Throwing Sparks (28 page)

I made my escape and, getting back into my car, drove away.

I was beset by the nagging thought that, in my rush to leave that vile place, I might have forgotten to lock the door. I almost turned back, but my dread of seeing her rise from the wreckage like a ghoulish monster was stronger than my desire to find out.

I also began to worry that the Master’s cameras might have captured that scene from hell.

16

Drawing on his army of assistants – his advisers, analysts, speculators, investment fund managers, media specialists and individuals involved in insider trading – the Master became an expert at manipulating the stock market. Acting on his behalf, the assistants dug deep pits into which greedy investors and rivals would jump and, subsequently, drown, bewildered by their sudden loss of fortune.

The Master’s gambling addiction had taken root early on, when he began frequenting casinos in European capitals. He distinguished himself from his countrymen by his civility whenever he lost at the tables, for he was keen to maintain his good reputation.

He never recovered from the addiction. His life was one never-ending wager. His own friends placed bets on whether he would continue to pull off the gambles he seemed perpetu­ally enthralled with, as if the thrill alone gave meaning to whatever he did.

Every aspect of life was worth a wager: horses, hunting expeditions, the card game
balut,
procuring a celebrity singer, marrying an actress. The winnings were sometimes purely symbolic. It could be something as mundane as getting an opponent’s
iqaal –
the black headband that secures
keffiyehs
– or getting them to meow or bark. He got his thrills from one gamble after another.

The stock market became a substitute for the casinos and turned him into an early riser. The start of trading early in the day lessened his enthusiasm for carousing until the break of dawn.

I hoped that this infatuation with stocks would last and that punishing his rivals on the floor of the exchange would continue to relieve me of my duties. My only fear was that he would grow bored with this, as with all his other pursuits, and that when he started looking for some other thrill to provide the excitement he craved, it would somehow involve me. For now, the Master was enthralled with causing wild fluctuations in the market, relishing both the anticipation and the actual excitement of trading.

His advisers had found a novel way to make even more money, and he sent out invitations to a select group of powerful businessmen to meet and discuss how they might expand the financial market by selling individual loans. The idea was to encourage local banks to extend personal loans that were many times greater than the borrowers’ annual salaries. This required a consolidated corporate front and a strategy to convince government policymakers.

The meeting took place on the cement jetty extending out to sea. The small and select group of businessmen debated a variety of credit schemes that would enable them to manipulate shares. The goal was to buy up a particular stock in its entirety and then unload it when the market was favourable, thereby making a killing.

Servants were passing around all manner of elegant appetisers and salads to whet the guests’ appetite for the main meal, which would be served later to celebrate their already substantial profits. The discussions held no appeal for the young women present. They grew restless, stretched their legs and shifted in their seats with boredom. One of them got up to lean against the railing, watching distant ships on the horizon while holding up her cell phone to listen to the latest hit by the singer Sherine. Two others joined her and they began to discuss plans for a trip to Paris over the weekend.

The slowly sinking sun reflecting off the surface of the water lent the setting a romantic aura that contrasted with the dullness of the exchange between the Master and his guests. Their excitement at the prospect of huge profits made them oblivious to the young women, and not a hint of passion stirred in their loins.

Maram was also there. Standing directly across from her, I was examining the low-cut sleeveless black dress which showed off her cleavage while keeping her unruly breasts in their place. She caught my lingering gaze and held it. My eyes pleaded silently for her breasts to break the hold of the enveloping fabric.

I had desired her from the start.

She was unique in that she could weave a sultry web of seduction regardless of the setting, with a deliberation that was well beyond her years. Both Maram and the Master
conspired in the air of ambiguity surrounding her. No one knew where she was from or how she had come to be in Paradise.

There were rumours that her husband had ‘gifted‘ her to the Master as part of a commercial deal and that, having become used to the lap of luxury, she had been unwilling to leave it. According to another rumour, the Master had simply wrested her from her husband with the force of a court order. There was also a story that went around that she was the daughter of a wealthy merchant who had offered her up
in exchange for a substantial bailout that he needed to get out of some financial trouble. And lastly, it was said that she was simply another of Osama’s catches. There were countless stories that followed Maram wherever she went because no one knew for sure.

All I knew with certainty was that the Master saw her in the Palace one night and fell for her.

There had been a lottery and Maram was supposed to be the prize of one of the millionaires that evening. The idea of drawing lots for the women who animated the Palace parties was the brainchild of Joseph Essam, and the Master quickly saw its erotic potential. At the end of an evening, a large silver bowl would be filled with alcoholic punch and the contenders would drop their car keys inside the bowl. The bowl was then passed around, and each young woman fished out a set of keys. Their owner got to claim her as his prize for the night.

The lottery ritual had become quite established but that night, the Master disputed the result and claimed Maram for himself. She was never again entered in such lotteries and soon became the Master’s favourite.

There were many desirable women who roamed the corridors of the Palace, and they were all off limits to the staff who worked there. Our job was simply to escort them to designated bedrooms and await further instructions from the Master.

Every day, a chauffeur was assigned to go and fetch the girls. After dropping them off, he would relieve the lust they had aroused in him by seeking out one of the female migrant workers scattered about the Palace. Negotiating with whoever was most responsive, he would bed her, fast and furious, while still aroused.

While falling asleep, I would often conjure up Maram in my mind’s eye and feast on her. I would go over her inch by inch – her face, her laugh, her cascading hair, her voluptuous curves, her statuesque bearing, her graceful neck – and then whisper longingly as I held her close and drifted off to sleep.

