Girls of Riyadh (10 page)

To: [email protected]

From: “seerehwenfadha7et”

Date: June 4, 2004

Subject: All I Need Is Another Saudi!

During the past few weeks, I have been reading news stories that talk about me, or let’s say, about my e-mails! Eminent national newspapers are writing about

S
adeem began to enjoy her job at the HSBC Bank. Everyone treated her affectionately and politely. She was the youngest worker there, and people went out of their way to offer her help and advice. She was especially comfortable with Tahir, a Muslim Pakistani colleague who was the cheeriest and most fun of everyone.

The work was not burdensome. Her duties were limited to receiving people who came into the bank for information and helping them to fill out forms, or sorting and filing papers.

She wasn’t attracted to any of her fellow workers, so she behaved unself-consciously with everyone. Even better, there wasn’t a single other Arab among them, so she felt free to act as if she were one of them, joking with this one and laughing with that one, and putting no constraints on herself as she normally did when she was with a group of Arabs, especially people from the Gulf and particularly Saudis.

One day as the bank was closing, Edward, a colleague with blue eyes, black hair and a charming Irish accent, suggested that they all go to the Piano Bar on Kensington High Street. Sadeem agreed to come, since a whole group of people including Tahir was going and since the bar they were heading for was not far from her apartment. Tahir had planned to meet a friend at the bar and then go on to the movies. Sadeem announced that she would leave whenever Tahir did. He had become like a big brother in whose presence she felt relaxed and secure.

At the bar, Sadeem’s eyes kept straying over to the piano. A line of glasses sat on the piano’s transparent glass cover. The piano made her think of the white piano in her aunt Badriyyah’s old home in Riyadh. Tariq, her aunt’s son, had taken piano lessons and had taught her everything he learned.

Sadeem made the bold decision to try to play the piano even though it had been seven years since she had last played. She apologized in advance and began to attack the keys almost at random until she found the right note. She went back to the beginning and this time played a recognizable tune, a piece by Omar Khayrat, her favorite composer.

About to enter the pub where he was to pick up Tahir, Firas was stopped in his tracks by the familiar Arabic melody coming from within. From his position on the stairs, he peered through the glass window and caught sight of a very attractive young woman sitting at the piano. He stayed where he was, listening to her play until the sound of applause rose and the girl returned to her seat.

Firas descended the remaining steps and walked over to his friend’s table. He gave a quick greeting to the group and asked Tahir to hurry up so that they could get to the film in time, leaving no time for Tahir to introduce him to the group.

Tahir turned to Sadeem and asked if she was sure she didn’t want to come to the nearby Cinema Odeon with them. She declined, wishing them a pleasant time, but gathered her things to walk out with them, as she didn’t want to stay at the bar without Tahir. Outside, they headed left toward the cinema while she turned right, walking toward her flat.

A
WEEK LATER
Tahir threw a party for his thirtieth birthday at the Collection Pub and Bar at South Kensington. There, Firas saw Sadeem for the second time. He walked over to her just as she settled herself down on one of the chairs.

“My sister here is an Arab?”

Sadeem’s eyes flew open. “You’re an Arab?”

“Saudi, in fact. My name is Firas Al-Sharqawi.”

“I’m Sadeem Al-Horaimli. I’m so sorry, I assumed you were Pakistani like Tahir.”

He laughed at her embarrassed frankness. “What about you? Anyone looking at you would swear you’re Spanish! Even your English—
ma shaa Allah!
It’s perfect.”

“I’m Saudi, too.”

He smiled. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Sadeem was not at all so thrilled to meet him, now that she knew he was Saudi. “Yes, well, hello; nice to meet you, too.”

“I heard you the other day playing the piano and I knew you must be Arab, and then when I asked Tahir he told me you’re Saudi.”

“Really? I don’t recall you being there when I was playing.”

“I stayed hidden on the stairs and watched you through the glass. It’s the first time I’ve heard Eastern music in the Piano Bar. I thought your playing was amazing.”

“Thank you—that’s very kind.” Sadeem picked up her handbag from where it was resting on the chair next to her. “Well, I have to go now. Excuse me.”

“It’s early!”

“I have an appointment.”

“Okay, but why don’t you wait a little—at least until you have had a chance to say good-bye to Tahir? He’s probably downstairs at the bar.”

“I can’t. Please, if you see him, give him my best and tell him I’m sorry, I had to leave.”

“Good-bye, and I hope I didn’t bother you. Anyway, it was nice to have a chance to see you again.”

Bother me? You could say that! Just a few words from you and I can feel all my old bitterness rising up inside me like a volcano. What do you expect, though? You’re Saudi!

“It was very nice indeed. ’Bye.”

Sadeem returned home, cursing her luck at the revelation that Tahir’s friend was Saudi. She began reviewing in her mind every single thing that had happened that night at the Piano Bar the week before. Had she committed any of the transgressions that a young Saudi guy must not see coming from a daughter of his country? Had she said anything opinionated, bold, inappropriate? Had she been wearing something that was respectable enough?

