The Best Intentions in the World

Chapter 1 – Hawwa-2

“Any other places?”

“Wait, are you saying you don’t know yet?”

“I don’t. Enlighten me.”

“Well, some ladies do enjoy a walk by the waterfront, preferably at night. They go two by two, sometimes sisters, sometimes cousins. A brother is often there too, acting as both accomplice and confident. He is also on the look-out. Together, they single out potential targets.”

“Go on.”

“Then, they meet up with other groups and if it matches, they exchange details.”

“And the Muttawa?”

“You see them coming from miles away. They’re fat, slow and careless, with a huge beard and prayer beads they keep twitching nervously. Kinda hard to miss.”

“Aren’t you exaggerating a little?”

“Don’t ever forget. The Muttawa is a haven for losers and zealots. To their credit, I thought they’d be even more perverted. I thought they’d infiltrate dating websites. The higher-ups are telling them to hold off, that’s my guess.

I had to see it for myself. I drove to the promenade along the Red Sea, by the international hotels. And indeed, I witnessed a peculiar ballet. Young people were strolling around in pairs, at regular intervals. When two couples met, they quickly exchanged looks. If contact was positive, they slowed down their pace. They proceeded to exchange a few words, sent text messages. Then they left the promenade and went back home. A phone call would be enough to arrange the next meeting.

I had to step inside the arena. I parked my car near a fruit stand and started walking. The atmosphere was intriguing. In the dark, the strollers were invisible, blurry shapes. The waves covered the sound from car engines. They also covered the few voices in the night. Add in a bit of mist and it looked like a typical horror movie. Not exactly ideal, if you ask me.

In the distance, I could make out two black shapes. My first date. As we got closer, tension built up a notch. Their impatient gestures were an obvious sign of nervosity. With only a few steps between us, they slowed down. One of them whispered: “Do you wish to know me better?” It was her way of reaching out to me. An arousing invitation to reveal her intimacy to me. All these things left unsaid, the constant game of hide and seek—it made more sense to me, now.

Soon after, she sent me a text with her number. It was signed Warda. I was officially the lucky owner of a young woman’s contact details. Although I had no clue what she looked like. That was the only real advantage women had over men.

“They can evaluate the product immediately, whereas bad surprises are often in store for us. The thrill of discovery can leave a bitter taste in one’s mouth. You’d better believe me,” Fahd had warned me. More often than not, the niqab opened on a world of disappointment rather than wonders.

“Beauty isn’t the only thing kept away from prying eyes,” he added.

I kept up the pace and received a dozen messages that evening. None of them really stood out. Choosing one was a tough call. Fahd had mentioned luck, and rightly so. Dressed in full black, they all looked the same. It was impossible to judge based on appearances alone. I knew for a fact the ladies from the second group were rather plump. I wrote them off my list. I was left with nine numbers. A nickname caught my attention. It spelled Basma, meaning “smile”. I thought it was clever, as her smile would remain hidden as long as she was covered up. I did not call immediately. I wanted the toing-and-froing to last a little while longer.

The following day, I chose a spot further away from the luxury hotels. Although the little game remained, the silhouettes had changed. There were more men than women. First, I thought they were here to chaperon. Turns out they were also looking for potential partners. I received as many messages from men as I did from women. Their aliases, Harba or Jazzar, left very little doubt as to the nature of their intentions.

Fahd had to acknowledge, slightly ashamed, that most of his fellow citizens were bisexual.

“The youth is desperate to get some,” he had commented.

The following week, I was forced to concur.

I had yet to call Basma. I was on the coastal road once again, picking up numbers and deleting most of them. Fahd had left me with this warning: “Tread carefully.” A prophetic warning if I ever saw one.

A white Jaguar pulled over as I was waiting for a cab to take me home. The driver, a young Saudi with a remarkable English accent, offered to give me a ride. The Saudis were a hospitable people, and this was a common way of showing it. They were also very curious about foreigners. I stepped into his car and gave him some general directions, but kept my address a secret. He was driving slowly. He gave me the usual treatment, asking what my nationality was.

“Where are you from?”

“From France.”

“Fransawi, very good… Chanel, Yves Saint-Laurent…”

I nodded.

“Are you married?” he asked.

I shook my head. He seemed pleased, but that did not make me the least suspicious. He got on the freeway, took to the left lane and started speeding up. I looked at him questioningly. That was when he put hand on my thigh.

“I like you,” he said.

“Yes, but I…”

He did not let me finish.

“Say no more. I know you want me.”

He sped up again, leaving the city behind us as we headed towards the desert. Such speed was incapacitating. I had to do something, quick. I turned to him: “I want you too, but not right now. We should have dinner first.”

He seemed upset. He pondered for a second and came up with a good address. Hopefully, it was in town. I did not want to have to denounce him at the next crossroad. The police would not believe my story, and would likely accuse me of being the tormentor rather than the victim.

