“But I am concern only with inside.”
“Yes, I see.”
“I may tour around?”
“Go ahead.” She sat down at the desk, to resume writing her diary; then got up as he left the room and wandered between the armchairs, restless, her arms folded protectively across her breasts.
When the landlord had toured around he came back to the sitting room, with an expression of satisfaction. “I compliment you,” he said. “You keep it very nice. I am a lover of the British. What part you are from?”
“Yorkshire.”
“Yorkshire.” The landlord glowed, and kissed his bunched fingertips. “I am knowing your Yorkshire. I am knowing that country so well. Windsor Castle, Tottenham Hotspur. William Wordsworth, the Bard of Avon. Your famous Langan’s Brasserie.” His eyes slid over her again. “Madam, how many children you have got?”
“I have four,” she said. “All boys.”
“I congratulate you,” the landlord said, in simple pleasure. “And yet you seem to be a girl of twenty-one, madam.” He took occasion to sidle up to her, and pat her waist. She moved away. “You will be seeing more of me,” he promised.
“Don’t forget your briefcase,” Frances said.
“That lady across, does she wear the veil?”
“Yes and no. She covers her head.”
“Ah,” said the landlord, with a pious look. “Then I will not bother her. She will not open the door.”
Bother me, won’t you, you fat little greasepot, Frances thought. She let him out and locked the door behind him. She hoped that he would hear the turn of the key.
Frances Shore’s Diary: 8 Rabi al-thani
Yet another letter in the newspaper today, debating whether women are the source of evil and sin.
Yasmin says that the Bedu have hunting rifles, and sometimes bring them to town. I didn’t tell her why I was asking.
Andrew’s model arrived at last. It was detained by the customs men, and he and Jeff had to go up to the airport and collect it, taking Hasan with them in case anyone had to be bribed. They brought it back here, to my surprise, and put it down on the dining room table. It was a perfect white palace sealed in a Perspex box, like a spoiled child’s toy. They looked like death. Jeff said, I shall have to go and borrow Russel’s electric drill. I said, why, what are you going to do to it, isn’t it right? Andrew said, The Ministry would go mad if they saw this.
And when I looked closely, I saw that the model makers had peopled it, and that on its snaky glass escalators, and on its emerald plastic lawn, there were miniature women—pin-thin Californian executive women, in sharp suits, and flossy Californian secretary women, with miniskirts, and tight sundresses showing off their glossy plastic shoulders and their half-bare plastic breasts.
Andrew stamped around saying, have we got a wire coat-hanger, have we got tweezers?
When Jeff brought back the drill they made a little hole in the back, and tied the tweezers to the coathanger, and pushed them through the hole. Then one by one, they got a grip on the plastic women, by their heads, and dragged them out, swearing, saying have they no bloody idea in Los Angeles? Well, there’s my morning gone, Jeff said. I collected the little women in the palm of my hand. They were perfect, each one with the same doll’s features, and crushed skull.
Jeff went back to the office then, but Andrew knelt down and looked at his model for a long time, his hands flat on the table and his chin resting on his hands, pretending to gaze up from street level. I said, to encourage him, it will be all right now, you can fill up the hole with glue. He said, the money is running out.
I was amazed. I thought that in the Kingdom I would never hear those words. It can’t be running out.
He said, we are running out of money to pay the subcontractors, because the Saudi government has not paid us.
Why not?
Because oil has fallen, they’re cutting back. It’s hitting everybody, all the government departments. They’re all fighting each other for cash.
But they must have vast reserves—
Of course, but Turadup KSA hasn’t got vast reserves. I may not get paid for another month.
But you will get paid?
Eventually. We are waiting for some money to be remitted from Riyadh.
He looked worried. Depressed. Said, I don’t think somehow I will ever see the building finished. It is, he said, just like the rest of the world, you dream about something but they won’t let you do it. I think I was dreaming about this building before I saw the architect’s plan, before I’d ever heard of Turadup. But to them it’s just another capital project.
I saw him gathering his wits, for months of silent effort. We’ll just have to wait, he said, sit it out, but I really think, I really do think, that they’ve cheated me. The promises were false.
