Driving the Saudis Page 10

  “The princess, she says to Mac drive?” said Yasmina.

  I thought about that for a minute. “Oh, she wants to go to the Apple store?” I asked. “Okay, I’ll pull the car up and wait downstairs until she’s ready.” Anisa had her own car and driver, so I had no idea why I was now being asked to chauffeur her or why I had to stand in the scorching sun for almost an hour to find this out, but I didn’t argue. She must have heard that I was the go-to girl, and that’s why she had requested my services.

  Yasmina reached into her robe pocket and handed me a few hundred-dollar bills. “The princess, you must to bring her iPhone.”

  “She wants me to go to the Apple store on my own and get her an iPhone? Does she know she has to sign up for service if she wants it to work as a phone?”

  Yasmina looked at me blankly and I demonstrated with my phone. “AT&T,” I said. “She has to sign up for AT&T. I can’t do that for her. She has to have a phone service contract for it to work here. It’s a two-year commitment.”

  Yasmina called out something in Arabic to the other ladies in waiting, and their heads spun in my direction. Then one of them snapped her fingers at the servant girls sitting by the side of the pool. One of the girls who spoke the most English hustled over to me.

  “Janni! Please, the princess, she must to have the iPhone!” she said.

  “I’m sorry, your name is Zuhur, right?” She nodded yes. I had started to be embarrassed that I had to keep asking them their names over and over again, and I was trying hard to learn them, but I had almost no conversational reinforcement. And no one seemed to care about my correct name so I don’t know why I was worried about getting theirs right. Every member of the family and entourage called me by a different name: Janni, Jennie, Joanie, Junie, Yianni, Yanie, Yoanie. And I had learned to respond to them all.

  “Yes, Zuhur, I know that she wants me to get her an iPhone, but she needs to sign up for cellular service for it to work as a phone; otherwise it’ll just be an expensive iPod.” Perspiration dripped from my upper lip, and I dabbed at it with my fingertips as I looked around for a tissue. There was nothing but green-and-white-striped pool towels stacked up near each cabana.

  I could see that Princess Anisa was watching from the corner of the pool while she floated around on a green foam lounge chair. An iced drink was in the cup holder near her right hand, and she was slapping the water with her left. She was slowly spinning on the foam lounge with a tight frown on her face, and it was obvious that she was following the action. She hissed something in Arabic in our general direction, and Zuhur jumped at her words.

  “Yes, here is cash.” Zuhur handed me another wad of hundreds, about a thousand dollars. “The princess she says three iPhone. You must bring now. Three iPhone. Okay? Yalla! [Hurry.] Yalla!”

  “But they won’t work if she doesn’t sign up for service.” I said this very clearly and loudly to be certain that Anisa could also hear. “She has to give them a credit card, they run a credit check, and then she signs up for two years of service. That’s just the way they do it. It’s not my rule; it’s how Apple sells them.”

  The roar of a jet plane overhead interrupted us. That was unusual because I didn’t think the FAA flight plans permitted flyovers in Beverly Hills; I’d never heard one there before so it must have been a military plane. We both tilted our heads up and watched the plane’s long white contrails for a few moments.

  When we faced each other again, I saw that Zuhur was now hopping back and forth from one foot to the other as if the soles of her feet were burning on the concrete, but I knew that the ground wasn’t hot; it was a specially treated surface resorts used so that their guests were comfortable walking to and from the pool. She repeatedly looked back at the princess, then at me, then at the princess. Something else definitely was making her uncomfortable. Anisa hissed again, and Zuhur grimaced. Two of the other servant girls joined us, flanking Zuhur on either side. They all looked at me with worried eyes.

  “Please, it must to phone. It must to phone or the princess, she is unhappy,” Zuhur said. It dawned on me that she, or perhaps even all the girls, would be held responsible if Anisa didn’t receive her working iPhones. It wouldn’t be their fault if the iPhones weren’t activated, but they were obviously frightened that it might not be done. Perhaps they were worried only that the princess would be unhappy, but it seemed more ominous than just that. They wouldn’t have been so agitated if they didn’t fear some kind of repercussion if Anisa’s wishes weren’t fulfilled.

