right. This was an abominable way to live and one which Riyadh bore uniquely. I was glad she felt the same as I did. I knew she wasn't the only Saudi woman who shared these views. We promptly paid our bill and left.

On other occasions we saw the Mutawaeen in action more remotely. During evenings and weekends the Mutawaeen searched the malls for suspect single men who might be loitering simply to cruise (in futility and very illegally) for women. At designated times the mall was allowed only for families and single women, but brigades of bored bachelors with no other place to go persisted despite these regulations.

The Mutawaeen had cultivated very sharp vision that saw only deviancy. Quickly they flushed out the beleaguered bachelors, chasing the men away with their reprimands and threats. Terrified, the young men retreated like frightened puppies from spectral hounds.

The emasculation of the Saudi male was, in this way, a very public affair. For all their strutting and peacock displays of masculinity, ogling or even harassing women, they were quickly humiliated by corpulent mountains of myopic clergy. Young men colored in shame as they were chased out, banished behind the glass sliding doors of the glossy mall they encircled, so many adolescent sharks, detecting the scent of female blood. Periodically, they peered through the glass at the veiled beauties crossing automated thresholds and trailing a wisp of fragrance behind them, only to suddenly bump their noses against the cool of the steel and glass doors that quickly closed behind the women.

Outside, the boldest boys of all cruised in lipstick-red Ferraris or sunflower-yellow Lamborghinis, astonishing rents of color in the blackness of modern Saudi. They circled the malls with music blaring, engines revving, rubber screeching, and the men themselves roaring at the crowds, alternating between raucous laughter and what seemed like cat-calls. A hot smell of octane and rubber perfused the air with action and a forgotten excitement that spoke more of South Beach than Saudi Arabia.

One evening, I watched a caravan of Ferraris shrieking around Olleya. A red Ferrari overflowed with heavily muscled Saudi jocks in tight white T-shirts revealing hard, sculpted physiques. The car reverberated with gangster hip-hop. These twenty-somethings were having a whale of a time spinning the vehicle into tight loops and fast stops, a calligraphic hell-raising of rubber burn and rumbling, double-barreled exhausts.

One man in particular caught my eye. Across his chest, the Guess logo emblazoned his Western affinity. On his head, a red baseball cap married him to the scarlet car with jaunty panache. A freshly barbered beard in perfectly executed designer stubble delineated a handsome jaw. Feet dressed in $600 Guccis rested on butterscotch Connolly bucket seats. Casually, he sat on the roll bar, periodically hanging out of the vehicle at crazy angles as the muscle car veered in impossible bends. Hurled by the centripetal torque, he swung his chiseled frame outward, flexing his muscles to lean into the night, a gorgeous yachtsman on a supercharged catamaran.

In the staid pace of Riyadh, the man cut a dashing figure of machismo. I watched him for some time. He moved well and seemed aware of the striking beauty of his body. I glanced to either side and sensed the satisfaction of many female onlookers. The night breeze carried murmurs of admiration and perhaps even desire from the women. Like me, they gazed unabashedly and largely unseen through gauzy prisons, captivated by the heady circus of testosterone and Testarossa.

In contrast, to a man, the Mutawaeen were corpulent and hostile. These were unrefined men, using intimidation as the primary means of persuasion. There was nothing gentle about these men who were supposedly schooled in Islam. Something about their indoctrination rendered them professional, fire-breathing fanatics. Battalions of these Men in Brown graduated every year from the Muttawa school for clerics in Riyadh, located in Deera (ironically exactly opposite to the infamous “Chop Chop” square where offenders and criminals were executed on Fridays at noon). A rigid training nurtured intolerance deep within their hearts. Considered holy, I found them instead hard and haughty; supposedly enlightened, they were pitched in an ignorance of impenetrable darkness. Claiming to be Muslim, they were uniformly intolerant of most aspects of Islam accepted by liberal Muslims to be incontrovertible truths. They couldn't be further removed from the Saudi studs, a perfect example of the schizophrenic Kingdom I was discovering.

Wherever they appeared, the Mutawaeen struck chords of fear within Muslims and non-Muslims alike, whether men or women. Saudis feared them too. One could never be sure if one was safe from their machinations or, worse, their incarcerations. They even patrolled Riyadh in their own vehicles, scouring the city for any who dared behave counter to the accepted norms of Wahabiism.

Until one lives in the Kingdom, it is difficult to understand just how much power the Mutawaeen could wield. Outside of Riyadh they stopped drivers to check if their car stereos were playing music. Men quickly learned to turn off the music, which the Muttawa considered Haram. Even Saudi men were forbidden from this debased pleasure, where listening to music could induce a state of Khmair (disconnecting the Muslim from his Maker by allowing him to lose himself in a trance). Whether Khmair was due to music or drugs or alcohol, it was a fatal flaw to be corrected and, foremost, punished.

In Riyadh the clerics could not impose such restrictions, perhaps because the city was so big and the roads mostly urban expressways too fast to be inspected for offenders listening to music. Instead in the city, they contented themselves by prohibiting women from purchasing music. The few shops that sold some form of music in Riyadh banned women from entering. Instead they stood outside, hovering nervously in their veils while they waited for their brothers or husbands to return with the CDs in hand. The insanity of the Mutawaeen knew no bounds. No rule was too petty to be unenforced. As a woman, I immediately hated them and often feared them, but never more so than when I experienced a Muttawa raid. Unknown to me it would follow in the months to come.

