Sheikhs, Lies and Real Estate: The Untold Story of Dubai (17 page)

The room was vast and dark. The air was dense
with smoke and the floor was crowded with captivated spectators, all men, with waiters
rushing around serving jugs of beer and bottles of spirits. The attention of
the crowd was directed towards a makeshift stage where four overweight Indian
girls in skimpy clothes gyrating unenthusiastically to the live Indian music from
the live band behind them.

Lucky was spotted by the hostess, a hideous old
woman known as the ‘aunty’, and she greeted him fondly, before leading us to a
reserved table directly in front of the stage. It was by far the best table in
the house, and as we sat down an army of waiters were there to attend to our
every command. Within seconds, there were a dozen bottles of vodka, rum, whisky
and champagne on our table, as well as six stacks of white cards, each around a
hundred high.

‘What is this place?’ I shouted at Niraj over
the thumping music.

‘It’s called a
mujra
!’ He shouted back. ‘An
Indian dance bar!’

‘You mean like a strip club?’

‘Not exactly. The women do not get naked here.’

‘So what’s the appeal then?’ I asked, confused.

‘The thrill is of a beautiful woman dancing for
you. She will tease you with her smiles, and the more you pay the more attention
she will give you.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes, that is all.’

It seemed that the
mujra
was Dubai’s
answer to a gentleman’s club, only there were no clothes removed, nor were
there any lap dances. Here men paid vast sums for the exclusive privilege of
having a scantily clothed, chubby woman dance in front of them. If they were
lucky, they would at best catch a slight wink or a smile. The entire concept
baffled me, but the boisterous audience couldn’t get enough as they clapped and
wolf-whistled at the peculiar spectacle on the stage.

The origins of the
mujra
dated to the
days of the Mogul Empire, when beautiful dancers would entertain the emperors
in the grand palace courtyards. It was an ancient Indian art form and the performers
would train for years to perfect their craft. It was said that men would become
so captivated by the beauty of the women that they would lose all sense of the
material world and submit themselves completely to their charms.

However, Dubai’s take on the
mujra
was a
far cry from the romantic ideal. Here the beautiful and talented dancers were
replaced by overweight and disinterested girls who oscillated apathetically to
the repetitive music. Their audience was not emperors and courtiers, but
perverted old Indian men, sleazy sheikhs and dodgy labourers, many of whom had
left their families at home to come and watch these girls shake their
superfluous stuff.

‘Lucky mentioned this place is owned by a
friend of his,’ I said to Niraj.

‘Yes,’ he replied as he took a sip of his
whisky. ‘This is one of Mustafa Edris’s joints.’

‘Who?’

Niraj froze. ‘You have never heard of Mustafa
Edris?’

‘Should I have?’ I answered sheepishly.

‘Mustafa Edris is one of the wealthiest men in
the world.’

‘Really? I haven’t heard of him, what line of
business is he in?’

Niraj leaned in close and whispered, ‘Keep this
between us, okay?’ I could smell the alcohol on his breath.

‘Sure...’

‘Edris is the godfather of the Indian
underworld. He runs the biggest weapons and drugs cartel in India. He
practically bankrolls the Indian film industry and has hundreds of politicians
in his back pocket. Lucky and Mr Edris do a lot of business together, so we are
invited as his personal guests tonight.’

‘So are you telling me Lucky is connected with
the Indian underworld?’

Niraj put his hand over his mouth as if he had
crossed a forbidden line. ‘I can’t officially answer that question. I thought
you knew already.’

Just then, Lucky picked up one of the stacks of
cards on the table and threw it at one of the dancing girls as she gyrated
provocatively in front of him. The girl joined her hands in gratitude and Lucky
nodded in acknowledgement. A small Indian man in a waistcoat with a broom
appeared on stage from nowhere and swept up the cards from around the girl’s
feet until they were all gone. Lucky’s cards were swiftly followed by cards
from another Indian man who was sitting at the table next to us. As he threw
his stack at the same girl, one hit her square in the face but again she smiled
with appreciation. And again the little Indian came in and swept up until the
stage was clean. It was the most bizarre thing I had ever seen. 

‘What does the card throwing represent?’ I
asked Niraj. 