  My instinct was to speak to the princess myself and explain the problem. But I wasn’t allowed to speak to her unless she addressed me, and that clearly wasn’t going to happen. She was acting as if I wasn’t even there.

  I dropped my voice. “Okay, Zuhur, let me go talk to security and ask them to speak with Princess Zaahira’s secretary. Maybe they can help, and I can figure out a way to get the phones signed up. Okay?” I had a few friends who worked at the Apple stores around town and hoped that maybe they’d work something out for me.

  “Yalla, Janni. Please, please to do this, and I will tell the princess,” she said.

  I was afraid that Zuhur would tell the princess that it was a done deal and then we’d both go under. By this time, several more drivers had been fired for lesser infractions than disappointing a princess. The day before, a driver had been fired because his client didn’t think he was paying attention to her, but it was more likely that he was just trying not to be rude by paying too close attention. It was a fine line to navigate.

  “Please tell her that I will try my best, but also that this has nothing to do with you,” I said. “Tell her what I said about it being Apple store policy. It has absolutely nothing to do with you or me.”

  I wish there was a way for me to make it clear to Anisa that I’m not doing this to make her happy, I thought. I’m only doing it so that these girls don’t catch hell for it. Just weeks before, I would have been eager to do whatever I could to please a princess, no matter what she asked of me, but that was starting to sharply erode.

  “Yalla, Janni!” she said. “Please, please to make the iPhone to phone,” she said.

  As I turned toward the elevator, Zuhur squeezed my arm softly. “Shukran [thank you], thanks you, Janni, thanks you. Yalla!” All the servant girls scurried back to the far end of the pool to attend to the princess’s and her companions’ needs.

  I was able to buy the iPhones for Princess Anisa, but I left it up to security to arrange for them to be unlocked and activated, and I tried to avoid any further dealings with her. Eventually I learned to leave my laptop at home or in the trunk of my car and use it only out of sight of others. I also learned to take less initiative, make fewer offers of assistance, and often to say no outright even when I was sure something was possible. This was a hard lesson for me.

  When I was a little girl, I thought that the world was a meritocracy—that if you have some modicum of talent and nurtured it with hard work and perseverance, then you would succeed and be rewarded. It was at this time in my life, more than any other in spite of the many disappointments I have had, that I began to see that this is simply not true. Your future can be determined by an accident of birth or a stroke of good luck. Sometimes you are just fortunate.

  11

  Like a Hijab in the Wind

  I was finally assigned to be the regular driver of another young teenage niece of Princess Zaahira, the little Princess Rajiya, who had arrived after most of the rest of the family. A group of us drove several family members in a convoy of six cars to greet her at the airport. I was told that at home in the Kingdom and also when traveling, a large group would always convene to pick up a friend or relative at the airport even if the journey was several hours long and they’d seen them only a few days before. If no one ever has to work, then several trips to the airport each week was common and possibly a nice diversion.

  When the young girl exited customs, I saw that she had traveled with three servants accompanying her; e
ach servant came out of customs wielding two luggage carts weighed down with at least eight enormous bags and boxes. This was how a thirteen-year-old girl traveled. All the family members drove back in one Navigator together, and the rest of the SUVs were used to transport her baggage.

  Each client had his or her own car, and Rajiya had requested to be driven in a convertible as her regular personal vehicle. There was some pushback from security about whether one would be procured for her because convertibles are much harder to protect—they’re too vulnerable. But Rajiya was adamant and had persuaded the family that she absolutely had to have one; Fausto scrambled to find an available high-end black convertible midsummer in Los Angeles.

