Another by Hilary Mantel (1952-2022), one of my favourite authors, this was published in 1988. It's her third novel, and the earliest I have read so far. My audio-version was sympathetically narrated by Sandra Duncan.

It's the story of Frances Shore, who follows her civil engineer husband, Andrew, to Saudi Arabia, where he has a challenging but lucrative job with a company called Turadup. She's a cartographer, but won't, of course, be able to work in her new environment.

The novel is a mixture of third-person narrative and Frances's diary. But it opens with a memo from Eric Parsons, the manager of the Saudi branch of Turadup. It's dated July 1985. Then we backtrack to September 1984, and Frances's flight to Jeddah.



Frances is a seasoned traveller. She has already lived in Zambia and Botswana, and comes away from that experience with slightly lukewarm memories, but also a sense of gratitude. ("I liked it, in a way. At least, I’m glad I went there. I wouldn’t have missed it," she tells the steward on the plane.)

Saudi Arabia, on the other hand, is another kettle of fish. She knows life there will be different, and the chatter on the flight over is discouraging. Before her departure, the people she knows keep raising the case of dead nurse Helen Smith, and the images linger.

But Frances reacts strongly against everything she comes up against. She feels shut in (it's unpleasant, even unsafe, for western women to venture outside on foot, and even if someone picks her up in a car, she has to unlock door after door to get out of her building). She resents that people in shops address her husband, rather than her. She can't work, so her life consists of talking to neighbours, socializing with other expatriates, reading detective fiction, and making a token effort to learn Arabic. She finds it all stultifying.

For me, Frances was a somewhat difficult character. She seems so very negative from the get-go... So very unappreciative of the opportunity to experience something completely different. I suppose I shouldn't judge. I've never lived anywhere that I've absolutely hated in that way. But I couldn't help feeling a bit cross with her, as her moany side so regularly swamped her curiosity.

She does make the effort to befriend the women in her four-apartment building. But both Yasmin (from Pakistan) and Samira (from Saudi Arabia) are Muslim, and although everyone is courteous, a gulf rapidly develops between Frances's criticism and the other women's attempts to explain things as they see them.


The real Ghazzah Street

Examples:

Yasmin complains that it is "the mentality of the West, to discredit the Eastern people". And you can't help but feel she's right. Of course, there are endless things that are problematic in the Saudi Arabia Frances encounters (corruption, secretiveness, a religious outlook that spills over into all areas of life ...). But it's also true that the so-called west has a built-in cultural arrogance, enjoys discrediting "the east", and doesn't make much of an effort to understand it.

On the other hand, Yasmin holds demonstrably false opinions about "the west", even though she lived in the UK for a time: "Yasmin never raised her voice, never insisted; just plowed her lonely furrow. Almost every day she would unveil some new, astonishing viewpoint."

We all find it hard to take the blinkers off...

Another of the reasons it's difficult to make an accurate assessment of the situation in Saudi Arabia is that some expatriate residents just revel in horror stories... There's a woman called Marion, for example, who thrives on all that stuff: "She began to talk about sexual harassment, about the bottom-pinchers in the supermarkets, about the men who gave her trouble on the streets because of her blond hair. As she talked, her eyes began to shine, and a look of thrilled fear grew on her face."

And many foreigners become bitter because of the "golden handcuffs". They earn so much more in Saudi Arabia than they would elsewhere that -- even if they hate it -- they can't bring themselves to leave.


I've never been to Saudi Arabia. This is one of its neighbours, Oman, in 2015

All this is point-of-view stuff. But then Mantel introduces the elements that many of us find genuinely difficult about countries that practise sharia law.

Frances: "There was an execution in Mecca a little while ago... I suppose there is no call to feel cultural superiority. The murder, anyway, is the same as crimes in the West. The punishment is not so different from what we have had until recently. But what chills my blood is the pious last paragraph that the newspaper tags on. 'While giving out details of the offense and punishment, the Interior Minister made it clear that the government would vigorously implement the Sharia laws to maintain the security of the land and to deter criminals... The executions were carried out after Friday prayers.'... When I read things like this it’s beyond me how people like Marion can say, 'Oh, I don’t mind it here really' -- because you see, there are these nightmare occurrences. Probably I spend too much time on my own in the flat, reading the newspapers and trying to work things out."

Yasmin and Samira try to show Frances how it's not all as bad as she thinks: Stoning involves just a couple of symbolic stones; at amputations there is a doctor on hand to prevent infection... Understandably, these details don't make Frances feel any better.

We might join her in her repugnance for these punishments. I don't care what culture or religion we're talking about: For me, irrevocable punishment -- death or mutilation -- is always wrong. But the extent to which we can change these things from the outside is very limited (and from a position of dependence on a work permit, less than zero...). Sustainable and genuine change needs to come from a consensus of opinion on the inside. So, if you can't deal with the offending elements on that basis, don't go...

