The Best Intentions in the World: Intriguing Novel at the Heart of Dubai

coincidental.

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 sex 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.

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.

We sat at a coffee table. I was nervous, upset. I was constantly reminded of my high school years, when touching meant nothing, when kissing was easy and making love was the most natural thing. I took her hand under the table and held it tight. Moments later, two men came up to us. They addressed Noura, without so much as a look in my direction.

Show your papers. Is he your husband?

Noura said no. They asked us to follow them. They took us to the police station in two separate cars. I asked the driver whether I could use my phone. He was not opposed to it.

I called Fahd and told him everything. He took care of it.

A few hours later, I was free.

Fahd was the equivalent of what the Saudis call vitamin W.

W stands for wasta, meaning influence.

You won’t survive around here without some vitamin W, he had told me once. "If you see a woman