Chapter 16: The road to perdition

Thursday, September 24^th, 2015. Guest Palace.

I woke up the next morning from a polite knock on my door, to let me know breakfast was waiting on a trolley outside. It was only then I realised that I shouldn’t have gone to bed at all! I had turned in after I’d returned the key to the Khafama’s room, but what I should have done was retrieve that sodding laptop and copy the drive now that I had a faster drive enclosure. And who knows, perhaps Omar had logged on during the day and I’d have captured the access code as well. But somehow I had just started my bed time routine and forgotten all about that damned machine.

And so I started my day by quietly cussing myself out. ‘Holy shit you miserable moron, it’s as if you don’t WANT to leave this Godforsaken sandpit and be with your family.’ I spent five minutes cursing in the shower and then I decided that wouldn’t help matters in the slightest. What’s done is done. At least I’d managed to get a secret copy of Omar’s office key.

I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it anyway, as I had another lesson with Alexandra. Those always came first, as they justified my presence in this palace. As per usual we were both in different rooms, invisible to each other because of a thick, black curtain.

By now I didn’t have to draw up lesson plans: she just had a lot of reading to do and would come up with questions by herself. We also did a splash of history from time to time, which rankled her a bit as it was European history. Hey I’m sorry, we have always been where the action is. We touched on the renaissance and I told her about Italy and its art treasures, though I made sure not to tread too far outside the path set by her books. This was supposed to benefit her, after all. I did let it slip my wife and I had visited Rome, which got her very interested as I don’t usually talk about the late Mrs. Carstairs. From there we briefly strayed into a few personal stories and observations. She knew the Louvre had an annex in Abu Dhabi, contained in a magnificent, Epcotesque half dome (I wonder if I’m the first person to ever use that word. But I have no internet down here, so I can’t check) and wouldn’t mind a visit with a person who knew about art.

“Well, I’m not sure if we can swing that before you sit your exams, but I will certainly keep it in mind,” I promised, thus not promising anything.

“Maybe you can become my mahram. That would be so much easier?” she said. Yes, as a question. Valley girl accent, remember?

“Mahram for the day. Is that how it works?”

“It works however men want it to work. Now that Imam Musa is finally dead, maybe uncle Omar will be a bit less strict?”

Alexandra made no effort to hide the fact Musa’s demise had brought her great joy. His body had never been recovered from the remnants of his mosque, so people assumed he had been very near the explosion, set by Jewish operatives who were out to disrupt Saudi civilisation in the hopes of stopping the inevitable spread of Islam across the globe in favour of the Zionist agenda. I’m more or less quoting the newspapers here. Funny thing is I’m not actually Jewish, but I’m sure the Mossad would have chipped in if asked. Never occurred to me to ask, really.

“He was okay in Las Vegas, wasn’t he?”

“To you, sure? Because he needed you to give a good show? Not to me? And he was nervous all the time?”

I’m going to leave out the question marks from here on out. It was annoying enough at the time.

“Yeah, the guy is a dick, what can you do,” I sighed, and wondered if I should order more tea.

“Oh!”

“What?”

“I have a question?”

“Well, that is why I’m here and not in London, soaking up the rain.”

“About the presents?”

“The ... AH! Yes. Question? What, do you think I read the manuals? I didn’t even open the boxes.”

“What is this?” she said, and pushed something to my side of the curtain. I put on my reading glasses and examined a tiny pink box.

“Do I open it?”

“Yes! Please? I don’t know what it is.”

It couldn’t be a dildo, given the size of the box. And so I opened it and found a rubber ring with a small cylinder, slightly larger than one of those two part medicine capsules, attached to it. It had a button on one side and when I pushed it, it buzzed like an electric toothbrush.

“Oh, hello ... Well, isn’t it obvious? The buzzing?”

“No? I don’t ... I can’t ... How does it fit?”

“How does it fit?! Why are you asking ME that?”

“Don’t you know?”

Westerners are supposed to be experts on all things foul and perverse.