And Frances comes across as annoyingly judgemental about EVERYTHING she encounters. Full veiling, for example, where the face is completely covered: "How do they breathe?" she wonders, "Don’t they feel stifled? Can they see where they’re going?" And yes, I would feel stifled; I literally couldn't contemplate living my life like that. But the fact remains that many women actively CHOOSE this. It's insulting to deprive women of all agency in the matter by saying these practices have been dictated by men. I know several women who have adopted more rigorous veiling solely for religious reasons. It's between them and their God. That WE don't understand it doesn't make it wrong or unreasonable or otherwise blameworthy.

Frances muses: "My neighbors say women are not veiled because they are despised, but because they are revered. It is out of self-respect that they cover their faces and bodies, and out of respect for them that men do not look. At first this is plausible -- but it bothers me. Something is wrong." But is it...?

Samira says: "You see, Frances, you women in the West, you think you are very free, but Islam has given us all the women’s rights. They are guaranteed to us. We can have our own money. In the home we are the rulers. Men must provide for us, that is their duty." I have been told exactly the same things by educated, independently-thinking Indonesian career-women. It wouldn't be my way, but I don't despise it.



Sometimes Frances realizes she is being too idealistic: "Why do you let your culture make you suffer?" she asks Yasmin. "Can't you break out of it?" Then she recollects herself: "Of course she can’t break out of her culture... No more can I break out of mine. No more would I want to; no more does she."

There's a very telling conversation between Frances and Shabana (a friend of Yasmin's). Shabana begins with a reminder that cultural values are not uniform:

"'Even those things that you are quite sure are virtues -- let us say, tolerance -- they are not necessarily virtues for us.'
"'I understand that. I’m never sure myself if tolerance is a good thing. There are some things that are intolerable.'
"'You think, no doubt, that you have seen some of them in the Kingdom.'
"'I’m not one of those people who think that when you go to a foreign country you must leave your judgment at home.'
"'And you would impose your judgment on us?'
"'Probably. If I could.'
"Shabana smiled slightly. 'It is people like you, Frances, who led the Crusades.'
"'I’m sure you’re right.'"

Thus does Mantel try to nuance her presentation somewhat, by getting her character to take a step back, and acknowledge the logical conclusion of her views.

But Frances can apparently see NOTHING in Saudi Arabia that is admirable: "There’s no life in the land, it’s just people, highways, endless straight roads and rubbish and dust, there’s nothing to release you, there’s nothing to set you free inside. You feel as if you’re starving."

There must be other aspects, of course... Even in polities with questionable amounts of personal freedom, there are people just going about their business, studying, working, socializing, marrying, trying to bring up their families. But we see little of that in this novel. All is dark and borderline sinister, because we're seeing everything through Frances's jaundiced eyes.



Not that she lets us see much that is admirable in expat culture either... Almost everyone we encounter in that highly artificial world is superficial, involved in a repetitive social round of parties and home-brewed alcohol; some of them exude cultural superiority, which sometimes tips over into downright racism -- an attitude that Frances actively resists. And there's plenty of sexism, too. People openly speculate about when she and Andrew will be starting their family; and see no reason why a professional cartographer might not be happy to do some (dubiously legal) filing work. Marion tells us about a party game at the Smiths' last year: "The men were all blindfolded, and the women stood on chairs, and the men had to come along and feel their legs and try to guess who was who. It was a laugh."

It is not easy to imagine many Muslims seeing a model they'd want to emulate if they spent any time watching this lot in action...

Nevertheless, although the expats are held in scant regard, most of Frances's bile is reserved for the Saudis.

Which reflects her creator... It's no secret that Hilary Mantel and her husband lived in Saudi Arabia for four years, and it wasn't a great experience for her: "She was very frank about how much she disliked her time there. When asked about the happiest moment in her life, she replied, 'Leaving Jeddah.'" Of course, it was her stint there that allowed her to fill her journals with the material she later used to write Eight Months, but the negativity she accrued in the process is palpable.

Not in my version, but in a version referred to here, there's a postscript by the author: "When I travelled at first I used to ask what I could get out of it, and what I could give back. What could I teach, and what could I learn? I saw the world as some sort of exchange scheme for my ideals, but the world deserves better than this. When you come across an alien culture, you must not automatically respect it. You must sometimes pay it the compliment of hating it."

I'm not sure about that...



***

Anyway, in a gripping and complex ratcheting up of tension, the bleakness of Frances's view causes paranoia, and then paranoia causes more bleakness.

But just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you...

And from here on in, this is going to get very spoilery... Beware.

Throughout the book, Mantel makes us aware how LITTLE we know. Of course, whenever you live in a country that's new to you, you have that feeling; you always sense that there's so much that is just going right over your head. For many of us, that's part of the attraction.

