by T. Warwick
“Oh, yeah?”
“Fucking gypsies. Fucking paranoid corporate fucking gypsies. They’re out there, mate.”
“You’re Australian, right?”
“Fucking right I am.”
“How long have you been here?”
“In the Gulf? Fuck. More than twenty years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Time. Fucking bloody time. Fuck time. I have a nice life. And my daughter is going to a fucking boarding school in Switzerland. Got her a recommendation from the owner of this place, mate. That’s bloody wasta for you, mate. You ever have Saudi champagne?”
“What?”
“Saudi champagne, mate.”
“What is it?”
“Just a sec,” he said as he pulled up an intercom app. “Arun, get me two glasses of Saudi champagne. OK,” he said as he took the earbud out of his ear and dropped it in his lapel pocket.
“So what is it?” Charlie asked, looking up from his plate.
“Oh, it’s nothing, mate. Just some fruit juice and Seven Up. Bloody hilarious. When I first got to Saudi, a group of us were sitting around drinking this stuff. One old bloke who’d been here forever said this was as exciting as it got.” Walter rolled his eyes. “Fuck, was he wrong. And not just about that.”
“What else?”
“Everything. Come on, mate. Let me show you. Come on, mate.”
“Where?”
“I was just joking about the Saudi champagne. I need to show you something.”
“Sure,” Charlie said as he followed him downstairs into a room full of bookcases. They walked all the way to the back.
“Watch this.” He pushed one of the shelves, and it opened like a door. The LEDs intensified and revealed a long wooden bar with a selection of whiskeys and beers on tap. “Pretty impressive, eh?”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. Where’s the humidor?”
“Humidor? That’s a good one.” He pulled the bookcase door shut.
“I guess you can’t be too careful.”
“Security can’t take a holiday. The terrorists don’t.”
“No, they certainly don’t. The champagne is in my car.”
“And the hash?” he whispered under his breath.
“Yeah.”
“No problem. Where are you parked?”
“By the main entrance.”
“No need to panic. Just use the service entrance. Follow me.” Walter led him behind the bar and down a red brick stairwell that led to a loading dock.
“Go out the tunnel and turn right. Your car is right there. You can drive it right up here.”
Charlie walked back to the parking lot and got in the car. Three middle-aged Saudi men emerged from a dented brown Bentley. He started the car and flicked his stylus around like he was sending a memo. Lauren’s face was translucent like mist and twice the size of the car. He looked over, and the Saudis were gone. Slowly, without touching the accelerator, he steered the car into the truck depot.
“Great,” he said as he grabbed the satchel and examined the four bricks inside. “You know what this is?”
“Hash.”
“No, mate. This is something much better. It’s been genetically modified. The guys in this compound will forget they’re even here in Saudi.”
“I never heard of a Saudi geneticist.”
“They’re out there, mate.”
“They sure are. So what else do you fellas do for fun around here? I mean—besides tennis?”
“You’re funny.”
“I try.”
“Just don’t be too funny. The Saudis don’t appreciate it. And whatever you do, don’t smile. It’s the sign of weakness.”
“I’ve heard that.”
28
The highway was completely unlit, but the full moon was bright enough for Charlie to see the outline of a high wall set against the tops of houses and apartment blocks on his left. On his right was the blackness of the empty desert. There were no road signs—only AR indications of latitude and longitude on the windshield that guided the car according to the map Saleh had put in his phone. Unlike downtown Al Khobar, the area was completely bereft of AR. The car veered off down a two-lane street with sand drifts so deep it nearly came to a dead stop at one point. An illuminated Hawk momentarily appeared in his rearview mirror before ascending. He put his hands up to shield his eyes from the intense brightness of the cluster of floodlights ahead. Through his fingers, he saw the windshield go blank from a lack of input. The car zigzagged between concrete barriers designed to prevent car bomb attempts. The floodlights were so bright, it almost seemed like daylight. There were two guards standing outside of a clear acrylic box playing what looked like AR badminton. They looked over at the car as it stopped at the entrance. One of them straightened up and approached with a formal gait while the other returned to the clear box. He made a chopping movement with his hand at his forearm to signal that he wanted to see Charlie’s ID. Three brown Hawks hovered outside next to them, swooping down occasionally to peer into the car’s windows. He kept reminding himself they were only interested in terrorist threats to the residents. Charlie handed the guard his passport. The guard took it and looked at him and then in the back seat. He flipped through it and waved for him to proceed into the compound as he handed it back to him. Once inside the walls, the charming faux-American suburb revealed itself. Condos with vinyl siding and oak trees nestled amid trimmed hedges and green grass.
The street was like any suburban American street, only cleaner and devoid of people: far too pristine. The lack of AR interaction was stifling, but he felt comforted as he looked up at the chlorophyll-enhanced leaves of the oak trees. They sparkled at the edges like AR trees. The sidewalk and the fronts of the rows of townhouses showed no signs of wear. The only sounds were the whooshing of the cars on the highway in the distance and the occasional outbursts of laughter from the guards at the front gate. He parked the car at the curb and walked up to the numbered townhouse, 512. The walls must have been soundproofed, because the loud ether music wasn’t even audible before the door opened.