“No. I just ordered a complete package. A starter kit, so to speak. And batteries. Oh, hang on! This isn’t for you!”

“No?”

“I mean ... it’s not for you to use by yourself. Yes, there’s the problem. Okay, I get it now. Sorry, I had no idea this was in there. This is basically like a condom. The man puts it on and when it buzzes it’s fun for everyone. Well, mostly you I should imagine.”

“Oh. I thought maybe it should go around my wrist, but it was too small for that.”

“Yeah, no, this is not for ... You need a man for that.”

I put it back in the box and slid it back behind the curtain.

“A man...” she scoffed. “Yes, I’m sure the fifty year old man uncle Omar will force me to marry will want to put that on.”

“I’m sorry if it came across as insensitive. Like I say, I didn’t select all the items individually.”

She didn’t say anything. That was quite normal. We had no means of visual communication, so we couldn’t see if the other side was sipping tea or taking notes. I had a copy of her history book on my lap, so I had something to read anyway.

“Did you order anything for yourself?” she suddenly asked. I decided not to cut it off right away. These people have almost no way of finding out anything about anything from a good source. Even the internet is filtered. All they have is gossip and hearsay. There are children in Arkansas who know more about sex than some married couples in Saudi Arabia. And so do their kids. Pa-dum!

“I did not,” I said, trying not to sound dismissive.

“Really?”

“Wouldn’t know what, really. There was barely anything in that catalogue for men.”

“You could get ... pocket pussy?” she said, and giggled.

“Yeah. I suppose so. It’s not really a substitute good, to put it in economic terms.”

“No?” she asked, seemingly very interested to hear a middle-aged bald man vaguely acknowledging the topic of sex. What can I say? Thrills are few and far between in the Arab world.

“No. It’s not really the essence of a woman, is it? All the really fun parts are missing. And anyway, who wants to have to hide a suspiciously large flashlight from their maid? Not me. Amina is in and out of my room all the time.”

Amina was Alexandra’s maid, too. Or one of them, at any rate.

“Amina knows how to be quiet. She will never say anything.”

“Oh? That’s good to know.”

“Yes? Good?”

“Well, not really. Amina washes my underwear, I don’t think I have many secrets left for her.”

That made her laugh.

“Do you think she is pretty?”

I didn’t see that coming. Was she looking for gossip? As far as I knew, Alexandra didn’t really communicate with anyone inside the palace. Her friends were mostly women her age, locked up in houses and palaces across the city. Most had a few kids by now.

“I think she’s a very nice person who works very hard for very little money and lives in appalling conditions. And I try to be a person she doesn’t need to worry about. That is all.”

“Oh. You think she is unhappy?”

“No, I think she’s pleased as punch about being a virtual slave in an oppressive society who gets to clean rich people’s rooms and four hours a week to hang around in a mall, supervised,” I spat out.

Alexandra laughed.

“You really don’t like our country, do you?”

“I like some of it. But not that part.”

“I like none of it. I wish I could leave. That Mexican man offered to abduct me, so I could be free. I should have said yes.”

“Did he? Arturo?”

“Yes. We spoke. He wanted to know about my family and about you. He said I could come to Mexico, where I could live free. I...”

Suddenly I heard quiet sobs from behind the curtain. Not to be a dick about it, but we weren’t friends. We were just people who spent a lot of time together and both knew it was easier to be civil.

“Hey ... Lexy ... Come on, don’t let it get to you. That diploma may be a way out. And you were right not to come along with Arturo. The guy is an absolute crook.”

“I know, that’s why I didn’t do ihihiiiiit. Snrf. And I couldn’t stay in America either. They don’t help Saudi citizens. They just ship us back. Especially women.”

“Yeah. Anything to keep the oil flowing, I know. Listen, perhaps we should call it a day. And let’s assume the best long-term strategy to get out of here is to become so highly educated no traditional man will want you.”

“All men become traditional when they get older, Mr. Carstairs. Thank you for today. Tomorrow I will be done with chapters nineteen and twenty.”

“Good. Bye, Lexy.”

