Chapter 13: The Dhow factor

Again, there are some jumps here and there. This is mostly a ‘housekeeping’ chapter, intended to reset and reposition Martin. Also, how are you guys getting on with Red Dead Redemption II? I’m not sure about it. It’s making me brush a horse and forcing me to learn botany. There are also too many squelchy sound effects. Still, it’s the best vacation I can hope for nowadays. Abbeyseeinya!

“Did you have fun?” asked Caroline. She’d heard me fumbling with the key card and opened the door to her room for me before I managed to unlock it.

“What an incredibly annoying guy,” I sighed, as I walked past her and flopped down on her sofa. “Well, maybe not annoying ... Energetic. Talkative. And a bit clingy.”

“Did you get seasick?”

“Nope.”

We’d spent the late afternoon and most of the evening on a Dhow, chartered especially for us. Caroline had bowed out, fearing she might get seasick or even worse, be taken out of signal range and left with a useless phone. And so I had dressed in slacks and a shirt and presented myself at the hotel entrance, to be picked up by Prince Asim in a Maserati I could barely fit in. I must say the guy knows how to lay on a spread. The Dhow was built on a steel frame, but the upper decks were made of dark wood and it looked amazing. The lower deck had windows and was air conditioned, but we mostly sat up top. The crew was very polite and the guy in charge of our food wore blue disposable gloves, which I liked very much. There was cold beer, hidden discreetly in what seemed to be a pirate’s treasure chest, there were a gazillion pillows, there was roast meat and as boys’ nights out go, this was okay. The music was not to my taste, but I didn’t much care. It was either live music by some guys on drums and sitars, which all sounded the same to me, or the latest from Kunthy South and his ilk during their breaks. I preferred the live musicians, even though I had to remember to applaud and smile politely whenever they stopped playing for a while. The staff were clearly used to this sort of thing and knew exactly when to bring new drinks. There was diet Coke, thank Allah, because I certainly wasn’t going to get blotto on a boat with strangers.

Doha looked amazing at sunset. The skyscrapers were visible from miles out, lit up in their various psychedelic colours. It’s not enough to build ‘em high, you have to build them shiny and in weird shapes, with mood lighting. The Sheraton hotel, one of the first landmarks Doha ever had, is located at the far end and stands out because of the pyramid shape and the fact it seems rather small next to the glass-clad behemoths. Several of those buildings were mostly empty and in one or two cases a steel frame had to be pulled down after they ran out of money during construction, because the heat warps bare metal frames over time, but it’s still quite the skyline. I’m quite enamoured of the Tornado Tower, which to me looks more like a vase than a tornado. It’s has a slightly thinner middle and over its emerald green windows runs a lattice of silver strands in a diamond pattern. So very simple and so very, very graceful. The Navigation Tower also has an hourglass figure, only it’s not round but flattened and has no lattice work. It’s breathtaking in the evening sun. Virtually all skyscrapers can be illuminated and this being the Middle East they often are, in garish colours that make Manhattan look positively glum in comparison. They also more or less cancel each other out, like a troupe of beauty queens elbowing each other out of the way to get to center stage. But even so, I love a good skyline. Paris from Tour Montparnasse is great and so is London from The Shard, but Doha is up there, if you can push away the thoughts of all the blood, sweat and tears shed by disposable workers from third world nations. Sadly, that’s a skill we’ve all acquired.

Asim was smoking. I don’t care for water pipes, but they do help set the mood and they had added the smell of apple to the tobacco, which made it much less annoying. Besides, the wind took it all away in an instant. After sunset the sea got a bit choppy, so we moved belowdeck. There was dessert, or maybe I should say more dessert, and I just let Asim do the talking. He had a lot to say, especially about luxury hotels, sports cars, horses, falcons, girls in clubs he’d met and his family. People like to talk about themselves, so I let him. When he asked about me, I could keep it very simple: I was Reginald Carstairs, I served Caroline Keller and managed parts of her business empire and I liked going to museums. He loved hearing my thoughts on what I’d seen at the museum that afternoon and not a word was said about my family, Aston Martin, Kelly or a million other things which would normally have occupied my brain like runaway computer processes hijacking the processor on a laptop. Instead, I coasted at 10 percent, running just the basic services and enjoying the view and the comfy cushions. I complimented him on his English, which felt a bit weird since it’s not my first language either, but at least I had the advantage of English and Dutch sharing the same alphabet and reading direction. My hat is off to any Arab who speaks English, no matter how flawed, because it’s a lot harder than, for instance, learning Spanish when you already know English.

