Throwing Sparks (21 page)

It was here that the city’s most influential men shed all pretence of personal dignity and forsook every shred of self-respect in their pursuit of novel pleasures. Before the night was even over, they would be anticipating the next opportunity for quenching some unfulfilled desire. I became the point-person whenever one of the girls was not responsive enough to the advances of the guests. As I had a list of all their phone numbers, I could provide the guests with their contact information or my services as a discreet go-between. If the Master had learned I was dishing out his Palace girls, I would have been hanged, drawn and quartered.

I started keeping records after I realised I actually knew next to nothing about the girls, who were, in effect, like my personal and much coveted clutch of golden eggs. This was brought home to me when a prominent businessman took me aside one evening and intimated he wanted the phone number of a girl he called Dalia. The women all had aliases which they switched as easily as they changed evening gowns, and I had not memorised their names. Although he laboured to describe the girl, I was unable to help him.

After that incident, I became diligent about keeping files on all the girls, with their names, brief biographies, pictures if available, interests, and family and socio-economic backgrounds. Since most of the girls provided false information, I double-checked their stories with their friends. They all delved into the minutiae of each other’s lives and whenever I came across information that seemed contradictory, I would check it against someone else’s account. The files were not for the Palace guests to see but for my own use.

On party nights, luxury cars would glide through the Palace gates with their consignment of girls. These had been carefully selected to appeal to a wide range of tastes in a process akin to a beauty contest. Girls nominated for the so-called elite brigade were subjected to an even more meticulous inspection, although they were not aware of it.

The elite brigade consisted of women from every race and breed, each of whom had a unique characteristic that set her off from the others, and they were reserved for private functions attended by select guests. These men had to be lavish spenders as well as lechers. The young women who attended the bigger events aspired to enter the exclusive circle of the private functions. Such an accomplishment indicated that a girl had attained top ranking and could name her own price and make plenty of easy money.

Maram was like a vast ocean whose surging waves could drown you if you stayed in too long. She caught my eye the very first time I paid her for attending an event.

‘Am I missing a leg or an arm or something?’ she had objected, when she realised that she had earned less than the other dancers. ‘Why am I being paid less?’

Normally I would respond roughly to this type of petulance, but she possessed such vitality that it was difficult to counter her. I explained that I was willing to increase her share of the takings but that I had strict guidelines from the Master. Maram faced me, her eyes glinting and without the trace of a smile on her lips.

From then on I began watching her and waiting for an opportune moment to be with her. She could sense that I was all eyes for her, and responded to my eagerness with every cell in her body.

We had several phone conversations before she became the Master’s trophy-woman, his dazzling beauty. She appeared naïve and unfamiliar with her new setting and did not seem fully aware of what lay ahead. Seeing myself as something of a guardian angel who could protect her, once I called her and expressed concern for her future and reputation. She hung up on me with a choice phrase spoken like a true whore.

Whenever she attended one of the Palace gatherings after that she noticed me watching her. But the Master staked out his own claim before I could make my move and once she was his, she became off limits to all other men.

Once she had possession of the Master’s heart, there was no need for Maram to come by the cash register to get her money. Now she only had to say the word and whatever sum she desired was in her bank account.

The new arrivals, especially, appreciated my role. Whenever they got embroiled in relationships at the Palace, I was their man – not so much the key to the door but rather a well-worn threshold that had to be crossed. I knew where everyone fit in the scheme of things and I could help a girl take her first step into Paradise.

A different roster of women and girls attended each function. They hoped to attain permanent status in the constellation of favourites and sought out their recruiters and minders for information on the Master’s state of mind, wanting to anticipate his every mood.

The girls were never handed any money in front of the Master. It was his prerogative alone to bestow largesse on the women who attended his functions, including those lucky enough to be his friends. He was generous with the sums he handed out and it was understood that the guests were forbidden to rival him in such matters.

One particular VIP, who had made his fortune in the telecom sector, had not been made aware of this interdiction. At his first Palace function, after he had become good and drunk, he pulled out his chequebook and wrote the girls a cheque for 50,000 riyals each. He looked pathetic as he bent down to get each girl’s full name, writing out the cheque and stuffing it into her cleavage before moving on to the next.

Knowing how the Master would react, the girls ridiculed his gift to his face. No sooner had the telecom mogul stuffed his cheque into her cleavage, than each would swiftly pull it out, tear it into little pieces and scatter it about his head. The Master was delighted by the sight of this repeated scene. He laughed heartily and instructed the servants to carry the drunkard away and throw him out of the Palace.

The matter did not end there. The Master wanted to know who had invited the man to his private function and since Joseph Essam was in charge of the guest list, he got a drubbing. This was all done for the benefit of the guests, however, because the Master knew perfectly well who had been responsible for inviting the wayward guest.

‘Anyone who had anything to do with inviting this moron needs to leave the Palace right away – and stay out of my sight,’ the Master barked.

The guests were silent as if to deny knowing any such person.

The Master pointed to an individual called Hisham Jawharji. ‘Son of a bitch,’ he roared. ‘Who invited scum like you here?’

Hisham said nothing, knowing that to respond to an outburst, even if it was to apologise, would be courting trouble. The
Master came up to him slowly, grabbed his ear and spat in his face.

‘I never want to see you here again. Is that quite clear?’

Hisham nodded but did not attempt to wipe the thread of saliva dripping down his right cheek. As soon as his ear was released from the Master’s grip, he turned to go on his way.

‘How dare you turn your back on me?’ thundered the Master.