‘It’s a way of showing his appreciation for
her,’ he shouted back, his eyes firmly on the stage.

‘But he just slapped her in the face with some
cards. How is that a gesture of appreciation?’

‘No, you don’t understand. Lucky bought the
cards for a thousand dirhams a stack. Throwing actual money at her is
considered disrespectful, so the cards are like a symbol of money.’

As I tried to get my head around it all, a card-throwing
war had broken out between Lucky and the other man, and hundreds of cards were
flying at the girls from both directions. It was like a grand test of
masculinity, and considering that the reward was at most a grin, this surely
rivalled Mona Lisa’s as the world’s most expensive smile.

Suddenly, Lucky’s arch-rival got up on the table
and began to dance like a man possessed. As the music got louder, he jumped
onto the stage like an embarrassing drunken uncle at a wedding. The girls ran
for cover as two bouncers rushed in and escorted him out of the club. The
entire audience erupted with laughter, but Lucky was more pleased that he had
emerged triumphant in the card-throwing war.

Veronica kicked off her shoes and jumped on the
stage, where she began to dance with the Indian women. The crowd loved it; men
cheered and wolf-whistled at the show they were being given. Lucky threw more
cards at the stage, now joined by an Emirati man who had come to the stage from
the back of the room with hundreds more cards in his arms. The poor Indian with
the broom was finding it impossible to keep up with the sweeping, and
eventually just gave up. It was soon raining cards and I was stunned by the
sheer amount of money that had been thrown away in the last ten testosterone-fuelled
minutes alone.

But just as things were getting out of control,
the music was cut and the lights came on, to a groan from the disappointed
crowd.

‘What happened?’ I asked Niraj.

‘It’s three in the morning,’ said Niraj. ‘The
law says all entertainment venues have to stop at three.’

Lucky wasn’t pleased. He tried shouting at the
band and ordering them to play, but they refused and he accepted that the performance
was over. As we stumbled out of the hotel, our white Rolls-Royces were still
waiting for us at the entrance. Lucky carried Veronica in his arms while the
other girls followed with their shoes in their hands. He threw her into the
back seat of one of the cars before jumping in after her.

‘Driver, take us back to the Burj Al Arab!’ he
shouted.

I saw this as my chance to excuse myself
politely. ‘Lucky, I really should be going.’

‘Nonsense!’ he shouted. ‘This was just a warm-up.
Now the night really begins. Get in.’

I sighed but reluctantly obliged, and once
again we were on our way to the Burj. 

The early rays of dawn were now piercing the
dark desert night as our convoy sped down the ramp of the hotel entrance and
back towards new Dubai. We passed the open waters of the creek, where dozens of
dock workers were already unloading boxes and crates containing televisions,
dates and car parts from the dozens of
dhows
lining the banks. Their day
was just beginning, but our night was far from over yet. As we headed back up
the Sheikh Zayed Road, I began to hear noises from the back seat. It seemed
Lucky and Veronica had taken their relationship to a new level of intimacy. I
assumed they wanted a little privacy, so I refrained from turning around to
watch. Fortunately the rear windows of the Rolls were blacked out, so the
passing cars were none the wiser. After eventually pulling up outside the
hotel, we headed through the lobby to a private elevator, which took us to the
twenty-fifth-floor penthouse.

The penthouse suite at the Burj was more
opulent than my wildest imagination. A long hallway with orange and black
marble walls led to a gold staircase with leopard-print tufted carpets. The
room itself was split across two floors with a dining area, an Arabic-style
majlis
or seating area, and a library. There was a fully loaded bar and a stunning jacuzzi
terrace that looked out onto the vast waters of the Persian Gulf. In the centre
of the living room an impressive array of fruits, sweets and dates had been
laid out, ready for our arrival.

‘Please come in, guys, make yourselves
comfortable,’ said Lucky as he ushered us into the suite. ‘What do you think of
the room?’

‘It’s quite amazing,’ I replied.

‘Isn’t it? It has its own private cinema, state-of-the-art
sound system and a master bedroom with a revolving four-poster canopy bed.’ He
went over to the bar area to mix us some drinks.