He appreciated the compliment and we found out we both like British comedy series. There wasn’t much of an overlap, because I like the edgier stuff (Monty Python, Alexei Sayle, Spitting Image, Jerry Sadowitz, Hale & Pace, The Mary Whitehouse Experience, Black Books) and he had grown up watching censored versions of series that were already very prim and proper: Only Fools and Horses, Open All Hours, To The Manor Born, Keeping Up Appearances and obviously Mr. Bean. In his youth Saudi TV showed about one hour of English programming per night, for the expat community. Half of that was the English language TV news, which consisted mostly of an overview of the telegrams that the King had received from foreign dignitaries (so called ‘cables of greeting’) and then there was a sitcom from which religious censors had cut out anything that could conceivably be seen as titillating, such as Victor Meldrew arguing in bed with his wife (they’re both retired and in pyjamas, but still) and Hyacinth Bucket kissing her husband goodbye when he’s off to work. Asim was thirty-one, or eleven years my junior, but Saudi Arabia is always a decade or so behind the times. There were no public cinemas either (because men and women would be in the dark together), but VHS tapes from the UK did the rounds and many of those contained comedy series, because those would pass the spot checks from customs officers with relative ease. American tapes were not in demand, as Saudi Arabia uses the PAL system rather than NTSC. He did know Knight Rider, though. And we all know Baywatch, but unlike him I couldn’t be sent to prison for having a VHS tape of it in my room. Mind you, as a Royal he didn’t run much risk either.

It felt a bit odd to be out at sea with an Arab prince, when I could be on my way home to be with my girls and my little boy, but I have to admit it was relaxing. And it had been a while since I’d done any of that. I like being out on the water, especially if navigation is someone else’s problem. I told the prince about my boat and eventually telling him at least something about my personal life became inescapable, or it would have been weird. So I just said I worked for Caroline, which is true, as one of her business managers.

“But can I ask you something? Why you are so popular on the Facebook?” he said, clearly frustrated there hadn’t been an appropriate moment to bring that up.

“Yes, it seems I am. My niece manages that page. I never go near it. But I’ve done an advert, you see. For Three, the telecom provider. That’s how I met Caroline. And that’s why people remember me, sometimes.”

“So you are an actor?”

“Occasionally. I mean, I’ve done some things. But it’s not my big ambition in life. I don’t want to spend my life doing auditions and waiting for months until the next part comes along. I graduated as an economist. Acting just isn’t ... It’s not a real job, is it? It’s not a real life. I don’t need applause. I mean, it’s nice when it happens, but I just want to help Ms. Keller run her company.”

“You should marry her! Then you could have her company for yourself!”

“She’s ... not the marrying kind...” I said, somewhat taken aback by his world view.

I wanted to leave Melody, Kate, Edwin and Kelly out of this. Asim was just a bit too curious for my taste. I was surprised he didn’t know about Fatherland and all the other stuff, but then Facebook moves fast and I’m sure I wasn’t so interesting that he’d trawl through several years of post and messages or whatever it’s called. Timeline, I think.

I do wear a wedding band, but even though I have Mel’s permission to fool around, I’m a bit sentimental and I take it off when I’m intimate with Caroline or ... Well, Caroline. Samantha and Susan were out of the picture these days. And I had left it in my toiletries bag after my first shower, simply because although I am married, Carstairs is not. And I thought the Aston Martin people wanted Reginald, not Martin.

“So are you a religious man?” he asked.

That’s not really a topic for polite conversation in the Netherlands. I’d learned that it is for many Americans, who wear their religion on their sleeves, but for me it’s a question on par with: ‘How often do you masturbate and do you lick the tissue afterwards?’ You may as well ask me if I’m addicted to gambling, if I’ve ever been kidnapped by a UFO or if I beat my wife very often. The answer in all cases is a resounding: ‘No and what the hell do you take me for?!’