Hisham stopped dead in his tracks, terrified, and adjusted his posture to face the Master. He backed out of the room, apologising profusely as he went.

Gloom descended on the guests who remained frozen in place for fear of provoking a new outburst. The Master returned to his seat as his entourage crowded around him, bowing and scraping and wondering what to do next.

There was a prolonged silence and the guests shifted uncomfortably in their seats, looking everywhere except at the Master.

Whenever Maram was late, the Master would be irritated and the most trivial thing could set him off. She would know how to calm him when she arrived. After an interminable few minutes, Maram swept into the hall with self-assurance.

‘Where have you been all my life?’ the Master asked as he jumped up to greet her. He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘What kept you, dear one?’

‘My mother was not well.’

‘I’ll have every doctor at her bedside – right away.’

Maram laughed, her face up against his, and wrapped her arms around him.

‘May I never be deprived of you,’ she sighed contently, kissing him between the eyes and whispering endearments. The tension fell and he relaxed. He turned and whispered something to his chief accountant, who ran off and returned moments later with two briefcases. Grinning from ear to ear, the Master turned towards the girls who had torn up the cheques and announced that they would each receive 100,000 riyals. He grabbed the briefcase closest to him, opened it and scattered more than one million riyals in banknotes at the girls’ feet. They shrieked with delight and stepped out on to the dance floor shaking and shimmying seductively to a song called ‘You Know What’s the Nicest Thing about You?’

Until that moment, no one had uttered a word; everyone knew to wait for the go-ahead, for a hand gesture, from the Master. He was generally ill-tempered but there was money to be made from his company.

Discussing politics was strictly forbidden. He was adamant nothing should mar his enjoyment of alcohol and women. No one was allowed to bring up anything connected to current events, whether inside the country or abroad. But before every function the Master was briefed on world events by his media adviser and sometimes, when the conversation turned to the stock market, a news headline would be talked about because it impacted share prices. It behove whoever was speaking to disregard current events and focus on predicting market trends and outlining how the Master’s affiliated businesses could influence trading, whether upwards or downwards.

One night when he was quite drunk, the Master overheard Uncle Muhammad talking about the trial of Saddam Hussein. As a long-standing and ardent Arab nationalist, Uncle Muhammad was following the trial closely. ‘Saddam, the hero, will expose the truth of events in the region,’ he opined.

‘Your job is to serve coffee,’ snapped the Master, ‘not to pontificate about politics, you ass!’ He pelted Uncle Muhammad with a shoe, cursing both the old man and his hero.

After that, Uncle Muhammad took to his room. Rumour had it that he was upset at being humiliated in his old age and despondent at the fading of his youthful dreams. In any case, no one really cared whether Uncle Muhammad stayed in his room or not.

Uncle Muhammad felt the indignity of old age was ruthless and that time had trapped him in the torment of a long life. On the morning of Saddam Hussein’s execution, he cursed all of mankind and refused to attend prayers for Eid al-Adha.

Uncle Muhammad fashioned a noose out of nylon cord, tied it to a metal hook hanging from the ceiling, looped it around his neck, made a blindfold out of his
keffiyeh
and climbed on to a chair. He had tied the chair legs to the door handle; since the door opened outwards, anyone coming in to his room would cause the chair to be dragged from under him and propel him to his death.

Several hours went by but no visitor came to his door. Uncle Muhammad pulled the noose off and wept, realising that he lacked the courage to take his own life and that he would have to wait for death to come of its own accord.

12

It had been a riotous night at the Palace and the Master and his companions were wasted.

The ashen threads of dawn seeped into the large hall strewn with bodies. Revellers were sprawled out everywhere, bloated with intoxication and slurring their words.

The evening had begun in a large circle that gradually disintegrated and scattered to the loud music of the band. The guests had shed their stiffness as a Khaliji ensemble, brought in especially for the occasion, belted out rhythmic dance tunes and the lead singer whipped the crowd into a wild frenzy. The girls shimmied and shook their bottoms skilfully while the men, their joints loosened, leapt around them gracelessly. By the closing number everyone had shed the last of their inhibitions and sprung to their feet. The excitement abated when the performance was over and the musicians packed up their instruments and left quietly with the singer.

The languid and dewy breeze had not yet dispelled the last of the night, and the Palace lights shimmered against the glassy surface of the sea, tinged with the first light of dawn. The glow cast by the lanterns suspended from the Palace balconies turned the waters into a vast turquoise canvas streaked with gold.

Fighting his hangover, a guest called Jalal Ma'eeni struggled to a half-standing position from his stupor. He turned his feet in the direction he thought was due east and his musical voice lifted in the morning call to prayer. By the time he was done, he had called the prayer in all four cardinal directions and was now facing north.

Still pitched on their stomachs, the other guests responded with almost involuntary motions. They could hardly move in their drunken daze. Joseph Essam, claiming he wanted to break down the barriers of religion, asked someone to demonstrate what he needed to do to join in the prayer. He lined up next to everyone else and began reciting from the Holy Bible until someone silenced him and suggested he should stand away from them if he wanted to pray.

Everyone lined up in two crooked rows behind Ma'eeni, who looked right and left and invited the women to form their own separate row next to Joseph Essam. Before he had completed the very first words of the prayer cycle – the
takbeer
– the Master struggled to his feet.

‘The only one who leads prayers around here is me, you ass,' he exclaimed, grabbing Ma'eeni by the shirt-collar.

Ma'eeni sank to the ground and did not try to pick himself up. Sprawled on his back, he reached out for the closest liquor bottle and slugged whatever was left in it.