It was unusually busy in the corridors when I went back to my room. This was odd, because we were on the third floor, where only Omar and his family lived. My floor, the second floor, was more like a hotel, so it was not uncommon to see a senior civil servant walking behind a staff member pulling a luggage cart. Amina was at work in a room near the staircase and spotted me.

“Salaam Aleikum, Professor,” she said, with her colleague in earshot. “Do you need anything? Towels?”

“Uhm ... Yes! I spilled tea on my bed. Would you mind popping in? It’s not urgent, but...”

“Yes Sir, no problem. Half an hour.”

“Shukran.”

I was in the mood for a visit to the House of Pancakes, but decided to wait until I’d spoken to Amina. She showed up with fresh sheets, but didn’t look at the bed because it was made up as tight as a drum. I honestly don’t think a cup of tea can even penetrate a bed made by Amina. Seriously, I had gotten used to using two hands to dislodge the sheet.

“Hello, Professor.”

“Hi. Thank you for your help yesterday. You’re not in trouble I hope?”

“No. But the Khafama is. They don’t believe his story that his TV turned to a strange channel of its own.”

“Well boohoo for him. I hope they use a dull sword to cut off his hand, then.”

“Did you manage to do what you needed to do?”

“What do you mean? I just wanted to get back at him for breaking into my room.”

“Yes. Okay. Well, that worked. He was sent to the Rose Palace this morning.”

“What, is that punishment?”

“I don’t think so, but he usually never leaves prince Omar’s side. I think he was sent ahead to prepare for our arrival. We leave tonight.”

“Tonight!? So that’s why everyone is so busy!”

“Yes, I think so. It’s only an hour to fly there. The housekeeping staff goes by bus.”

“Will you be going?”

“No. I don’t think so, anyway. They would have said.”

“Hmmm...” I wasn’t sure I liked that. Amina was a useful ally.

“Amina, do you mind going to the Rose Palace?”

“Oh no, not at all. Perhaps it would be good ... if I came?”

“Came? Went, you mean. I’m not going. It’s in the forbidden zone.”

“Yes, of course. You can’t go there. But the prince will leave tonight, and he will bring everything with him.”

She stressed the word ‘everything’.

“Everything?” I asked. She nodded.

“Yes. And he usually stays for a week or two. It is almost hajj. He is very observant.”

“I see. Thank you, Amina. I won’t keep you.”

“Thank you, Mar ... Professor.”

“I’m neither. Reginald will do,” I said, knowing full well I wasn’t fooling her any longer. Still, she seemed to be on my side. And it’s not as if I had a choice of allies.

I had K-T drive me to the restaurant, where the manager greeted me as if I were the ambassador of Freemoneystan. Slow day, I guess.

“Sir, your beard!” he said, because we’d developed a bit of a rapport. He smiled and rubbed his own smooth chin as he stared at my stubble.

“Yes, I know. It will be back soon enough. My usual, please.”

“Tomato soup, toast, Diet coke, chicken salad, yes Sir.”

I loved the soup. It’s only Campbell’s cream of tomato with a generous helping of croutons, but I developed a fondness for it whilst trying to avoid Korean food.

I had a semi-regular booth there, in the bachelor section of course. It was out of sight and I could read the international (five day old) newspapers they had, which were often left behind by embassy staff. The red tops don’t usually make it into the country because of the nude pictures, but diplomats got whatever they liked via secured diplomatic pouches and so I found a copy of The Daily Mirror, which is lowbrow but not quite as awful as, say, The Sun, the Daily Star or the Daily Express. Also, it was the most recent one available. And yes, they too had a piece about me. Not nearly as long as the review in the LA Times, but still half a column.

“Sir? Is something wrong with the food?”

The head waiter caught me staring in horror at the newspaper, trying to unpack all that bullshit. Well, at least it seemed Mel’s earlier works, which she had once sold for a pittance or even given away, were now worth tens of thousands of pounds. Well deserved, sweetheart. But other than that, I would have been better off taking this newspaper straight into the crapper for a jolly good wipe.