God pluck him from this earth! What brought him here anyway! So, even in this place I can’t relax and behave naturally? These Saudis are always after me! Always in my face! Almighty God. I bet he makes a scandal out of what he’s seen, and tomorrow every breath of mine will be broadcast in Riyadh! God not spare you, Tahir, you and your friend. What was it he said: Our sister here is an Arab?
Ahh,
what a line!

Early the next week, Sadeem asked Tahir about Firas and scolded him for not telling her where he was from. Tahir vehemently denied that he had done it deliberately. Firas was not the type of guy that should worry her, he reassured her. He had known Firas, he said, for a long time—they had gone to the University of Westminster together. Firas had been studying for a doctorate in political science while Tahir was finishing his master’s thesis in accounting. They had shared a room in the university housing in Marylebone Hall for six months. What they liked best about the residence hall was its closeness to the major mosque in Regent’s Park, where they were regulars at Friday prayer service. After Tahir had gotten his degree he moved to his own flat in Maida Vale. A bit later, Firas also moved, to live in the rooms he still had in St. John’s Wood. Firas had remained a dear friend and Tahir felt lucky to have him.

In the days to follow, Tahir did not volunteer any more information about Firas and Sadeem did not ask. She was apprehensive, though, that Tahir had told Firas of her discomfort at the birthday party. How mortifying that would be for her! In general, everyone understood that Saudi girls were more at ease mixing with men who were not Saudi. Firas would not be the first, or the last, to experience the shock of finding that a girl from his home country would much rather hang out with his Pakistani friend than with him.

Though Sadeem was, relatively speaking, free of the kinds of constraints and worries of most Saudi girls because she had a
somewhat
liberal father and though normally she really couldn’t care less about what others said or thought, she did wish, this one time, that she could have the opportunity to meet this particular man again so she could get a sense of the impression she had made on him. It troubled her to think that perhaps he thought badly of her, for even though she didn’t know him, he was a Saudi, after all, and he might just stir up a storm of talk around her that could blow from London as far as Riyadh.

Sadeem had gotten into the habit of spending every Saturday morning shopping in the stores on Oxford Street and then spending a few hours at Borders. She liked to browse through all the nooks and crannies of the enormous five-story bookstore, reading magazines and listening to the latest CDs, after getting a light breakfast at the Starbucks inside.

That’s where she found him. For the third time in a row, fate had arranged a suitable and respectable chance meeting for her with this stranger.
That must mean something,
thought Sadeem, and one of Um Nuwayyir’s favorite expressions popped into her head:
The third time’s a charm.

Firas was absorbed in reading a newspaper, a cup of coffee in his right hand. Papers and a laptop lay in disarray on the table in front of him.

Should I go over and say hi to him? What if he decides to be rude and pretends he doesn’t know me?
Yallah,
whatever. I haven’t got anything to lose, so…
She turned toward him and greeted him nicely. He got up and shook her hand respectfully, and his “How are you, Sadeem? How nice to see you” erased whatever ill thoughts she had had of him. They stood beside his table chatting. After a few minutes, he helped her move her coffee and cheese croissant from her table to his so that she would not have to eat alone.

Their conversation flowed easily and pleasantly. Somehow, over the course of the conversation, she forgot that this was the very guy, the very Saudi, whose tongue she had wanted to cut out before he could start spreading gossip about her. She asked him about his university and the topic of his dissertation, and he asked her about her studies and her summer job. When she asked what all the scattered papers in front of them were, he confessed that he had intended to read more than two hundred pages this morning, but, as usual for him, he had not been able to resist the temptation of a fresh, crackly newspaper. With childish naughtiness, he hid from her what was sitting on the chair next to his—another stack of newspapers. She laughed at him. He claimed that all he had bought this morning was
Al-Hayat, Asharq Alawsat,
and the
Times,
which he had read cover to cover instead of reading his mountain of academic papers.

As their conversation continued, Sadeem was stunned by his sophisticated appreciation of and familiarity with music and art. When he made her promise to listen to the soprano Louisa Kennedy’s rendition of the “Queen of the Night” aria from Mozart’s
The Magic Flute,
she thought that he was one of the most cultivated men she had ever met.

Their conversation shifted to the topic of the amount of Gulf tourists who flowed into London every year in that season. Sadeem let her biting, critical humor go unrestrained. Firas, it turned out, loved nothing more than a good joke. Together they filled the café air with their warm laughter.

The chemistry between them became so thick that it hovered and swooped around their heads like cartoon sparrows. Sadeem noticed that a hard rain had started to pelt the sidewalks, even though the sun had been shining brightly just before. Firas offered to drive her to her flat—or anywhere else she wanted—and she refused politely, thanking him for the nice offer. She told him she would finish her shopping nearby and then take a taxi or bus home. He did not insist, but he asked her to wait a few minutes while he went to get something from his car.