Behind Palace Walls. Cay Garcia
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CAY GARCIA
Behind Palace Walls
In the service of a Saudi princess
TAFELBERG
Dedication
THIS BOOK is dedicated to my sister. For your ongoing support in all that I do, your unconditional love and for being there for me no matter what. My love and respect for you knows no bounds.
PROLOGUE
The beginning of the end
IT IS two o’ clock in the morning. The sandstorm is at its peak. The windows are rattling as if someone is hammering on them from the outside. The desert sand, like talcum powder, penetrates even though everything is tightly shut. It hangs in the air making breathing difficult.
The noise is unsettling. I am alone at home.
There’s a light knock on my bedroom door. My flat mate, Mona, who works in the same palace and has just returned from work, hands me a large envelope. She seems flustered as she relays the news, “You have to be out of the country today!” Her tension is evident in her shallow, rapid breathing, but the excitement in her eyes confirms my suspicion that there is much riding on this for her.
The envelope contains a flight ticket and an exit permit. This, at the whim of a princess who doesn’t have a clue what’s really going on beyond her bedroom door. Although I knew this was coming – and asked for it even – I reel at the finality. A flood of adrenalin propels me out of bed. I run two doors down into a wall of sand, to what has become my island in a storm.
We agree to stay awake the whole night and treasure the time left together. Exhilarating but utterly draining shows of emotion have us falling into an exhausted sleep at six in the morning.
Suddenly it is 10 o’clock. I feel bereft at the 11 hours left. The enormity of what I have to get done floors me and, quite frankly, I don’t know where to start.
The rest of the day plays off in slow motion, yet time has never moved faster. As I pack, I try to make sense of it all. Every surface is piled with clothes, beautiful pieces of material and artwork collected over the past four months. Six hours until take-off.
Decisions
IT’S A beautiful Saturday afternoon as I drive to work – not a cloud in the sky and not a breath of wind. A day that begs for a long walk on any beach around the Cape peninsula or a breathtaking mountain or forest trail.
As I turn into the largest mall in the southern hemisphere, where I work, I’m amazed at the volume of traffic at every entrance, queues wrapped halfway round the block. Inside, people scurry like ants. The noise is deafening. I feel a surge of frustration and restlessness and my mind rages with the thought that surely to God there must be more to life than this!
Roughly a month later, after careful deliberation, I resign from my job and enrol in a fulltime, 10-week butling course. I’m not sure if my brain is still capable of studying at my comparatively advanced age but the qualification is internationally recognised and promises great opportunities of work in any corner of the world, not to mention pretty substantial salaries and perks. I have no dependants and the idea of doing something this outrageous at my age only adds to the excitement.
The demand for the excellence that butlers offer increases every year, as more and more people reach millionaire status. The idea that one person can manage their staff, mansions, fleet of cars and holiday homes has caught on as it is an attractive alternative to having short term staff from dubious agencies.
The statement on the website that the course is intensive and exhausting is no lie. But it fails to mention that it is also the most fun you can have with your clothes on.
On day one, everyone is on time. We are issued with three intimidating manuals, black bowties and white gloves. Throughout the course we are required to wear black suits, crisp white shirts and a bowtie. Trying to keep it straight is an ongoing challenge.
At the first military-style line-up outside the Academy, white gloves donned, I revel in the chaos as students rush to please without really having a clue what to do. We all feel proud but the reason escapes us at this early stage. Strangers become friends and allies.
Our principal, Mr Van Wyk, an attractive man in his early thirties, takes us under his wing as we clumsily try to follow his instructions. Not only is he an expert in his field, but he has the experience to match; he has been butler to presidents and international celebrities – so who are we to argue about his tried and tested methods? We are all in awe. And, I might add, terrified.
Our class guardian, Mr Fourie, initially comes across like a Machiavellian character from The Godfather but we soon discover that he has a heart the size of Manhattan. He is relentless in his quest to turn us into professional butlers. He spots little things – never again will I leave the table without pushing in my chair.
The third person in this dynamic trio is Mr Lewis, the recruitment agent and photographer. His sense of humour knows no bounds and we love him. He puts us through rigorous Skype interviews conducted from his office while we face a monitor in front of the class, trying to answer questions like, “Are you arrogant?”
We cover Silver Service; handling a fork and spoon is child’s play with bare hands – but with gloves on, we’re soon on all fours retrieving objects we have dropped from dark corners.
As part of the different dining ceremonies, we cover Russian service, French service, family service and the correct etiquette for a buffet, to mention just a few. My favourite is the graceful art of “Ballet of Service”, which they do at Buckingham Palace.
At this stage, no one can balance a tray with anything larger than a matchbox on it. We stand with books balanced on our heads as six long-stemmed champagne flutes are filled with water and placed on our trays. Our wide eyes give us away – panick reigns supreme – but no one breaks a glass. Yet.
Wardrobe management is next; we learn how to colour code, to separate clothing according to its function and season, and everything else besides, from caring for furs to polishing and placing shoes onto shoe horns. We pack and unpack a suitcase until we can do it in our sleep. A suit jacket may be kept in a suitcase for up to three months and, if packed correctly, it will not have a single crease. After three months? I think back to my last trip – to Italy – and my heap of crumpled clothes. I am seriously impressed.
We polish silver as part of housekeeping. We learn to poach eggs the French way and cook up delicious dishes like Crêpes Suzette – without burning the Academy down.
A barista shows us how to make spectacular espresso and cappuccino. Half the class focuses on his very tight jeans, thus failing to get the foam just right.
A master sommelier, one of only four in South Africa, teaches us the fine art of pouring, and pairing wine with food. To this day it irks me when a waiter pours wine without the label facing the diner – and this happens even in top restaurants. Perfection is part of the game. The wine tasting sessions cement the bonds between us students.
We write lengthy exams on food terminology, and words like puttanesca roll easily off our tongues.
During our mixology lessons, I’m delighted to find out how to fix a Manhattan iced-tea.
We set tea trays and spectacular tables. We arrange flowers and learn about cigars and cognac. We learn to serve vodka or champagne with caviar and its many accompanying dishes.
A security specialist alerts us to safety precautions. We became adept at operating automated security systems.
We are taught how to go green and made aware of how many ways there are to recycle.
There is not much this course does not cover.
Although we write tests that count towards our final grade every morning, there’s a week-long series of exams.
After a gruelling 10 weeks we graduate