But in Mantel's Saudi Arabia, this experience is more acute than usual. When stories are swapped among the ex-pats, for example, no-one ever really knows the definitive version. And there is absolutely no point asking the Saudi authorities for clarity on any given issue. They're just going to keep stumm, and obstruct any attempts at elucidation. Even Andrew and Frances don't actually TELL each other things -- with massive consequences, as we'll see. And the corollary of all this is that we finish the book with lots of uncertainty. Mantel absolutely does not spell out all the details, and tie up all the loose ends.

Chief among the things Frances doesn't know about is the "empty" apartment in her building. Empty? But she hears footsteps, the sound of sobbing...

The rumour is that it's used by some Saudi higher-up for the entertainment of his mistress. The Turadup circle are told not to set any cats among any pigeons. Keep your head down, and ignore whatever's going on.

But Frances increasingly feels that this mistress story can't be right.

One day she notices an armed person keeping watch on the flats. Another day she spots a wooden crate on the balcony of the empty flat. She's seen that crate before -- outside Yasmin's place. She meets Samira's maid, apparently about to deliver food to the mystery flat: "Someone is in the flat," thinks Frances, "but it is not who we think. I have swallowed down the rumour. It is a rumour that was tailor-made. It was tailor-made for Westerners, with their prurient minds; it was a rumour that we cherished, because it said everything about the Kingdom that we wished to believe."

Frances can't shake off her growing feeling that something is badly wrong. The crate is moved, although there are no footprints on the dust around it. Is there someone in it, she wonders... The next morning the crate has gone; the balcony has been swept clean.

This is all incredibly well done. Mantel creates a palpable feeling of doom and danger, and yet for a long time leaves open the possibility that this is all in Frances's head. Maybe she's just stuck in that stage of culture shock that induces paranoia?



Soon after these events, Frances encounters a veiled figure coming down the stairs. She reaches out to touch the person (bad idea, we're thinking...). And there's a man underneath that cloth. He's armed. And he's not afraid to send Frances flying against the wall.

She phones Eric Parsons. Again, we're thinking: Is this wise? Would I do that? But it's worth quoting their exchange extensively because it says so much about the climate of claustrophobic fear that Mantel is so expertly evoking:

"Soon Eric was stupefied; hearing what he did not want to hear. And how can she put it delicately -- I think that maybe upstairs there is an arms cache, a hideout, a torture chamber, a mortuary? That I have exhausted my imagination on what there may not be? 'I think,' she said, 'that there is a conspiracy, to which I have become a party, not a willing party.'
"'But of course there is.' Eric cut in on her. He sounded angry. 'We shouldn’t be talking about this over the phone. You know, you were told, about the empty flat. And you were told to be careful.'
"'It isn’t at all what you have been led to believe. Can I correct what I said? I don’t think there is a conspiracy. I know.'
"'Let me stop you there, Frances.' She heard heavy, exasperated breathing. 'Does Andrew know that you’re speaking to me?'
"'No.'
"'No. I thought not. Do bear in mind, my love, that for anything you do in this place, your husband is responsible...'
"'But I think a crime has been committed.'
"'Then do remember that the Saudi way with the witness of a crime is to hold the witness in jail.' Eric’s voice took on an official tone, a sort of stony rectitude. '... There are trading agreements at stake, there are diplomatic agreements, and those agreements are far more important than you.'
"There was a pause. She said, 'Won’t you even listen to me?'
"'No,' Eric said; pleasantly enough, courteously enough. 'I am first in the firing line, my dear, and there are some things I cannot afford to know. Once past a certain point, you see, you become an undesirable person, and then who knows what happens? Because there comes a certain point where they don’t want you here, and if you see what I mean, they don’t want you to leave either.'"



Events come thick and fast after that. The Shores' flat is burgled. At which point, even Andrew, previously worried only about his job, compares himself to the terrorism defendants in Italy who used to be put in glass cages: "They have a kind of parody life inside those glass cages, and I feel it’s just like mine. And the months go by, and I feel I am being convicted of something."

Then the Shores host Adam Fairfax, an air-conditioning expert from England, a nice young man, who seems to the oppressed Frances like a breath of fresh air from the outside world. They are disconcerted by his impressions of the Kingdom: "His smile died. He put down his glass, briefly. 'You must be mad to live here, Andrew. I haven’t felt safe for a single minute.'"

They're disturbed in the night by a shout. The front door is wide open, and when they find Fairfax, he is "only semiconscious, stupefied, in shock". He'd woken, gone up to the roof area for fresh air, and seen something. But he won't tell them what. They all go back to bed, but Fairfax has left by the time the Shores get up the next day.