I’ve had to deal with it before, though. Koreans can be curious as well. They think it strange that Westerners are prepared to believe there’s a man on a cloud watching them on the toilet and taking notes, but that they don’t believe there’s a dragon in the river that runs past their house. And so when asked I’m Catholic. Nobody ever follows up on that. Which is good, because I don’t know the first thing about it. Besides, atheists are one of the last groups you can freely discriminate against. Just because we don’t believe in God doesn’t mean we worship Satan instead! And I do know right from wrong. I may have faltered once or twice, but I’m told there are one or two pious men in prison. Religion does not guarantee morality. Complacency, certainly. But not morality.

“I’m Catholic.”

“Ah! Not uhm ... C of E?”

“No. But that’s mainly an administrative difference. Any pew in a storm, you know.”

“Good. That’s good. A man should have God in his heart.”

“Well, quite.”

What the hell do you say to that?

“When we were in the cockpit, I wasn’t so sure how you felt,” he went on.

“Yes, well ... Plenty of airplanes went down with religious people on ‘em. I didn’t think prayer would help much.”

It was about time we spoke about what had happened. It probably wasn’t something I would just shrug off in a few days and he was the only person who had been with me every step of the way from the beginning to the end. He didn’t just hold up the iPad: he held me together by giving encouragement when I felt overwhelmed by all those buttons and by allowing me to blow off steam when the fear got a little too close. I’m not sure Caroline could have played that role.

“I did the praying, you did the landing,” he smiled.

“And you held the iPad. And you helped to get those fighter jets off our back. Imagine the panic that would have caused ... And your moral support was invaluable.”

I had stopped saying ‘your Highness’ at his specific request, but I was glad English doesn’t differentiate between a formal and an informal ‘you’, like Dutch, German, French ... Italian ... Klingon ... High Elvish ... Practically all other languages, come to think of it! Each time we address someone we have to choose the right form. If you’re unsure what I’m talking about, imagine that ‘thou’ is the polite form for your elders, customers, your grandparents and, until told otherwise, your in-laws. Bit of a minefield, right? Which the English speaking world has neatly circumvented by making ‘you’ appropriate for anyone from a con artist, a racist, a demagogue or a sexual predator to the president of the United States. And for me as well, because now I could maintain a certain distance without seeming to be standoffish or deferential.

“Yes. But I’m certain I could not have done more. What you did was remarkable, my friend.”

“Thank you.”

“So does your God not say you should ‘go forth and multiply’?”

Wow, hell of a conversation starter! I tried to unsettle him by asking:

“What, right now? I haven’t even finished my drink!”

“No no no, my friend, no! Please, sit down! Just ... I am curious why you devote your life to Miss Keller. She is just your boss, right?”

I suppose I’d made this mess myself. Even though he had a lot to tell me about himself, his plans to start a family, his business empire that did God knows what and his position in the Saudi royal family, he had also been asking about my family from time to time. When I started out by telling him something about my parents I felt he got a bit too interested. That might just be a cultural thing, but there is really no need to go over my dad’s entire professional career, is there? I just brought him up because the daft old codger is always good for an anecdote or two and half an hour later I was still answering questions. So that’s when I decided I wasn’t going to bring up Melody or Edwin and certainly not Kate. I was Carstairs to him anyway, so I just said I worked for Caroline and that took up all my time.

“Miss Keller is my boss and a very dear friend. But that is it.”

“Right. So are you looking for a wife?”

“I had a wife. She died two years ago.”

I won’t say his face turned ashen, but he certainly did the mime. And he was tipsy. Not quite drunk, but certainly unfit to drive. I think he considered hugging me for a second.

“Oh I am sorry, my friend! I am so sorry!”

“That’s quite alright.”

I could talk about my dead wife, no problem. I behaved shamefully at her funeral, but I have also grieved for Monique since that day. It came a bit later than expected, one night just after Kelly had gone to bed in our house in Van Nuys. Samantha inadvertently triggered it by saying:

“You could have had a daughter her age by now.”