“Uhm ... No. Ah ... It’s fine.”

“It will be cold now, Sir. Please, I will get you a new plate.”

“Thank you. And take the paper, please.”

“Yes, Sir.”

My salad had also been delivered a while ago so I poked it for a bit, still reeling from the malicious bullshit I’d just read. That L.A. Times review had been a lot nicer.

My phone rang and I noticed Asim’s name. Making calls in this restaurant was perfectly fine, so I answered.

“Good afternoon, Your Royal Highness.”

“Carstairs, my friend, where are you?”

“I am at the House of Pancakes, Sir.”

“Are you done?”

“Not quite. Why, Sir?”

“We have to pack! Omar has decided you are coming along to Mecca, so Alexandra’s lessons won’t suffer.”

“Ah, yes. I had heard there’s a flight planned for tonight.”

“You are not travelling with the family, my friend. It would be too ah ... sus ... ah ... conspicuous! Omar doesn’t want to be accused of bring a faithless ... I mean a ... Christian into the holy city. You understand. But it’s only an eight hour drive, no problem.”

“Drive? EIGHT hours?”

“Yes, but I am coming with you so we can share the driving. If I am with you, you can pass all the checkpoints. By yourself that might be a problem, even with a medallion.”

“Right. Okay. This is ... EIGHT hours?”

“Yes. No problem! We can even leave tonight, so we are there tomorrow morning.”

“TONIGHT?”

“It’s okay! It’s a good road. Very safe. So finish your meal and go pack up. Pack everything, we may be there for a while. From there we can explore more of my country, like the beach resorts and Farasan island. You will enjoy it!”

Oh great, the Saudi beach resorts. Oooh can’t wait. But hey, go where the reindeer go (and never eat the yellow snow). And especially reindeer with laptops.

“Very good, Sir. I’ll come to your house when I am packed. It may take a...”

“No! I come to you! I will pack as well. All our luggage can go on the plane, so we can travel light. You have at least until after Maghrib prayer, don’t worry. We can eat before we leave the city. It will be fun!”

Asim and I had a few very nice road trips, that’s true. But driving on a Saudi highway at night? Not my idea of a treat. He would want to play music to stay awake. I’d better bring some headphones.

I finished lunch and walked back to K-T. It was stupid hot today. But inside it was all nice and cool and even though the temperature difference was always a bit of a shock, I’d gotten used to it. She was able to convert all the heat collected by her body-panels into electricity using a technology called thermovoltaic cells. Like photovoltaic but with heat, rather than light. You see, solar panels lose effectiveness when they get hot. Saudi is actually too hot for solar most days. And that’s why the engineers at Aston Martin had seen fit to equip her with a special paint job that actually soaked up heat and converted it into power. It wouldn’t charge her from zero to full in a reasonable time, but it would certainly keep her topped up for one or two shopping runs a day, and run her artificial intelligence. Such as it was...

“K-T, take me to the palace.”

The doors locked and she calmly backed out of the parking space, waiting patiently for an elderly man to walk behind the car, towards the entrance of the restaurant.

“Understood. I noticed you received a call from prince Asim. Your voice indicated considerable stress.”

K-T didn’t usually listen in on my calls, but she was able to communicate with my smart watch.

“Yes, you can say that again. I’m going to Mecca. Tonight.”

“Mecca is 876 kilometres from our present location. My range is currently 569 kilometres.”

“Yeah, I know. Hang on, wasn’t it less when I got you?”

“Yes, but I have received several software upgrades and collected significant data on battery performance. The ambient temperature allows me to balance my cells almost continuously.”

“Would you be able to make it without passengers?”

“I am sorry, no. Without running comfort systems and the additional weight my range would be an estimated seven hundred kilometres, assuming zero elevation.”

“That’s not bad, but not enough. Go around that garbage truck, it just pulled up.”

She rang a chime, indicating I should take the wheel to deal with this issue. A white garbage truck with green stripes had partially backed up onto the sidewalk to empty a container. Entirely reasonable, but one of those things not even the smartest self-driving car could deal with in 2015. It did give me an idea, though.

