Strangers (10 page)

Arshak Nazarian’s offices were in one of the older parts of the city, among decaying lots that were due for development and hastily erected blocks that were now empty and heading towards dereliction. He was hidden away from the thriving city, camouflaged among the detritus of urban fall-out.

He didn’t stint himself in the other aspects of his life. The Kingdom had made him rich. He lived in a spacious house in the suburbs, with a mature garden that was maintained by teams of gardeners and irrigation systems available only to the water rich, in a land where that commodity was more valuable–though often less valued–than oil.

He lived his life in modern Riyadh and paid little attention to the desert city that underlay the world he knew, stepping carefully over the gaps where the mullahs prayed, the clerics wielded their swords and the poor scratched a living from the desert soil. His city contained malls, designer shops, fast cars and luxury–and a run-down office in a derelict block.

But sometimes, the desert intruded.

The offices might be run down, but the door was steel framed and fitted with the latest security locks. The windows were covered with shutters that were never opened. The man at the door and the men waiting inside the first office were Nazarian’s own men. Since the assassination attempt, Nazarian took his security seriously.

He’d brushed it off at the time, dismissing it as the act of what he called ‘local hotheads’. In his line of business, these things happened, and business he could handle, especially now that he had a son-in-law who was high up in the police force.

Damien, arriving on time for his appointment, waited as Nazarian’s security men took their time checking his papers. They knew him, but they enjoyed the small exercise of power. It was an attempt, Damien always assumed, to unnerve him and reduce his status. But Damien had learned from the Arabs a long time ago and responded with cool politeness–discourtesy demeaned only the person using it. Such things could be dealt with later. Arabs were not a forgiving people. Many ex-pats thought the Saudis were ill-mannered and unfriendly, not recognizing that their own behaviour had doomed them to be forever pushed aside and ignored.

One of the men spoke into the intercom, which crackled in response. ‘You go in now,’ the man said. He passed through the door to the small office that was the centre of Nazarian’s web of exploitation.

The Armenian was sitting at his desk when Damien came through the door, inspecting the screen of his computer. He flicked it off and stood up. He was tall and well built, and could use his muscular bulk to intimidate, but today he seemed out to charm. He held out his hand and smiled warmly. ‘O’Neill. Good to see you. I’m sorry about all this—’ He waved a hand at the door to indicate the security Damien had just been subjected to. ‘Troubled times,’ he said. ‘Please, sit down.’

Damien took the proffered chair. ‘Business good?’

Nazarian made a
so-so
face and tipped his hand from side to side. ‘Business is business,’ he said. ‘Coffee?’

‘Thank you, but I just had some.’ People who ventured into the underworld should beware of accepting hospitality. ‘I hope your family is well.’
Family
, for Nazarian, was his daughter Yasmin.

Nazarian smiled. ‘I will soon be a grandfather.’ For a moment, the human being was visible behind the mask of corporate hospitality, then Nazarian pulled the conversation back to business. ‘You should come to see me more often, O’Neill–I go short of intelligent conversation in my days. But you’re busy. I understand. What’s this about Patel?’

‘Just some talk on the streets–someone isn’t happy about what happened.’

Nazarian allowed himself a smile. ‘Including Patel, I presume.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘It’s over and done with. The man did something
stupid. We try and warn them, but…’ He shrugged. Easy come, easy go. ‘Why concern yourself?’

Because Nazarian had asked him here as soon as Damien had mentioned the name. ‘You brought Patel here?’

Nazarian’s eyes narrowed. ‘I hope you don’t mean that I had a responsibility to protect him from the consequences of his own actions.’

‘Not at all. But I wondered if someone else might think that. Maybe the person who’s been asking questions…’

‘Who says anyone has?’

Damien waited him out. Nazarian let the silence grow, then shrugged. ‘Someone tried to pull his record off our system a few days ago. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d succeeded, but I don’t like people breaking into my data.’

This explained why Nazarian had responded so quickly to Damien’s original query. He wanted to know the identity of the hacker. Damien could probably help him, but he wasn’t going to. Nazarian had some unpleasant ways of showing someone that they had made him unhappy.

He let the talk go on for a while, but he already had everything he needed. As he left the building, he had fixed in his mind the image of Joe Massey in the internet café, his eyes intent on the monitor in front of him.

Topic: Veiled Knowledge

Metaeb:
Dear Red Rose, many people in the West criticize the Saudi system and Saudi men, and I am not saying that our system is perfect–we are human, and humans are flawed. But our faith does not allow men to oppress women–quite the contrary. I know that many men do not act as well as they should, and sometimes the laws protecting women are not enforced as rigorously as they ought to be. But, Red Rose, this is not exclusive to our country–I have travelled widely in Europe and in the US, and I can
assure you that the same things happen to women there.

Red Rose:
Dear Metaeb, if all Saudi men believe as you, then we do not need debate. But more men believe different interpretation that are not right. The words of the holy book do not say this, or in the life of the prophet (saaws).