And that’s what made me do some sums in my head and before I knew it my life with Monique thundered past my mind’s eye in an unstoppable film, in Panavision and Dolby Surround. I joke about her more than perhaps I should, but there were good times, too. Lots of them, especially in the beginning. I wouldn’t have started my own business as early as I did if not for her, or hired my first employees. She pushed me into unknown territory, but I never had to go it alone. Monique pored over the lease for my first office and came up with seven questions for the property manager I’d never have thought of. She did part of my admin for the first year and not a single invoice was left unpaid, even if they were only for a few hundred or thousand guilders at the time. And so poor Sam suddenly saw me collapse into a heap of sadness and had a very long night ahead of her as I properly grieved for Monique for the first time ever.

But that was all over and done with now, so I told Asim about her and left out all the bad bits.

“She sounds wonderful. I am sorry for your loss.”

“I appreciate it. But to answer your question: I won’t be marrying Mrs. Keller.”

“No, of course not. It is too soon.”

“And to answer your other question, the unspoken one: yes, I do like women.”

He grinned and leaned in to slap my shoulder.

“Ha ha ha! Well, you see ... Such a well-dressed gentleman, a servant to a woman ... I was just curious.”

“No, I get it.”

“But why did you tell me your were her ... what was it? Not butler ... Waiter?”

“Valet.”

“Valet! Yes! But you run her business!”

“Not all of them. She has an interest in dozens of business. I run one business unit and I’m in charge of the IT department for the moment. And I get her a cup of tea from time to time, or carry a suitcase. She has been very good to me in my hour of need, so I don’t mind. When people think you’re just a butler, or a valet, they say all sorts of things they wouldn’t tell you otherwise. It comes in handy from time to time.”

I seemed to have finally stumbled onto the story that Asim wanted to believe: that it was just a ruse, that a real man wouldn’t actually be a servant to a woman.

“Yes! Of course! It is a disguise! Very clever!”

“Exactly.”

The skipper came up to us.

“Excuse me, gentlemen ... We can stay out as long as you wish, but I have to inform the port authority of our plans. What shall it be?”

“Oh I don’t...” began Asim. And then, as if he’d only just thought of it, he asked:

“Carstairs? If you like, I can have some lady friends join us?”

I’m a bit slow on the uptake in matters such as these, so I considered what that might mean and which women he was referring to. And so the first thing I said was:

“Oh dear God, don’t tell me you had girls waiting in the cargo hold all this time!”

The skipper seemed offended, but Asim hurriedly said:

“No, no! They are waiting in the hotel. In the lounges. We can send for them, or dock at one of the hotels to pick them up. It should not take long for two or three of them to get here. We just have to be discreet, you know. I have to make a few phone calls.”

And that’s when I decided I’d had enough.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. It’s much too soon for me. You can drop me off anywhere if you wish to spend some time with your lady friends, but I should prefer to return to my hotel. Miss Keller and I have a busy day ahead of us.”

“Yes, no, of course, I see! No problem!”

He said something in Arabic and the skipper disappeared, walking backwards until he hit the door.

“We are going back. It has been great meeting you, Carstairs.”

And that’s where we left it. We were twenty minutes out and spent it on the upper deck, taking in the view until we docked near the museum. It was a very short ride in Asim’s car back to the hotel. We shook hands, said nice things and then I returned to Caroline’s room.

“Did you get seasick?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Did you throw anyone off the ship?”

I chuckled.

“No...”

“Did you rescue a dolphin? Or a crew member?”

“Nothing of the sort. I had a pleasant evening on a lovely ship with a great view and some nice food. And the prince isn’t a bad egg, even though he’s got a terrible case of affluenza. But he’s hardly the only one around here.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m sure the prince has better manners than you. Now, do you suppose I’m going to have to handcuff you to the bed? Or shall we just throw up a barricade with the furniture before we turn in?”

“Relax. I’m usually good for weeks when I’ve had an episode. And I’m nice and relaxed now. Are you ... tired?”

Suddenly all the sarcasm was gone. She came up to me and started to undo my tie.

“Not at all...”

“Only I thought you said something about being ‘good until 2020’ and I wouldn’t want to...”

“Oh do shut up. We don’t have many sleepovers as it is, and I’m not going to waste this night. Would you mind awfully having a quick shave and a shower? And I’ll do the same.”

“What, you’ll have a quick sha ... oooooooh! Yes!”