“K-T, how far can you drive with comfort systems, but on manual drive only? So if you deactivated yourself, how far could you get?”

“Working, please hold.”

She needed thirty seconds to come up with an answer, which came complete with a graph I couldn’t read without my reading glasses.

“With current payload and all computer assisted systems suspended my estimated range is eight hundred kilometres, assuming zero elevation but with climate control active.”

“Oh. That’s still not enough. Shit. I really wanted to bring you along.”

“I am unable to parse that statement.”

“Never mind. Are there any hotels along the route?”

“Please state start and ending points of the route. Working. Please hold. Working.”

“Oh ... Are you having one of your turns again, dear? Do you want to lie down? Locate hotels approximately halfway between Riyadh and Mecca!”

“The.”

“The ... what?”

“Working. Please hold.”

“Switch to manual drive. I haven’t got time for this.”

“Manual drive selected.”

I was randomly selected for an inspection at the palace gates. They really are random, as far as I can tell. They’re also polite about it and you can wait in an air-conditioned guard house as they look under all the seats and use a mirror to look underneath the car. They also have a sniffer dog, but the rumour is that dog couldn’t even smell his own shit. It’s just a retired police dog that sits down when his handler signals him, so they have an excuse to pull your car apart. I was allowed to pass, but I was given a warning to get the car washed. That is actually a thing in many Middle Eastern countries, I’m told. Cars get dusty very quickly and it’s cheap to get them washed, so you can get a citation for driving around with a dusty car, unless you clearly just came back from a Wadi trip or something. Not entirely unreasonable, isn’t it? Or have I been there too long? I promised to take care of it.

“They said I should get you washed,” I said, conversationally.

“Finally,” said K-T, as I calmly drove to the Guest Palace.

I grinned, but then it occurred to me that this was a weird answer for a talking car.

“Did you say ‘finally’ just then?”

“I did.”

“Is sarcasm a part of your programming now?”

She was quiet for a few seconds. Then:

“I received several updates during your absence. Perhaps it explains my recent behaviour. I generated seventeen possible replies to your remark and selected the shortest answer with a medium weighted emotional component. Were you offended?”

“No, I wasn’t. Just surprised. Okay, I’ll park in the sun. You can soak up some heat. How full are your batteries?”

“They are currently at 89 percent.”

“Thanks.”

Once I was back in my room and started packing I realised I still had two suitcases stashed in Asim’s house. I could call him and ask him to bring them over, but I hadn’t needed them so far and it was unlikely I would need them in Mecca. Even so, I could use the space because I’d bought a few odds and ends plus some casual clothes since I moved in here. I called the man who brought me breakfast and asked if there were any spare suitcases lying around. He said he’d send one up and sure enough, ten minutes later there was a knock on the door. It was Amina, with a sturdy burgundy red Samsonite.

“Are you leaving?” she asked. “For Mecca?”

“So it would seem. But I’m not on the flight. I have to drive there.”

“Drive? You can’t! They check! We go on the bus and they stop all vehicles.”

“Asim is coming with me, he says it will be fine. So are you coming?”

“No. I am staying here. I have not been told to pack.”

“That’s a shame. Would you be near me if I asked if you could come?”

“I think so. Because you are always near princess Alexandra. But you can’t ask! They will think we are having an affair!”

“I think I know a way. Thanks for the suitcase. Whose is it?”

“The former ambassador to Bahrain. He was expelled after twenty-four hours for being drunk and left everything here.”

“Glad he did, that’s a nice suitcase. Okay, I’m sure they will let you know if I manage to get you on the list. Go, go.”

I texted Alexandra. Her phone was never out of her hand so the reply was instant.

‘May I ask a favour, YRH?’

‘what favor?’

‘I would like to bring my own maid along to Mecca.’

‘amina???’

‘Yes. Could you request it, on your own behalf?’

‘why - you (heart icon) her?’