  I picked up the car at a Beverly Hills car rental agency early in the morning and then had it meticulously detailed and prepped as usual with goodies, tissues, and bottled water. The cars had to be immaculate inside and out at all times, no matter the time of day or how many hours it had been driven, and loaded with anything the royals might request. Santiago’s bookish prince preferred lukewarm Evian and Doritos. He usually took only one sip of water and ate one or two chips at a time, but Santiago had to make sure that new bottles and fresh bags were always available. For Princess Rajiya, I stocked my car with snacks that didn’t melt—no chocolate or candy, and luckily she didn’t ask for any, which would end up in a gooey clump after a day of driving. I had learned that the messy hard way when I had to spend a whole morning scraping chocolate from the cup holders and carpet after a client had opened a bag of M&Ms, eaten a few, and then dumped the rest, thoughtfully leaving them to bake in the California sun the remainder of the day.

  The family was exiting the hotel en masse when I finally pulled up, and I hustled to jump out and open the car door for Rajiya. I still didn’t know what she actually looked like—she had moved so quickly at the airport before leaping into the SUV to join her cousins that I didn’t get a good look at her then. I only knew that she was petite and dark-haired. So I just stood there with the door open, smiling politely, hoping somebody would get in the car.

  A striking woman with an air of great authority, wearing a hijab, long pants, and a matching long tunic, introduced herself to me in excellent English. “So! You are to be Rajiya’s driver!” she announced. It was hard to guess her age without seeing more of her, but she had dark pencil-thin eyebrows and dark kind eyes, and a smooth handsome face with few lines. She wore no makeup, but her skin looked soft and shiny.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “My name is Malikah.” She held my proffered hand firmly in both of hers for a long moment, looked at me appraisingly, and then patted my hand as she said, “I am very pleased to meet you. Rajiya is my angel. You and I will guard her with great care.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” I said.

  I assumed this formidable woman was little Princess Rajiya’s mother, but it was her nanny, Malikah. She was a devout Muslim and dressed with arms, ankles, and head covered at all times. Most of her outfits were made for her in Lebanon, where she was from, in styles that she saw in Paris when traveling with the family and then modified and had made more cheaply in Beirut when she visited for Ramadan. I’d never seen anybody dressed like this up close. It was exquisite. Malikah wore lace-edged gauntlets to make sure her wrists were covered, and even at the beach she wore finely woven cotton leggings and ballet slippers on the sand. Many of her clothes were made of finely embroidered silk, and her headscarves were matching and often colorful, so her wardrobe was always a collection of elegant but strangely modest ensembles.

  “This is good. I can tell by looking at your face that things will work out well between us,” she said as she winked at me. Then she walked away and was quickly besieged by the other nannies and servants. This would be true throughout the family’s stay. Malikah was clearly the thought leader of the household help, though she was too modest to have ever called herself that. All the staff looked to her for innovation, information, and counsel.

  Everyone was talking at once and most of it was in Arabic so I couldn’t tell what was going on, but there was some kind of hullabaloo afoot. It was impossible to know what was expected of me or what I was supposed to do next. I glanced around worriedly to see what my next move might be, but then one of the security personnel came over to the convertible and introduced himself to me.

  George was one of the few black Englishmen on the job. He was from the West Midlands, with a short-voweled, lilting musical accent, and had been a decorated soldier in the English military. He had broad, square shoulders and a highly developed muscular upper body with burly, hairless arms. A long, angry-looking pink scar traveled down one arm; it looked like it had been made with a sword. He was handsome, soft-spoken, and courteous, almost chivalrous, and all the women loved him—royals and servants as well as the entire female hotel staff. He seemed to have a warm relationship with everyone he encountered. When George gave an order, he’d cleverly turn it around to sound as if he were asking me to do him a favor to make his job easier instead of issuing a command, which was what he was actually doing. He’d touch me on the elbow lightly and lean in close as he spoke—it was respectful but still carefully manipulative. And he always said, “Thanks, love, you’re a dear,” after I agreed to do what he asked. I felt that he meant it when he called me a dear.

