Chapter Seven
The following afternoon finds me attending my first staff meeting at Al Mishael, and it’s so far removed from my experiences, I feel back to being on another planet. Gone are the usual seating squabbles in a down-at-heel staffroom and with it, the ever present tang of cheap, stale coffee poisoning the air. Instead, this meeting room is filled with the rich aroma of a cardamom-scented brew and dominated by an enormous conference table. It’s definitely more boardroom chic than staffroom squalor.
Women holding plates of dainty pastries mill around a buffet table at the far side of the room, most dressed traditionally in the black cloak-likeabayawhich flows to their ankles. Even dressed in this modest uniform, the women are as colourful as lorikeets, their laughter and exotic accents filling the whole room. Pouring coffee into a dainty glass cup, I grab a plate and load it with a sinfully sugary cake calledbasboosa,as well as two date cookies Sadia informs me are calledmahmoul. While lovely, I hope meetings here don’t always come with a buffet or I might grow an arse worthy of the label wide load.
And speaking of fat-bummed devils, one of his handmaidens appears. Huda, the school’s administration head-honcho, a rotund woman of middle years, begins by calling the meeting to order. She’s pretty fearsome and by my reckoning can usually be found barking down the phone or at the poor cleaning staff. On more than one occasion, passing by her office, I’ve almost been deafened by her yellingKhaddama!Arabic for maid. The roar is quickly followed by scuttling sandals as one or more of the diminutive Indonesian cleaning ladies hurry to do as they are bid. It seems much like the children, some of the adults here don’t clean after themselves.
The principal, Miss Arwa, rises to address the room. Tall and attractive, I’d guess she’s in her early forties, and given her accent, probably American, though I could be wrong. Just last week I’d asked one of the grade nine girls which part of the U.S. she was from, when she laughingly answered her accent came from watching too many American sitcoms. So what do I know?
Arwa also wears anabaya, but she wears hers loose and over a high-end business suit, her glossy brown hair lightly covered by a scarf.Ashayla, I think it’s called. I may not know much about local fashions, but I can readDiorjust fine.
Opening the meeting with a few words in Arabic, Arwa reverts to English and begins by bringing the room up to date with births and marriages of staff that have taken place over the long summer vacation. The news doesn’t mean much to me as most of these women are still strangers, but I can appreciate the tone of this very female-centric meeting. A benefit of an all-female staff, I suppose.
‘Ladies, a date and a reminder for your diaries. In the coming weeks, we have the bonus of a long weekend. As you may be aware, we are to have a national holiday soon, date to be announced. This may cause some problems for our annual open evening, which is currently scheduled for the end of the month.’
Attention caught, I look up from my thorough inspection of the goodies on my plate. I knew about the holiday but not the open evening.
‘I know it’s unusually early this year,’ she continues, ‘but we have few other calendar options.’
Eyebrows rise and there follows a muttering of dissent, though nothing anyone is willing to gripe about openly. I guess you can please some of the people some of the time but getting a room full of teachers to spend an extra evening at work unpaid, is a tall order wherever you are.
‘Remember, this evening is more about giving our new parents the opportunity to look around the school and get a sense of who we are, our aims for their daughters. For those parents who know us, it’s an opportunity to meet our new teachers.’ She smiles briefly in my direction. ‘This isnotan opportunity for parents to discuss individuals or have impromptu parent/teacher conferences. This will be outlined clearly in the invitation.’ Another murmur travels across the room andthisI understand. Like they’ll be able to resist. ‘This will be a mixed affair, so fathers may attend, and representation from the school owners will be made with a presentation from...’ Her eyes scan the notes open on the desk. ‘Abu Kais.’
‘Who’s that?’ I whisper, nudging Sadia.
‘Abu Kais? He is the owner of Al Mishael.’
‘I thought the owner was a woman.’ That’s what I was told during my interview. ‘I didn’t think that was her name.’
‘Oh, Miss Kate, most funny. A lady called Abu Kais.’ Sadia chuckles quietly, entertained. ‘No, my dear, Abu Kais is a man’s name. It is being the owner’s husband’s name.’ She frowns as she summons further explanation. ‘Not his... given name, it is her son’s name but his father uses it... isn’t it.’Isn’t it what,I ask myself as she tries again. ‘It is tradition. Father being known as Abu, meaning father. Father of.’
‘Father of...’ I whisper back, still confused.
‘Father of the firstborn son.’ Mirroring my frown, she continues uncertainly. ‘Abu,father,then name of the son.’
This is as confusing as the Holy Trinity.
The Father, the Son, and someone called Abu, apparently.
Someone further along the table asks Arwa a question in Arabic, the conversation shifts language, and effectively, relevance to me. Impromptu conversations spring up around the room.
‘It’s a lot to get your head around, isn’t it?’ This from a woman seated to my left. Dressed in a long grey skirt, she balances a notebook and pen on her crossed knee. ‘When a first son is born, his father is given an honorific title, akunya. The mum gets one, too. I’m Hala, by the way.’
Hala’s accent is English with an inflection that makes me think she’s from London, but it’s almost like her accent has been modulated or ironed out.
‘What if the baby’s a girl?’
‘Nothing,’ she replies with a shrug. ‘It only changes for firstborn sons. In this case, Faris al Khalfan is Abu Kais.’
Nothing for girls?I tamp down the questions, reminding myself that this is a culture I know little about.
‘Thanks for the explanation,’ I respond, trying to get my mind around the unfathomable, not to mention the seeming inequality. ‘I’m Kate.’
‘Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to pop in and say hello. Don’t worry, it takes a while.’ Leaning toward me conspiratorially, she whispers, ‘Pity it wasn’t the son presenting, Kai al Khalfan isseriouslyhot.’ Straightening abruptly, her eyes dart from side to side.
At that moment, the coffee I’ve just brought to my lips is sprayed across the table as I literally choke. Kais...Kai...Surely not?All heads turn to me as I cough and splutter, trying to breathe through the inhaled liquid scalding the back of my throat. Energetic hands clap me on the back and a glass of water appears in front.
‘Sorry, it went down the wrong way,’ I apologize between wheezing breaths, trying to regain my composure. Switching back to English, Arwa continues the meeting, conversations fading away. My thoughts don’t move on much. Just how many hot Kai’s are there in Dubai?Gorgeous Kai’s with too full lips... And yet, it would make sense insofar as him being at the school. Just another reason not to do him. Coffee, I mean do coffee! But—
‘Are you hot, Miss Kate?’ I’m pulled sharply from my musings by Sadia’s stage whisper.
‘Hot?’ I sit bolt straight, removing the forefinger from my bottom lip, not quite sure what it’s doing there.
‘You are becoming most red.’ She clucks her tongue in admonishment.
‘I—I’m good, Sadia. Fine, really,’ I whisper back, suddenly aware that the meeting has paused once more and all eyes have returned to me, the fire spreading through my body, accompanied now by a deep blush. I smile benignly and sink into my seat as Arwa clears her throat, regaining the room’s focus. Half listening to the resumed meeting, I attempt to school my thoughts.
I hope lust isn’t a colour you can detect in someone’s blush. And the boss’s son. Nowthatwouldbe an epically bad move.
