The Best Intentions in the World

Chapter 1 – Hawwa-1

CHAPTER 1

Hawwa“This is up to me.”

“If you say so,” answered cousin Remy, as he dropped me off in front of Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle airport, Terminal C.

I was not entirely sure what I was signing up for.

A terrorist group had rampaged through the Saudi capital a short while ago. Westerners no longer felt safe. The consulates were frantic and garlands of barbed wires had bloomed around every compound. What better time for me to move to Jeddah, a city near the Red Sea, a crucial milestone for traveling pilgrims on their way to Mecca.

There, they said, laid Eve, Hawwa.

My family had tried to talk me out of it, but it was too late. All the contracts were signed, my suitcases packed and ready to go.

I had graduated from a Paris design school. One of my classmates was Fahd, a Saudi who had no interest in becoming a civil servant or banker. His father had not objected to it, a small miracle that had enabled him to enroll in the same courses as me. He was a gifted young man who kept mentioning great “opportunities”. Arabia was reaching out to the world, money was pouring in and we were, he said, talented enough to make a fortune there.

Both of us had specialized in furniture design. He had nailed it on the head. Economies were booming throughout the Middle East and the Saudis were building huge properties thanks to oil money. Those mansions needed furnishing. They fancied a style I dubbed “Arabaroque”.

Without complacency, but rather with delectation, we went on to design outrageous pieces of furniture, made-to-measure.

Budget was never discussed. Our clients’ fantasies always set the limit. We were bombarded with extravagant requests—seats adorned with falcon heads, entire living rooms ornamented with gold, and red couches stamped with the royals’ portraits.

Money was good and greed overtook our creative ethics. It was then I decided to launch a limited edition of light-colored armchairs covered in Arabic scriptures and calligraphic patterns warped along sensual lines. A knowing eye had little trouble making out a woman’s curves.

Akin to Renaissance artists who defied the morals of the day with the ambiguity of their creations, we too enjoyed adding a touch of malice here and there. What started as a playful gimmick soon became a trademark. These subtle provocations were the key to our success.

Word-of-mouth worked wonders and our business grew quickly. A wealthy prince with countrywide influence caught wind of our achievements and offered us a deal that would enable us to further our ambitions. That is precisely when I grew bored and began doubting the relevance of our work. Yes, money was good, but how was I supposed to enjoy it? We were busy working night and day, bent over drawing boards or prospecting in the overloaded living rooms of wealthy locals. Fahd was over the moon. It was a consecration for him, the fulfillment of his childhood dreams. He had broken free from his father’s clutch, at last. I did not share his perspective. My work had become monotonous. Something was missing. I was desperate for a sign that things could change.

The messenger came to me in the guise of Kader, a Tunisian photographer for the Dubai Select who had come to shoot us in our workshop. The Emirates’ most prestigious magazine wanted to write a cover story about us. Fahd was ecstatic. He kept swaggering like some peacock from the sheikh’s gardens, parading in front of the camera. The journalist was genuinely interested in our work and asked very relevant questions.

We went along with the agreed-upon narrative. We were to symbolize the artistic rekindling between East and West. We would tear down the walls of ignorance and be known as the crafty inventors of a new Arab style. We lacked neither cheek, nor arrogance.

During the break, Kader and I talked a bit. He told me how he worked and disclosed the theme he had chosen for his next exhibition in an up-and-coming art gallery.

“Dubai Select is my bread and butter,” he told me, somewhat apologetic. “Today is a welcomed change from the usual inaugurations and jet set parties, where everyone’s ugly and drunk most of the time. No fancy filter could ever remove the sweat from their cheeks, the vulgarity of their outfits and the sheer stupidity in their eyes. And yet, I have to make them look presentable, desirable even.”

“And how do you go about doing that?” I asked.

“I wear my diving suit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Back when I lived in Paris, my neighbor used to throw huge parties. From my window, I could see the guests wiggling and dancing, having fun, getting intimate. My apartment was soundproof and the music itself was not a nuisance. But one night, it got louder than usual, so I had to wear earplugs. I walked to the window to watch this all-too-familiar show, but my entire perspective had changed. I was in awe. It felt like observing colorful fishes from outside the confined space of an aquarium. They were completely unaware of the world around them. I was impatiently waiting for the next party. I declined my neighbor’s invitation. I wanted to dive in once more, to study the living from the outside. From that day onward, I go to cocktail parties without apprehension.

“Do you still wear the earplugs?”

“Of course. It’s part of the outfit.”

He showed me his equipment—mask, camera, snorkel, flash light and his oxygen bottles—the heavy backpack holding his batteries and lenses.

Kader and I became friends. He opened my eyes to photography. He taught me what he knew and “trained” my sight, as he called it. I had a knack for it. What I lacked in technicality I made up in spontaneity—seizing the frailty of a moment, a glance, feeling the movement. Photography soon became my only hobby.

Your “shoddy,” as Fahd kept calling it. He feared this growing passion could end up threatening our business. He was spot on. I was giving very little thought to our upcoming collection and a whole lot more to my next getaway. It was becoming a compulsive, recurring need. I was always on the lookout for the most bewildering subjects, for that one unique moment my camera would freeze forever in time.