‘It’s not that. I just don’t like dealing with strangers in my room. Please?’

‘ok, will call to make sure she is coming along - have you kissed (smiley face with tongue)’

‘NO. Thank you, Lexy.’

‘yw’.

We’d have to have a chat about punctuation marks and capitalization one day. I couldn’t possibly send her out into the world like that, now could I? I managed to educate Kelly in that regard and I’ll be damned if I can’t do that with Alexandra as well.

While I was packing, which is always stressful for me because I know how well Kate does it and somehow I always need up to three times the volume she does, Amina showed up and, leaving the door wide open so any passers by would see we were not in fact engaged in coitus or drug use of any kind, helped me to pack my bags. She did all the clothes, so I could focus on the gadgets.

“You have a lot of computer stuff,” she remarked. “And tools.”

“Yeah, well ... Computers always go wrong with me, so I like to have a backup. And a backup of the backup.”

“Uh-huh. You should throw these socks away! They have holes!”

“Only small ones.”

“You wear the best suits I have EVER seen and you have holes in your socks!”

“I know, but these socks were a hundred pounds a pair. I can’t bring myself to just throw them out. And they’re fine, look! You can’t see anything.”

“Then ask me to fix them.”

“You do enough for me, you don’t have to darn my socks.”

She got a text message and briefly checked her phone.

“I will be coming to the Rose Palace! On the plane!”

“Oh, right! On the plane, eh?”

“Yes! I am to take care of the princess. I have never been on the plane!”

“Well, enjoy it. You won’t be on it for long, as I understand it. I on the other hand will be driving all through the night.”

“Well, then I will try to unpack before you get there. So you can sleep right away.”

“You are...”

“What?” she asked, folding one of my shirts in a way that would make Kate proud.

“You are the real princess here,” I teased. But she didn’t like that.

“Sssssh! You cannot say that! I will get in trouble!”

An hour later my bags were taken away, leaving me only with a small travel bag. The room was empty now. Even the picture of Kelly’s mother, my supposed wife, was no longer on the shelf. I’d have to leave the books behind, which saddened me. And I’d miss that amazingly weird bathroom, tiled with thousands of tiny squares, mostly brilliantly blue but with all sorts of wonderful colourful mosaics that formed splashes of colour I never tired of looking at while I showered or used the luxurious Japanese toilet that invitingly opened the lid whenever I came near and that had a little LED light illuminating the floor below it so I could find my way at night without turning on all the lights. I had taken a few pictures of this bathroom and with any luck I’d be able to convince Melody to change ours into something similar.

While I waited for Asim I sat in my comfy chair and felt some pangs of melancholy as I looked at the bare shelves. It was unlikely that I would ever return to this room: once I had turned over the information on Omar’s laptop to the CIA and MI6 (and had a go at it myself), my work here was done. I might have to return to Riyadh for my return flight or, la samah Allah, drive all the way from Mecca to the border with Qatar, but I would not be going back to this life. And it pains me to say it, but I enjoyed that life. I enjoyed teaching, the time to myself, all the reading I got done, the servants bringing cups of tea and meals, the beautiful gardens, the bustling city just outside the walls of the serenely quiet and dignified (if slightly tacky) palace ... Yes, this life agreed with me. Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife and my son, and Kate obviously, more than I can possibly describe. But I lived for them, not for myself. Here, I didn’t have that burden. Shit, burden is a terribly word. Duty, then. Responsibility. Right now I was not a father or husband. I was teacher for a few hours a day and my own man for the remaining twenty hours. And that was nice. I needed that. I’d been through a lot, back home. For one thing, I had acquired two extra names. And to all the (mostly) wonderful people I had met, and who had made my life richer and more interesting than I could ever imagine, I was something else. A friend, a husband, a mentor, a confidant, a boss, a father, even a fictional character; the list goes on and on, with many variations and combinations. That was a lot, for me. I used to be far fewer people. And I guess I sometimes missed the simplicity of those days.

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The Protocols of Carstairs

Ron Dudderie

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Ron Dudderie

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