He later phones Andrew, but doesn't reach him, and leaves a message, which has been jotted down in Arabic. Office factotum Hasan translates it: "He says, I go up to your roof last night and saw two men with box and down the stairs carrying a person who is dead. I am advise you to leave that place." Hasan says he thinks it's a joke, but "he spoke carefully, and his voice was full of foreboding".

Andrew never tells Frances the exact content of that message, by the way, just as she never tells Andrew about the encounter with the disguised man on the stairs. Moral: WE SHOULD TELL EACH OTHER STUFF...

This maxim becomes particularly apparent when Fairfax turns up dead shortly afterwards. An accident...

The Shores go to see the body. And here's another great bit of atmospheric scene-setting: "They drove: the freeways, the highways, the roads off the map; the unknown quarters, the alien districts, streets and buildings they had never seen before. Eyes on the road, hour after hour, breathing in the dust and the diesel fumes, their clothes sticking to their flesh, their throats clogged with apprehension, and their minds still numb with shock. Between the concrete pillars of the overpasses, darkness blossomed into darkness, each manmade wilderness as empty of association as the surface of the moon. And their every second thought was of mortality; you could die here, your figure fleeing before the screaming cars, running till you dropped and expiring without a sound, like the sacrificial victims who are buried in bridges. Then you would haunt the freeways, your dead compass swinging, searching for home; until the city expanded, by its usual laws, and they built over your ghost."

The final events remain behind a curtain of opacity. We never really find out for sure what happens to Yasmin (she tries to leave the country), or what all the kerfuffle with her husband is (he is shot at), or exactly what the deal with the mysterious flat is. Just hints. Suggestions. As Anita Brookner writes: "An impenetrable air of mystery hangs over the whole affair... Everything is withheld. This tightness of control is perhaps the novel's eeriest feature."

Eric concedes: "It’s quite possible that there have been certain comings and goings at your place. But if the police should come bothering you, of course you know nothing..." Of course. No-one ever knows anything...

So, Frances and Andrew are settled in different accommodation. Not many trees; an outlook onto a stony hill topped with barbed wire; harsh glare.

And the last paragraph, from Frances's diary, is this: "I go back into the house... I look out through the glass, on to the landscape, the distant prospect of travelling cars. Window one, the freeway; window two, the freeway. I turn away, cross the room to find a different view. Window three, the freeway; window four, the freeway."

Poor Frances, we think. All that trauma. She'll never trust anyone ever again. And now she's in an even worse situation. Surely destabilizing.



And that's what I thought the outcome was.

Until I saw a comment on Goodreads... Remember that memo from Eric Parsons that comes right at the beginning? Here it is: "I need not remind anyone of this week’s tragic events involving Turadup employees. In order to safeguard the company’s position in these very difficult times, I must request all staff and families about to depart on leave to behave as follows:..." This is the first thing you read/hear in the book. You don't understand what has happened at that point, of course, but having finished listening, I understood it to relate to poor Fairfax's death.

But look more carefully, says that reader. Fairfax was not a Turadup employee; the memo refers to "employees" and "recent deaths" (plural). And it's dated Shawal... July... The last we hear from the Shores is in Shaban, two Hijra months earlier... So, we have to wonder whether Frances and Andrew ever made it out of Saudi Arabia... Remember those ominous words of Eric's: "Once past a certain point, you see, you become an undesirable person, and then who knows what happens? Because there comes a certain point where they don't want you here, and if you see what I mean, they don't want you to leave either."

Once that seed is sown, you start to remember the little foreshadowings that crop up everywhere. Frances at one point tells Shabana that she and Andrew are very different: He waits; she acts. Shabana replies: "Then you may say he is at danger of being crushed by circumstances, but you, Frances, are at danger of collisions. If I may say … do be careful. This is not a good country for people who act."



***

Of course, there have been many changes in Saudi Arabia over recent years. And yet, those in the know can still say that "the kingdom retains an air of mystery, which can confound even the most experienced experts".

Writing in 2004, Mantel herself says, "Since I left Saudi Arabia it has never been out of the news. But journalists, because of their transient status, can never experience the texture of life: that daily blend of flatness and fear, the feeling that, though nothing seems to be happening, events are forming up in the shadows. It is as if the whole world is veiled; when bloody reality erupts, when there is a shootout, an explosion, when body parts have to be picked from the gutter, then rumour is the attending policeman. The haze of disinformation descends like certain days I remember, sandstorm days of blurred light."

More than 10 years after that, she was pointing out: "The odd thing about Ghazzah Street was that a lot of what I said proved to be pretty accurate when terrorist activity was exposed in Saudi Arabia. People were doing just what I said -- they were stockpiling arms in little flats around the city."

***

All in all, this was one to tangle with. I couldn't align myself with the script that Mantel was feeding Frances, and felt I would have liked a bit more nuance. But I relished the increasingly creepy atmosphere, and loved that understated, never quite clarified sting in the tail...

There's no denying Mantel's talent.