I was careless. Taking pictures of women as they went about their daily life could lead me straight to jail. That feeling of danger was exciting. I had got my hands on a very sophisticated camera used by reporters. And a very powerful zoom to top it off. The hunt could begin.

I fancied myself a wildlife photographer. The most crucial step was finding the right location, from where to see without ever being seen. I hung out near women-only parks, looking for a hideaway that would allow me to observe and be spared any untimely intrusion.

Women were all wearing niqabs. Away from the men, out of sight behind the high walls of the park, they became more audacious. Some would briefly uncover their faces to grab a bite. Others would open their tunics wide, revealing lush, sophisticated and sometimes very arousing undergarments. My curiosity was piqued for good. It felt like capturing moments of privacy and intimacy kept out of sight by their traditional garment. The kids were my only clue as to what their faces might look like. When a father came to pick up his family outside the park, I was able to compare everyone again, to see whether my intuitions were right. This voyeuristic approach to Saudi customs was very satisfying. Jeddah was an ideal playground.

Jeddah was an odd city. Some unhinged mayor had let a bunch of novice sculptors showcase their ego on each of the city’s roundabouts. They had delivered beyond all expectations.

The end result was mighty confusing. They had built giant octopuses, huge earthenware pots, ship replicas and gigantic globes. Only the limited size of the roundabouts seemed to have somewhat restrained the street artists’ creative fervor.

All along the Red Sea shores, playhouses rivaled in ingenuity to draw the kids’ attention. Mothers and children were zigzagging from one booth to the next. Hanging like baits in the midst of this urban whirlpool, blow up dinosaurs and RC cars teased the young passersby. The women were all dressed in anthracite niqab. The austerity of their garb—the uniformity of it all—came in stark contrast with all the colorful toys made in China.

In time, full black had come to prevail, advocated for by religious bigots. In some Muslim countries such as Yemen, women dressed in black so they would not be mistaken for prostitutes. I had read the Quran, following Fahd’s advice. It clearly stipulates that married women of great beauty should never draw the attention of other men. The Wahhabi had followed the writings to the letter and had turned them into law.

A law that, among so many others, had paved the way for the rise to power of the dreaded Muttawa vice squads—but the vices themselves paled in comparison to our Western turpitude. Here, some fundamental rights were regarded as major crimes.

During my first six months in Jeddah, I came to the bitter realization that relationships between men and women were utterly biased. They had to be cautious when they met. Very seldom did they speak. Talking to a man outside one’s family circle could send a woman straight to jail.

First, I had to find out where and how people got in touch. When I did, it came out of the blue, and it left me speechless.

It was in the suffocating heat of a Saturday afternoon. Jeddah’s inhabitants flocked inside air-conditioned malls across the city to cool off and do some shopping, the very reason I was there myself. A box of cornflakes was giving me a hell of a time. Because it was cheaper, it sat at the very top of the shelf. I heard the swishing of a robe and smelled a strong scent of oud. A very tall woman grabbed the cornflakes, making sure to bump into me as she did. Then, she leaned forward and whispered in my ear: “You are hot, but are you naughty?”

I was so confused. What was I supposed to say? It was all so sudden, so unexpected. She could tell I was not exactly privy to Jeddah’s little s*x tricks. She had written her name and number on a small piece of paper before quietly handing it out to me. I felt intimidated. I turned to face her and give her a good look. Her black eyes were drowned in eyeliner. She gave me a wink, then she left. I watched her tall silhouette fading in the distance. Was I supposed to follow her? Did she expect me to say something? My gut instinct was telling me to stand by and wait.

I mentioned that little incident to Fahd soon after.

“That was the right move,” he said.

“What was I supposed to do?”

“Precisely what you did. You didn’t follow her. You didn’t reply. She made a move on you, then she left. Now you can call her, if you like.”

“It’s all so sudden, don’t you think?”

“Here, the very notion of time is foreign. Everybody’s watching out for the Muttawa. There’s no tip-toeing, it’s straight to the point. Let me tell you, your little sweetheart went old-fashion on you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Nobody goes around handing out papers anymore. There’s text messages, emails, dating apps. New technologies have saved the youth. She should have sent you something via Bluetooth, it’s cooler and it’s a lot safer. She’s probably a bit too old, perhaps you shouldn’t call her back…”

He burst out laughing.

“So that’s how it is? Either you make a move on someone, or someone moves on you, then you quickly give your answer?”

Fahd picked up his phone to show me some messages he had saved. There was no beating around the bush. “I want you,” “You’re mine,” “I’m crazy about you already,” and the ineffable “My heart is free, my body is yours to take”—or was it the other way around?

“Saudi women are like no other. They have this unique kind of romantic and provocative prose, the result of Internet culture. Their generation is well-read but mostly communicates by codes.”

“Why meet in supermarkets?”

“It’s convenient and safer. Malls would be ideal hunting grounds, honestly, but the Muttawa is always around the corner. They don’t bother with supermarkets. Shelves are high, aisles are narrow. Standing next to someone doesn’t look suspicious. If you must cross an entire department store before you can meet with a girl, you’re likely to get caught.”