Professor Souad al-Munajjed:
Red Rose, from your writings I can see that you are not as experienced as you would like us to believe. After all, your opinions are not so confident that you put your real name to them!

Red Rose, elections and democracy are and have been the biggest political lies throughout the history of the modern world. Look at what is happening in the so-called democracies of the West. Do you really think that this is what the people chose when they voted?

Back to our main subject: women in Saudi Arabia. Why all this concentration on us? All over the world, the majority of women are oppressed, bullied, betrayed, abandoned, raped, and used as white slaves or prostitutes, so why isn’t anybody mentioning this? Why enlarge our problems and minimize the major issues of others?

I want to ask you a question. How and why do you think women are oppressed in Saudi Arabia? Is it because we wear the hijab and don’t mix with men? Why is this such a terrible thing? What would we gain
if we changed it? And what would we lose? In the UK and the US, women have to fight to be allowed their own places where men cannot go.

As for the elections, my young friend–forget about it. This is just another big lie that the Western politicians use to reach their goals. If one man in the modern world had eliminated poverty and made fruitful education available for ALL his countrymen, I would believe in elections and democracy, but this has never happened and never will.

Now, I have to tell you something, Red Rose, Metaeb, Ibrahim, all of you. This site is not for political discussion, and if you continue to post unsuitable articles, I will ban you from the discussion boards.

Once she started work, Roisin was on familiar territory, and found the Kingdom less alien and alienating. Her work at the university occupied more of her time than she’d expected. She became friendly with Najia, the student who had helped her with the hijab on that first day, and also with Yasmin. The two women were clearly friends, and were eager to develop their advanced English skills. In addition, Yasmin was keen to pick up ideas about teaching from Roisin. She was happy to work with them. She enjoyed their company, and she had nothing better to do with her time.

Joe was still working long hours, so Roisin started spending an extra day on campus to work with them. When Professor Souad found she was
willingly putting in unpaid time, she started asking Roisin to work with the university archives to prepare teaching material that the English Language Department could use in the future.

‘She’s exploiting you,’ Joe warned when she told him about the new arrangements. ‘You know who’ll get the credit for all that stuff.’

‘I know.’ They both knew how universities worked, senior staff taking credit for work done by junior members. Roisin didn’t mind. It was hardly ground-breaking stuff she was producing. Souad al-Munajjed wasn’t going to run away with a Nobel prize on the back of Roisin’s work–she’d just have more resources for her section. ‘Maybe I should sneak something un-Islamic in, then she won’t dare to claim it as her own.’

‘Right, and I’ll come and visit you in the Riyadh slammer on alternate months.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘I know you’re on your own here too much,’ he said.

Now she had started work, she no longer felt overwhelmed with loneliness, but she missed Joe. The closeness they had developed in London was receding as the distance between them increased. It was almost like a bereavement, as if the companion she had depended on had left her without warning, leaving a void in her life.

She had no idea what she would do with all the spare time if she didn’t spend it at the university. The alternatives were far from appealing: tedious coffee mornings with the stay-at-home
wives, or devoting even more of her time to housework–though the house was already more spotless than any place she’d ever lived in. She’d heard the warning bells the day she found herself contemplating a pile of underwear, the iron in her hand.

It would be different if she could find another woman she could be friendly with, but most of the interesting women she had met were in full-time work–nurses, teachers, doctors, women who had established successful businesses when they had come here with their husbands–so instead she put in the extra hours at work, enjoying the familiar atmosphere of the academic world.

She was starting to get to know the students, though it was a slower process than she was used to. Instead of staying on campus after their classes were finished, they vanished, reappearing only at the start of classes the following day.

So she enjoyed the time she spent with Yasmin and Najia. They were intelligent and informed, and deeply engaged with the debate about the forthcoming election. They talked about the lives of Saudi women, their education, their experience of the world. Roisin, aware of her status as a teacher in this most rigid of societies, kept away from personal topics, but otherwise, the talk was unrestricted. She felt far more drawn to them than to the women she met in the compound and at the few ex-pat parties she and Joe had attended.

‘Why do all the students disappear so quickly?’
Roisin asked them once when they were working in the library together. Yasmin was analysing a text, Najia was studying for her advanced English exam, and Roisin was reading a journal, trying to keep up to date with the latest theories on language learning. She had been taking a break, looking round the room, and had been struck by the absence of students. ‘Is it true that the students aren’t allowed to stay on campus once classes are finished?’ This was one of the points that had been made in an article about women’s rights that had been posted on the student web site.

‘It’s…discouraged,’ Yasmin said.

Najia was more outspoken. ‘The authorities are scared there might be an opportunity for vice. Look at us, sitting here, wasting time when we could be doing the same thing at home.’

Yasmin grimaced and fanned herself with a piece of paper. She still had some weeks to go, but she seemed overwhelmed by her pregnancy. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, looking exhausted and uncomfortable.

‘Are you well?’ Najia’s voice was anxious. ‘Maybe you should go home.’

Yasmin shook her head. ‘And listen to my mother-in-law tell me off for working? It’s more restful here.’