I would picture her lying there with every cell of her body unfurling before my eyes which were hungry for anything she might reveal of herself. I imagined her beside me singing a few snatches from a favourite song, her beautiful lips in an imperceptible pout.

The Master’s intense focus on the discussion of the planned stock market manipulations gave me the opportunity to devour Maram with my eyes. I watched her every move as she flitted around humming her favourite songs. Whichever way she turned, she knew my eyes were on her.

She leaned and whispered into the Master’s ear. He looked up sharply and his eyes followed in the direction that she was indicating. Of all the members of staff on permanent standby to respond to any request or instruction, she gestured boldly towards me.

‘Hey, you,’ she yelled, pointing.

I was seized with panic. My eyes, lost in the splendour of her cleavage, snapped to attention and met her gaze for the flash of an instant.

The Master’s eyes scanned a number of faces. Had she just told him that I had been undressing her with my eyes? I wondered with dread. I deliberately ignored her pointing finger and looked around, pretending to search for the person she was pointing to from among the people standing near me.

‘Don’t you hear me calling you, you idiot?’ Maram called out, her finger still pointed.

‘Who? Me?’ I stammered.

‘Yes. You!’

She signalled for me to approach and I obeyed nervously.

The Master punctured what little dignity I had, saying, ‘You sure hit the nail on the head calling him an idiot.’ He started to shake with laughter.

There was a sudden lull in the conversation as the guests stopped and turned to see which particular idiot Maram had singled out.

My steps were leaden and my heart was beating furiously.

The Master stared at me for a second and then ordered, ‘Get the black Bentley ready for the lady.’

My heartbeat slowly returned to normal, but my legs remained frozen.

‘Move yourself, you ass, and get the car ready for the lady,’ he shouted.

I did not understand what he meant by getting the car ready. Did he mean for me to summon one of the drivers? This was not normally something I did.

‘All of the drivers are ready, sir.’

‘You really are an ass, aren’t you,’ said Maram with contempt. ‘You’ve been told to accompany me.’ She picked up her handbag and told one of the servants to fetch her abaya
.

‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ I said, ‘but I’m not a driver.’

The Master was now furious. ‘You do what you’re told,’ he roared. ‘You’re not here to object. Is that understood, you imbecile?’

I nodded apologetically; I knew better than to try to explain what I had meant.

‘Now take the lady to the hair salon and wait until she’s finished.’

I led the way and thanked my lucky stars that it was over.

*  *  *

I was sitting behind the wheel, eyeing her in the rear-view mirror.

Maram was no longer the girl who had been short-changed on her first night at the Palace. She was now a woman, the mistress before whom everyone kept their gaze averted and whose wishes no one dared question. Her wishes were commands to be carried out in the precise manner she stipulated, without delay or hesitation.

To desire her was to revisit the fate of humankind in the Garden of Eden; gazing upon her carried the penalty of eternal banishment. The Master had broken off a long-standing friendship over a few flirtatious compliments a friend of his had made once. He had been so incensed that he had driven his former friend to bankruptcy through a fraudulent real estate scheme.

Going near Maram was like touching a live wire – the prohibition was categorical. Untold misery awaited anyone caught glancing her way when she was in the Master’s company or when she stepped out on to the dance floor.

Maram slid into the back seat of the car with a toss of her head, fluffing and then pulling her hair back behind a gold headband.

‘Keep your eyes in front of you, jackass,’ she warned.

I looked away quickly.

‘First, you’ll take me to Souk al-Bassateen to get some things.’

‘But the Master instructed me to take you to the hair salon, not to the souk.’

‘What I’m buying is connected with where I’m going, you jerk,’ Maram said with clear irritation. ‘If the Master got wind of this, he’d string you up and cure you of your cheek.’

‘Still, I—’ I began.

‘Stop or I’ll have you fired on the spot.’

‘I’m sorry, I just wanted to—’

‘Not another word. Just shut up and drive.’

I set out across the main road leading to the city. A deafening silence hung in the air along with her scent which permeated every cell in my nostrils.

She sat back in her seat as I desperately tried to catch her eye in the rear-view mirror, pretending to look at the traffic coming up behind me.

How could she suddenly turn into such a fierce and cruel tigress? The silence was making me nervous. I wondered why she had chosen me to take her into town when she had her own driver. Maybe it was a warning to desist from my boldness since I had been watching her every move.

After a while, I asked her if she might want to listen to a CD.

‘I already told you I didn’t want to hear another word out of you,’ she snapped.

When we arrived at the souk, I stopped the car and waited for her to get out, but she did not move and remained seated.

‘We’re at the souk,’ I prompted, waiting for her to disembark.

‘And you think I don’t realise it, you ass?’ she shot back. ‘Now come open the door for me and be quick about it.’

‘The door is unlocked. You can let yourself out.’

She was enraged by this and a stream of abuse followed. ‘How dare you? Get out and open the door now! Do you hear me?’

I stepped out, fighting off an intense urge to pull her out of the car by the hair and drag her down the street. I opened the rear door and she stepped out daintily in a cloud of scented charm.

‘And now, come with me,’ Maram ordered.

She walked into the souk, swaying her hips seductively, as I followed behind. A group of young men milling at the entrance of the market ogled her, jostling with each other to see who could come up with the most flirtatious comments. Some of them were downright lewd.