He chose an Italian restaurant. He thought the place was romantic. To me, it was simply chilling. He asked me what I wanted, and made it clear he would pay the bill. I thanked him and went with the chef’s tasting menu. I had to keep up the act, so he would think I wanted to spend the rest of the night with him. I had to be of pleasant company, and answer his flirtatious advances to the best of my ability. After the main course, I cut our lovely conversation short and excused myself to the restroom. He asked whether he should come with me. Thank God, he was not being serious.

From the restroom, our table was out of sight. I ran out of the restaurant as quickly as I could. I jumped into one of the many taxis waiting in front and told the chauffeur to drive me to Fahd’s. I did not feel like walking around my neighborhood. Without being aware, I had been very cautious. No address, no phone number. He had nothing on me. But he would be looking for me back where we had met. Thus, I steered clear of the coast for a couple of weeks.

I needed some physical activity to keep me on the move, otherwise I would turn into a sedentary, overweight middle-aged man. I contemplated swimming. But, swimming in the Red Sea was strictly prohibited in Jeddah, because it implied showing some skin.

I have always disliked public swimming pools, so I ruled out swimming altogether. I ordered a pair of rollerblades online and went back to the coastal road. I could not let the thought of that lone driver in the night scare me anymore. I did not want to become paranoid.

Cruising along the coast with my rollerblades felt amazing. I was going fast, and the gusts of wind coming from the sea were intoxicating. One day, I decided to keep going well into the evening. Although I was not in a flirtatious mood, I was forced to admit that the rollerblades were increasing my chances tenfold. The game remained unchanged. Take a stroll, slow down when coming up next to a small group of people, exchange details and move on to the next. Only this time around, I was going a lot faster. I picked up twice the amount of numbers. The passersby seemed to love my new technique. One of them even offered her rump as I was rolling by. I could not believe my eyes. I did not touch it, so she insulted me.

Again, Basma was among the list of mysterious names I had picked up. Was that a sign? I called her.

“Hello, Basma?”

“Good evening roller-man,” she said without hesitation.

“How can you tell it’s me?”

“You’re the only Westerner I’ve seen around in the last six months. Your French accent isn’t fooling anyone, either.”

“So, you do remember me?”

“Of course I do. First you were coming onto us on foot, now you’re rollerblading, who knows what’s next?” she added.

“A camel…” I answered, without thinking. It was a stupid joke, but she laughed. I was on the right track.

“Your rollerblades look cool. Could I borrow them?”

“I would not lend my rollerblades to a stranger…”

“Don’t worry, soon you’ll know me by my smile.”

“That’s not what I said…”

“But that’s what you meant. Let’s meet on Saturday, by the cliff. I’ll bring a friend. She’ll keep her distance and watch out while we talk.”

“Fine by me. What’s your name? Your real name, I mean.”

“You’ll find out come Saturday,” she answered.

It was exciting. I felt like a kid desperate to open his gifts on Christmas Eve. What an agonizing wait! I had no clue when or where we would meet. I felt helpless, but I suspected she would get in touch at some point. On Friday, she sent me a text message.

“Tomorrow, 6 pm, in front of the great roundabout with a caravel.”

I was there first. I did not have to wait very long. An American car pulled in front of me. Two women came out. I could not tell which one was Basma. She saw I was confused, and she stepped forward.

“Hello. I am Basma.”

I greeted her, hand over my heart as a sign of respect.

The other woman introduced herself. Her voice was deeper. Either she was older, or she was a heavy smoker.

Basma was a lot more relaxed than I was. She walked along the promenade with a firmer step. Local urban planners had built concrete alveoli, a perfect spot for picnicking families, a breeding ground for a multitude of cats and, on rare occasions, a few loving couples.

Basma inquired about my country, my job, my living conditions. She was pleased to learn I was single.

I could not ask her a single thing. Every question I had seemed inappropriate, but I could tell my silence came as a surprise to her. We had just made it to a romantic alcove filled by the sounds of the rising tide. Basma’s friend kept watch further up on the path. Basma took my hand so I would join her against the shelter’s wall. She took off her veil and smiled at me. She was not particularly beautiful, but her smile was magnificent, and eyes very light for this part of the world.

“Disappointed?” she asked, with a bit of anxiety.

“Quite the opposite, I find you very attractive,” I dared.

“Then I’ll show you the rest,” she said with disturbing self-assurance.

She opened her niqab slightly and I saw what she wore underneath, a translucent white blouse and a black mini-skirt. She had a gorgeous body. I smiled back and put my hand on her shoulder.

“Not here,” she said.

I took my hand off and asked what her real name was.

“Noura.”

Thus began our relationship. I experienced first-hand the codes and dangers of flirting on Holy Land.

We would often stand by the cliff. Our meetings were short, but intense.

The coming and going intensified on that cliff and, to my surprise, rollerblades became more common.

“You’ve started a trend, a new way of flirting. Jeddah’s youth owes you a debt of gratitude,” Noura told me.

I wanted her, badly. How much longer would our little foreplay last? Sometimes, unable to control myself, I grabbed her hand in public, or hugged her too close on the escalators. One night, we met up in a mall near the city center. I hated that place. The Muttawa’ stench was everywhere.