Lulu in Marrakech by Diane Johnson Page A

occasionally happened, world troubles or Arab unrest were discussed. Then they disclaimed any admiration for Osama bin Laden, or rather, they claimed to hate him. Gazi was outspoken about the lot of women in Saudi Arabia, and Khaled had the air of nodding in agreement, but more in the role of supportive husband than from conviction. I believed that at home he’d be a traditional Saudi husband, what ever that involved. In Marrakech, Gazi drove—I had seen her behind the wheel of a BMW—but I knew it was against the law in Saudi Arabia.
    I thought about Gazi and the other Muslim women in their cloisters—in former times in actual purdah—and could imagine the desperation and intrigues that must have festered there. I pitied them, but I couldn’t scorn them, since I was in thrall myself, to my “job,” and sexually, to Ian, an enthrallment of my own making, dictated by nature, maybe, or a response to the loneliness of my role.
    Once, I’d said something critical about Gazi—for I didn’t really like her, there was something about her resolute gaity, her jewels, her air of crazy, madcap heiress so at odds with her black abaya, and her reputation (I imagined) for mistreating her servants; I had called her “the princess,” sarcastically, and Ian rebuked me.
    “Think of what she has to bear in Saudi Arabia. Think of the lives of women there.”
    “I meant it in the sense we say ‘Jewish princess,’ or ‘Japanese princess,’ to mean a spoiled, demanding person who spends a lot of time on her nails,” I explained.
    Ian gave me a long look and said, “What do you think of yourself as, Lulu?”
    This was said lightly, affectionately, but though I’m not a sensitive person, it stung me, for its justice. As far as Ian could see, I was an indolent and sheltered American, who, apart from some harsh scenes witnessed in Kosovo, had not much experience with anything grim and had well-tended fingernails. And given that I hadn’t produced anything much in the professional line, that was truly about all there was to me.
    Once or twice I had caught Gazi in the act of hating Posy and me, mostly me, as Posy, married and pregnant, had already compromised the freedoms Gazi could see I still had and she could never have. Her feelings were seen in no more than a fleeting expression, and I couldn’t blame her for them. It was no wonder she often mentioned her years at Brown University, which must have been the only time she wasn’t constrained by her culture; her only act of defiance in her own country was the drive-in, the demonstration she’d been a part of after the first Gulf War in 1991 and the retributions afterward.
    Gazi had told us about being a member of the Saudi drive-in, when a number of mostly foreign-educated Saudi women got in cars and drove up and down the main street in Riyadh to assert their right to drive. “I was not the leader,” she said. “My older sister and her friends were. They suffered more than I. Really, the women did not suffer, for they are not responsible agents, after all, just suggestible sillies. Our husbands suffered. Khaled was put on leave of absence, and people— men—called us in the middle of the night, and sometimes there was just a voice uttering curses. And one girl committed suicide. My sister’s friend Leila disappeared after the drive-in. She was never seen again.”
    “The men are afraid of women, I suppose,” Posy said, voice dripping with scorn for Islamic manhood.
    “Our husbands tried to help us, by and large. Khaled was wonderful. One group that was afraid we would succeed, though, was the drivers. What would become of them if women could drive?”
    “Are the drivers the only men you are alone with?” I wondered.
    “Do women have affairs with their drivers?” asked Posy. Gazi stared, disconcerted.
    “No,” she said. “I’ve never heard of that.” By her expression, you could see she’d never thought of drivers as viable men. “We have to be careful, after