I slept better that night. In fact, I checked the label on the mattress and made a note to replace my IKEA ‘Morgedal’ with one of those. Mind you, I’ve done that before and then I get home and can’t be arsed to actually deal with all that. Throw out an old mattress? That involves a trip to the council depot, and I don’t have a station wagon. I’d have to clear out Mel’s van and that’s an afternoon of work for starters. Besides, it’s a rip-off, isn’t it? Mattresses. Unbelievable markups. That’s why fly-by-night mattress stores always appear when a shop goes out of business. And mattress manufacturers change their names more often than Polish hookers, so you’ll never be able to find them if you want to use the warranty. And they’re all comfortable if you try them for two minutes after a busy afternoon of shopping for furniture, aren’t they? Besides, I don’t just sleep on them. And I’m hardly going to dry-hump Melody in the middle of the showroom, her legs around my neck, to see what the mattress is like when my full weight is resting on my knees. So you have a lie down, make sure it’s not sagging, pay three or four times over the odds and hope for the best because unless the thing catches fire it will have to last me until I move house.

Caroline was already up, of course. She has a bit of a hang-up about being seen ‘without her face’, even though I’ve had a look when she was asleep and there’s nothing wrong with it. Besides, we’ve showered together and had sex with the lights on, and I distinctly remember seeing her face then as well. Kate says Caroline does yoga in the morning and it makes her fart, which is the real reason she’s always somewhere else. I’ve never tried yoga but Mel and Kate have and I hear the farting is a real problem, so I choose to believe that version and every time I wake up in a bed without Caroline I giggle as I imagine her on all fours in another room, tearing one off in sweatpants and that’s a very nice way to start the day.

She came to look for me in the shower, fully dressed in a ‘midi’, a tunic that was black and white split vertically right down the middle. It covered her shoulders and her knees and there wasn’t a single button or zipper on the thing, nor any sort of cleavage. Pure fucking class, mate. I saw her in the mirror, because she didn’t just storm into the bathroom. Actually she did, but it was so large it was more or less a bathroom in a bathroom, if that makes any sense. She waited behind a corner.

“Martin?”

“Good morning! Love the outfit! Be right out!”

“Thank you, dear! I’m popping out for an hour or so. Breakfast is ready for you in my room.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have some errands to run. Is this a good time to talk you through the day?”

“Uhm ... I’m kinda ... naked?”

“Will you be long?”

“Just another minute. Would you mind laying out a suit for me?”

“Certainly.”

I towelled off and stepped into the room. There was no suit waiting on the bed, but another casual outfit. Caroline was folding some of my clothes.

“What’s this?”

I picked up a garish pair of swimming trunks and a dark blue shirt.

“Your attire for today. I suggest you head down to the pool and just relax for a while. It really is quite pleasant. I’ll join you later.”

“Is that an order?”

“No, dear! Just a suggestion. Do you really need a reason to have a day off? I can give you several, based on your posture alone. Or I could bring up the whole ‘you saved five hundred people’ thing again. Would that do? Oh, if only I knew what John Calvin might have said in these circumstances. ‘For God’s sake, man! Take the bloody day off,’ I’d imagine.”

“I am not a Calvinist,” I mumbled, admiring the trunks. I’d bought a similar pair in Los Angeles, mainly to annoy Kelly. Mine had parrots on them. These had cartoonish swashbuckling sailors and a treasure chest on the back. Talk about booty.

“Not the religious part, certainly. But other than that...”

Why was I having an argument in my hotel room before breakfast? I wanted to give her a piece of my mind, but then I noticed a twinkle in her eye and a wrinkle in the corner of her mouth that only shows when she smiles, even though she wasn’t.

“Are you having a laugh?”

She allowed herself to smile and came up to me for a brief hug.

“Yes. You’re on vacation, Martin. Oh, that reminds me: we have been neglecting your exercises, so we shall do them when I get back. The pool is a bit irregular in shape, but thirty minutes of swimming should do. It’s probably not very busy right now, but a very pleasant twenty-six degrees. Now don’t forget your breakfast and bring your phone down to the pool. They’ll keep it for you at the bar when you’re in the water. Must dash!”

“You’re KIDDING! You’re making me do my bloody...”

The door closed behind her.

“ ... exercises...” I sighed. And then I had sodding avocado on toast. It’s not so bad, really. Except for the taste and the texture and it not being a chocolate croissant, that is.