  George informed me quietly that I would be driving Rajiya and her cousin, Princess Ava, to a restaurant in Beverly Hills to join other members of the family for lunch. The family had decided that Ava would be allowed to join Rajiya in the convertible even though the security had made it clear that they preferred that she didn’t. George was Ava’s family’s regular security and traveled around the world with them so he, or Ava’s full-time female security, accompanied her wherever she went, along with Ava’s nanny, a Frenchwoman. Ava was fourteen and had a lanky tomboyish build, with long curly hair that she always wore pulled back behind her ears. She was interested in music and art, and had a thoughtful and studious manner (her brother was the young prince taking classes at USC), but she was a loner and it turned out that she rarely cavorted with any of her teenage princess cousins.

  Rajiya was thirteen years old, sensitive, spirited, very fashion conscious, and willful as hell, with a sweet moon-shaped face framed by black soft ringlets. She and Ava had very little in common besides blood. The girls got in the backseat of the convertible, and George sat in the front. He reminded me that he would be in charge of controlling all door locks and windows; then he powered the convertible top down on the car, and the girls squealed with glee—so they had that in common. I got the idea that this was truly a rare occurrence for them, especially for Ava, whose family had very tight security. Just before we drove off, Malikah came up to the car, smiled at the girls in the backseat, laid her hand again firmly on my arm, and said to me, “I will see you in a moment.” It almost sounded like a threat, but a nice one.

  Ava’s nanny was already in one of the family’s SUVs ahead of us on the way to the restaurant, but Malikah watched us drive away, then quickly jumped in an SUV following close behind. She was like a hawk. Wherever little Princess Rajiya went, Malikah followed. Rajiya called Malikah “my flag” because she knew that as long as she could always see Malikah’s hijab in her eye line then she would never be lost, never in danger, no matter where they were, even if hundreds of strangers surrounded them. Rajiya knew that Malikah would always guard and protect her.

  Malikah was more than just a chaperone. She was a compassionate teacher as well and monitored Rajiya carefully as she helped her to negotiate any new situation that the young woman might encounter. Rajiya relied on her for guidance as well as advice, even when they argued about what she was allowed to do. Malikah would never forbid her to do anything—it wasn’t her place to do so—but she would firmly remind Rajiya of her obligations and commitments. There was a constant tug of war between them, but ultimately Rajiya could do whatever she wanted as long as she got clearance from her mother, whom she lobbied regularly and o
ften successfully, but Malikah was such a worthy opponent that her sound counsel often superseded Rajiya’s pleas.

  When I started the job, I wondered why the family needed so much supervision and security. Most of the Saudi families I met were heavily guarded. Were they afraid of kidnapping and ransom demands? Were they concerned about Islamic extremists who objected to the royal family’s Westernized way of life and conspicuous consumption? Had something happened that made them feel threatened?

  One of the top American security personnel, Rick, offered his opinion on this: “I’ve been working with them for years, and the way I see it is like this: they’re used to the protection and they like the attention, makes them feel special. Do they need it here? I doubt it. Back home in Riyadh, no one messes with them for sure. They speed around 70 miles an hour in a convoy of SUVs just to meet up at the Häagen-Dazs in Kingdom Tower for an ice cream cone, and the regular folks jump out of the way because they know it’s the royal family coming through. Now, the most worry we have here is keeping the young girls in line because they’re so happy to be in the States. But there’s nobody coming after them, per se; we just have to make sure they aren’t approached by any young men who want to get to know them, who want to talk to them. That would be a problem. Their fathers would be plenty upset about that.”

  It was hard to believe that so much money and effort was going into protective measures that were seemingly more for appearance than actual necessity. But the legion of support staff around the members of the royal family was perhaps a way to keep them insulated as much as it was to keep them safe. The family liked to have a bolster around them; it made them feel special. It made them feel superior.

  Rajiya was at a vulnerable age, and the family preferred to surround her with women. I could understand this. I went to an all-girls middle school, and it was a huge shock for me when it merged with a school for boys partway through my high school years. Suddenly I was painfully conscious of my hair, my face, and my figure. One of my brothers repeated to me that his friend called me “Orca” after seeing me at a swim meet wearing a white bathing suit. I was crushed, and I know my education suffered.