‘Not bad at all, Lucky,’ said Jamal, walking
around in awe.

We were joined by two other Indian men I had
not met before. They were both dressed in jeans and blazers with their shirts
buttoned down low. One of them rested his sunglasses above his gel-drenched
hair.

‘Let me introduce you guys,’ said Lucky. ‘These
are my good friends Sanjay and Salman. Guys, meet my new business partners,
Adam and Jamal.’

I shook their hands, but they made little eye
contact, which I found rather rude.

‘Hey, you look quite familiar. Do I know you?’
asked Jamal as he greeted Salman.

‘Are you serious?’ shouted Lucky, grabbing
Salman’s cheeks. ‘This is one of the most famous faces in India.’

‘No, Lucky, please,’ replied Salman bashfully.

‘This is Salman Aziz, the most famous actor in
Bollywood. And this is the world-famous Indian cricketer Sanjay Patel. Please
take a seat, gentlemen, we will be beginning soon.’

‘Beginning what?’ I asked, but Lucky didn’t
answer.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

‘Ah, right on time,’ smiled Lucky. He walked
over and opened the door. A group of thirty dark figures floated eerily into
the room. They were dressed from head to toe in black
abayas
, hiding
every part of their body except their manicured hands. Keeping their heads
lowered to the ground, one by one they lined up with impressive precision. Once
all thirty were in place, the tallest figure clapped its hands and all at once
they dropped their
abayas
to the ground. There before us stood the most
stunningly beautiful women I had ever seen, completely naked. They all looked
different, some dark and some fairer, some tall and others petite, but each a
perfect woman in her own unique, angelic way. The eyes of everyone in the room
lit up, including Veronica and the girls. I was in a state of shock.

‘Gentlemen, before you is my gift to you as my
new business partners. You may take your pick as you wish. Enjoy!’

Lucky was the first to make his choice, a dark-skinned
exotic beauty with sleek black hair and endless legs. He took her by the hand
and led her upstairs. One by one the men took their pick, some two at a time,
and led their women away in different directions. But as my turn approached, I
hesitated. I had enjoyed the night’s celebrations up to this point, but I had
no intention of partaking in a mass orgy! I decided this was my chance to make
a swift exit, so as soon as the other guys had gone, I rushed past the
remaining naked girls and out of the front door as fast as I could.

I thought about the evening’s outrageous events
in the cab home: Lucky’s outburst at Veronica, the revelations of his
underworld connections and the orgy that was in progress right now at the
penthouse. I began to worry whether I was making the right decision by going
into business with him. Was he everything he appeared to be? Was his commitment
to the fund legitimate? Was I making a colossal mistake? All sorts of doubts
were entering my mind; I was extremely confused and I needed to clear my head.

The sun had fully risen by the time I
approached my apartment, but I couldn’t sleep. It was almost nine in the
morning, so I took a shower and lay on my bed. As I reached for my phone on my
bedside table, I suddenly noticed the business card of the blond blue-eyed man who
had been sitting beside me at the Al Qasr hotel the night I met Alesia. I
remembered he had left his card with the waiter to give to me, and I still had not
got to the bottom of who he was. I decided it was a good time to call him and
solve the mystery for good.

The phone rang at least ten times before a
voice with a Scandinavian accent finally answered. ‘Hello, Jonas speaking.’

‘Hi, Jonas. I’m not sure if you remember me,
but I’m the guy who was sitting next to you in the lobby at the Al Qasr a few
days ago. You left me your business card.’

‘Oh, hi. Of course I remember. How are you? I
didn’t think you would call back.’

‘I’m great, thanks. How are you?’

‘I’m very well.’

‘Great. Listen, I’m sorry if I didn’t recognise
you, but do we know each other?’

‘No, we don’t. Well, not yet anyway. I thought
maybe we could have a chat.’

 ‘Erm, sure. About what exactly?’

‘Well, what kind of scene are you into?’

‘Scene? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.’

‘What’s your thing?’

I paused for a moment as I tried to decipher
his meaning. ‘Well, I enjoy nice restaurants and I’ve been to a couple of clubs
here, if that’s what you mean’.

‘Not exactly. I don’t think you’re getting me.’