SINGLE SAUDI MALE

W
E GATHERED IN THE CONFERENCE room adjoining the ICU for the weekly case conference. There must have been ten of us that morning. Like an O'Keefe painting, sun-blanched light poured through the floor to ceiling windows. We arranged ourselves in our customary semicircle, with me at the farthest edge of the circle. Saraway, my loyal friend (and the ICU pharmacist), came to sit next to me. We waited for Imad to signal the start of the meeting.

Imad had conducted these meetings each week for months, but somehow it was not until this moment that he finally caught my eye. As he spoke, my eyes took in his tall, mesomorphic figure, noting the drape of expensive slacks on long, elegant, heavily muscled legs. On his feet, Italian brogues with hand-stitched soles revealed a man of taste. Now and again the costly leather creaked on the linoleum floor, separating him from the squeaking sneakers and Birkenstocks of the others. His white coat was buttoned up, his name and titles emblazoned in cursive embroidery on his left breast in a traditional American manner, speaking to an academic training beyond Riyadh. A chic, colored tie anchored and separated the elegant chimera from the men around him—a desirable Western man in a desert full of Saudi men.

I listened to his voice, lulled by the sedate, even tone, not hearing the words: soft, cultured, and distinctly North American. I wondered if he was Canadian.

Imad carried his authority comfortably and without fanfare. His voice was low but even, naturally commanding attention as we leaned forward to catch his soft-spoken comments. A silver-gray mane of lush hair, cropped very short, capped a broad, unlined forehead. Wide, darker eyebrows arched above guarded, deep-blue eyes, a sole indicator of expression. Salt and pepper stubble was the briefest of nods to the requirement of facial hair for the observant Muslim male. It only enhanced the striking fairness of his Caucasian-colored skin. Sunlight glinted in reflection from rimless eyeglasses, the blued lenses veiling his expression. He smiled rarely, yet somehow still seemed pleasant. I liked him immediately.

I tried to decipher this man. His first name, Imad, gave him away as a Muslim; his last name was unfamiliar to me and distinctly un-Saudi. I couldn't place his ethnicity. His age was suspended somewhere between thirty and forty. His Western dress, his Caucasian skin, and his accent refuted a Saudi nationality pointing to a much more Westernized man than those surrounding him. I wondered if he could be my male counterpart—a Westernized Muslim. Certainly he seemed educated overseas. A quick glance showed that his hand was absent of any silver ring, the customary indicator of marriage in a Muslim man. And it happened like that; under fluorescent lights in a sea-green conference room ten thousand miles from New York. I found my attraction once more ignited. For the first time in Riyadh, I was glad to be the only woman in a meeting. In fact, for the first time in the Kingdom, I was actually glad to be a woman!

We presented our cases, discussing the differential diagnoses and informing him of relevant diagnostic data. Intermittently, Imad conferred with others for information, always respectfully and always in his hypnotic, low voice. After reviewing these details, Imad advised. Sometimes I could almost hear a sigh of relief when Imad made decisions. He brought comfort to all those around him. At last it was my turn to discuss my patients.

I looked at him as he listened to me respectfully. His legs remained crossed, his arms folded in his lap, perfectly at ease. He was still. As I spoke, he engaged in eye contact with me, meeting my gaze with unblinking blue eyes. To this man, I was not invisible. His polite acquiescence to my clinical recommendations for our patient belied a man who respected women, or even better, just respected clinical ability. I peered at him more closely.

His alabaster skin was a blank canvas to blend with all cultures. His clear eyes (the bluest I had seen in Riyadh) concealed a safe of secrets to which I wanted the combination. I had to know more of the depths within. He could be Canadian or American, possibly Lebanese or Jordanian. I was still confused when the meeting concluded. Finishing off some final documentation, Saraway was working at the nurse's station in the ICU after the meeting.

I went to join him, swinging on the revolving chair at the station next to Saraway. I watched Imad leave the ICU, walking alone, straight backed, with a slight forward tilt of his head. He greeted almost no one and never stopped to chat. He seemed to be a man of purpose. In a few short paces he was gone, the automated ICU doors clanging shut behind him. Immediately I wanted to know more. Saraway had worked with Imad for years. What luck, I thought. Saraway was my friend. Now Saraway would become my informant.

“Who was that guy, Saraway? Is he Canadian? I have seen him before. Is he the director of pharmacy?” Saraway chuckled and paused to answer his pager. I found I was on tenterhooks.

“He sounds Canadian,” I persisted.

“No, no, Qanta, everyone thinks that.” Saraway continued typing in a screen. “Imad is a Saudi. I think he trained in Canada. But he is definitely a born-and-bred Saudi, for sure. And he is not a pharmacist.” Saraway laughed out loud at what was evidently a preposterous suggestion. “He is the Executive Director of Quality Assurance and Chairman of Academic Affairs. He is a very powerful man, Qanta.”

I was astounded. A Saudi who looked non-Saudi? A Saudi man who wore Gucci instead of shemaghs? A Saudi man more Brioni than Bedouin? A Saudi man who was white, and most amazing of all, a Saudi Muslim who was understated yet somehow sexy? My head was reeling. I pressed Saraway for more information.

“Does he have a family, Saraway? Is he married?”

“No, Qanta, Imad is single. He is definitely a bachelor.” And Saraway chuckled, refusing to say more.

The desirable was also available. But on what pretext could I be allowed more access? How could I learn more about this man in this country where dating was illegal, where mixing with members of the opposite sex was punishable, with house arrest for women, the possibility of deportation and jailing for the courting male. I would have to be very imaginative indeed. I began to plot a map to bring me closer to this new species: the single Saudi male. Perhaps, along the way, it could become a map into his mysterious heart.