‘What do they say at the clinic?’ Najia asked.

‘I don’t go to the clinic,’ Yasmin said briskly. ‘I wish to have my child at home.’ Before Najia could respond, she turned to Roisin. ‘Professor Souad
did set up a library group a couple of years ago, for students to stay on campus and use the facilities, but that was stopped. The authorities decided that it was not a good idea.’

‘You should go to the clinic,’ Najia persisted. ‘Shouldn’t she, Roisin?’

Roisin met Yasmin’s eyes. ‘I’d go to the clinic, if it was me,’ she said.

‘Truly, Roisin, I am well cared for.’ Her tone brooked no argument and she cast Najia a look that said clearly,
Not now
. ‘The students here,’ she said, returning to the subject they had been discussing, ‘many of them are happy with what they have.’

‘They have nothing,’ Najia said abruptly. ‘Everything they have, everything they do, it depends on some man. If their father, or their brother, or their husband says “No”, then they are forbidden. They can’t be educated, they can’t travel, they can’t even go to hospital if their guardian forbids it. Since my father died, I have to have my brother’s permission to come here. He is younger than me, but it makes no difference. And if we break the rules, other students will report us.’

‘But some women are talking about it, aren’t they?’ Roisin looked from one to the other. ‘I’ve been watching the web site…’

‘Some,’ Yasmin agreed. ‘But not many.’ She frowned slightly and looked at Najia. ‘When the elections were announced, some women were planning
to run for office. We thought the government would support us.’

‘But they didn’t,’ Najia said. ‘We will not even be allowed to vote. Prisoners will, but women will not.’

‘Are you going to do anything about it?’ Back home, women would have been marching and protesting. Here, Roisin only knew about the women’s views because of what Yasmin and Najia told her. The TV programmes and the newspapers were silent on the subject.

Najia and Yasmin exchanged a quick glance. ‘We may have to make some hard choices. Political organizations are not legal here,’ Yasmin said. ‘Some of us…we have
cultural salons
. Other women, in other places, have these too. We can discuss things, talk about how we can work towards what we want.’

Najia studied the book that was open in front of her. ‘We all have to make hard choices.’ She glanced at Yasmin. ‘As you did.’

Yasmin shook her head, frowning, and didn’t respond. ‘We have to be careful,’ she explained to Roisin. ‘There have been some arrests.’

‘If there is anything…’ Roisin was hesitant to make the offer. She didn’t know what she could do, and she could imagine what Joe would say if she did get involved.

Yasmin smiled. ‘Truly, Roisin, this is our problem, not yours.’ There was silence for a while, then she said, ‘Have you been to the al-Mamlaka mall yet?’

It was such an abrupt change of subject that it took Roisin a moment to respond. This must be the women’s mall Damien O’Neill had mentioned that first day in Riyadh. Roisin could still remember the dismissive note in his voice.
A lot of the wives go there
. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I haven’t. Not yet.’

‘One day,’ Yasmin said, ‘you must come with us. We can have coffee and talk.’ Roisin waited, but the conversation seemed to be over, so she went back to her journal. Suddenly, Yasmin said, ‘Do you have a maid?’

‘No.’ Roisin was surprised at the question. A lot of the ex-pats employed servants, usually houseboys, but she didn’t.

‘I wondered if you ever talked to them. The maids.’

‘No. But I talk to the gardeners.’

Yasmin bit her lip. ‘I have spent time in the West,’ she said. ‘My family–my husband’s family–do not like this. But I have. We aren’t good to our servants here, I think.’

‘I’ve heard this,’ Roisin said. She had heard stories of women being beaten and abused in London when they had travelled to the UK with the Saudi families who employed them, imprisoned because their employers held their passport, and because their permission to be in the country was dependent on their status as servants.

‘I—’ Yasmin stopped speaking abruptly.

‘I see I am interrupting.’ Professor Souad was standing in the doorway watching them. ‘I thought
you were working, but I see you are discussing servants. It is an interesting problem.’ She turned to Roisin. ‘I believe that mostly in the UK you cannot afford servants.’

‘Most people can’t,’ Roisin agreed. ‘There’s no need, anyway. People employ cleaners and child-minders. Mostly part-time.’

‘I see. So there is no need to provide the food, the clothing and the accommodation. This is good. More and more I find myself admiring your democracy.’

Roisin, remembering her previous encounters with the professor, didn’t comment. Souad waited, then said to Yasmin, ‘There are student papers waiting for you in my office.’ Then to Najia, ‘Your family will not be pleased to find you wasting time when you are here to study.’

Najia gathered up her possessions and left quickly. Yasmin stayed where she was. ‘I will collect the papers for grading when I have completed my work on this. Roisin and I have a class to plan.’

Souad raised her eyebrows. ‘Roisin does not need help with planning her teaching.’

‘No,’ Yasmin agreed. ‘But I need help in learning how to do this.’

Souad thought about this and gave an abrupt nod before she left the room. ‘Papers. Today. For grading,’ she said, leaving Roisin and Yasmin exchanging glances like unruly schoolgirls.