Caroline was right: the outside pool area of the Four Seasons in Doha is very pleasant indeed. They’ve aimed for something with a tropical vibe. There were plenty of sunbeds, many of them under wood-beamed roofs for a bit of shade. No big square or rectangular pool here, but several connecting grotto-style pools (thankfully I found a brochure, because I’d never have thought of that description) with different elevations. You can swim underneath bridges, get splashed by a waterfall or just float around. Local expats can buy tickets and spend the day there. There’s a lot of staff and you’re never short of a towel or a drink. And if you like, you can stroll to the beach and have a swim in the Gulf, although there is a marina right next to it so it’s probably best not to go in too far, or you may be ripped to shreds by a boat propellor. I settled down in one of the lazy chairs in the shade, gave my phone to a very friendly uniformed pool attendant and dutifully began to swim from end to end for about half an hour. My route was a bit circuitous, but that was actually a lot more fun than swimming up and down the basement of Keller & Fox head office. People are always a bit weary of single men in pool areas, but I stayed away from everyone else, never even making eye contact. It wasn’t very busy, anyway.

As soon as I’d settled down in my sun chair, wondering what to do with the rest of the morning, the pool attendant brought my phone. They’re called ‘wellness agents’, by the way.

“You have a missed call, Sir. I couldn’t find you in time.”

“That’s okay. Can I have a...”

Oh dear ... I wanted tea. I always want tea. I’d look a right fool with a steaming cuppa when it was almost thirty degrees, wouldn’t I?

“Yes, Sir?”

“Can I have hot, black tea in a glass? With an umbrella? So people won’t think I’ve gone barking mad?”

Props to the Four Seasons staff: he didn’t bat an eyelid.

“Certainly, Sir.”

The missed call was from Kelly. I had remembered to bring my headset so I felt I could call her back as long as I kept my voice down. I used FaceTime, because I had a wi-fi connection. She answered after one ring. I could tell she was at her parents’ house, on the settee.

“Hi, Martin!”

“Hi, gorgeous.”

She giggled. Kate’s laughter is the most beautiful sound I know, but Kelly’s is right up there.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ve just had a swim and now I’m having tea by the pool. Or I will be, soon.”

I showed her the pool and the palm trees.

“Ooooh! Jealous! It’s raining here.”

“I’ll bet. So what’s new?”

“Well, if you’ve got a minute? I wanted to discuss a few things.”

“Sure.”

“It’s about Carstairs’ Britain. I’m trying to set up locations, but it’s not working out so well.”

“Oh? How come?”

“Because half the places where I want to film are owned by the National Trust or some similar organisation. Cliveden House, Waddesdon manor, even Stone Henge and the Giant’s Causeway are National Trust properties!”

“I’m not surprised. I mean, someone’s gotta manage them.”

“Well, they certainly do. You have to get permits to shoot there and they’re very expensive. Never mind if you want the place to yourself for a day or so: you have to plan that almost a year in advance so they can advertise that it will be closed on the day, and you have to compensate their revenue. We don’t have twenty-thousand in the budget just so that you and I can stroll through Belton House.”

“I see. So it’s a matter of finding other locations.”

“Good luck with that. It’s the same everywhere else. Bletchley park, Danesfield House, Kew gardens, Salisbury Cathedral ... You can’t even walk along ruddy Hadrian’s wall without a permit, if you’re a film crew. About the only places of historical interest where we can shoot for free are Blackpool sands, Brighton Pier and Dartmoor. Not much of a story there, though.”

Kelly was talking about the documentary series we’d been hoping to shoot this summer. During our last appearance on the Graham McAfee show we had more or less promised the great British public we’d be back and we felt it might be nice if Kelly and Carstairs explored the rich history of the United Kingdom together. Kelly had taken it upon herself to write twelve scripts, or at least find twelve locations and list what we might talk about. She seemed really enthusiastic about it and Kate was able to tell her what information she would need to include to work out a budget. Based on that, a production team would then take over.

“I’m sorry to hear all this, Kelly. I know you’ve put in a lot of work. But I’m sure we can find a lot of interesting places if we stick our heads together. Kate told me British Rail is always willing to help with film shoots, to get some good PR. And I’m sure any number of museums will welcome us for some extra publicity. We can film there in the evenings.”

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This Is Your Carstairs Speaking

Ron Dudderie

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