“You’re just in time.” The man, in his midforties and a white silk business shirt and black linen pants, spoke in a manner of professional clarity designed to convey meaning to those who might otherwise not understand. He gestured with his head toward a large glass pitcher on the kitchen island to his right.
“What’s that?”
“Sid. The local home brew. Moonshine—I believe that’s what they call it in your part of the world. I think they put oak chips in that one to make it more palatable.” He was British.
“Did it work?”
The man produced a forced laugh. “I’m Darren.”
“Charlie.”
“Would you like a glass?”
“Sure.” Charlie walked with him to the granite counter. All of the appliances were state-of-the-art and brand-new, like nothing he had seen since Saigon. The adjacent living room had furniture like a model home and a tastefully indistinct lithograph on the wall. It was the way Western people were supposed to like it.
“Don’t worry. I let it breathe.” The man giggled as he poured two glasses almost to the top.
“Thanks.” Charlie picked up the large cobalt blue wine glass and took a sip.
“Careful!” the man cautioned.
It was strong with a warm burn. “So what are you doing here in Saudi Arabia?”
“I’m part of the corporate structure of one of the major dairy companies.”
“Dairy?”
“Yes. Actually, I’m the CEO.”
“I didn’t know that was a big business here.”
“Well, there used to be only one…and it was big…but some tribal dispute changed all that. It happened before I arrived. I’ve only been here four months.”
“Dairy. Where do they get the hay and the water?”
“Oh? An agriculturalist? There are aquifers and farms. Saudi is actually a net exporter of wheat. The fa
cilities at the dairy are really on a par with Europe. The aquifers are starting to run out now, though.”
“So what are they going to do?”
“The water needs to be further filtered.” He exhaled with great affectation. “But, as long as His Majesty is willing to pay, I’m willing to do what it takes to keep our cows properly nourished. Eventually, all that water they force down to force out the oil will be used for farming. It’s just a matter of time.”
“That’s hilarious.”
Darren raised an eyebrow as he handed him a pack of Saudi riyals wrapped with two rubber bands. “That’s quite a markup for a case of 2013 Krug.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly flowing out of cows, is it?”
“Now, that would be a neat trick.”
“It sure would.”
“It would certainly go a long way toward making this place more habitable.”
“And there’s also the…” He trailed off.
“Oh, right. Majed will bring down the money for that. You’re not in too much of a hurry, I hope.”
“No problem. You’ve got a nice setup here. I mean…for where we are.”
“Yes. It’s easy to forget the quality of life that we enjoy. And what would you say is your preferred year for Krug?”
“The 2013 is nice.”
“Yes, it is. Quite. To be honest, I don’t need the money they pay me here. And I think that contributes to some better-quality decisions that wouldn’t have been made otherwise.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Well, for example, last week my Saudi superiors told me to transfer someone to another department. I told them no. I wouldn’t have done that if I weren’t financially independent.”
“What did they say?”
“What could they say? He had to stay. Oh, they objected, of course. Would you like another glass?” Darren poured both glasses without waiting for Charlie’s response.
“Where is Albert?” Darren sounded exasperated as he tapped his stylus finger in midair a few times. “OK, he’s coming,” he announced as he refocused his attention on Charlie.
Albert came walking through the front door, wearing a shiny white T-shirt and jeans with a short black fur coat draped over his shoulders. He was carrying a small electric coffee grinder under his left arm.
“It’s a little late for coffee,” Darren chided.
“Oh, it’s always too early,” Albert said as he contorted his pouting collagen-enlarged lips and waved a straw with white powder on the end like a magic wand. Darren handed him a glass of sid and quickly grabbed a bottle of cranberry juice from the refrigerator and splashed some into the glass. “And you must be?”
“Charlie.”
“Right. Darren said we were getting resupplied. It’s been utterly treacherous for him. But I don’t mind. I prefer artificial things.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Care to partake in some industrial spillage?” he asked as he waved his straw at him.
“No, thanks,” Charlie replied.
“Suit yourself. But I prefer a bit of a bionic boost to keep me sober. Someone’s got to keep the network secure from nasty infiltrators.”
“Where’s the bathroom?” Charlie asked.
“Upstairs. Majed should be there, too. He’s a Druze from Lebanon. He’s been in Saudi Arabia for five years, and he’s the best assistant a man could ask for.”
“A druid?”
“No. A Druze. Aristotle and all that. Don’t worry, you have to be born into it…so he’s not going to try and convert you.”
Charlie walked upstairs to use the bathroom and found Majed sitting in a corner at the top of the stairs playing a game in full occlusion and completely unaware of his presence. He had a curled mustache that added a circus-like quality to his checkered black-and-blue suit with matching AR obelisks that hovered around him. Sensing Charlie’s presence, he paused the game with a wave of his forefinger but kept the glasses on.
“I’m Majed. I would shake your hand…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Charlie said.
“Majed, help Charlie unload. You need help, don’t you, Charlie?” Darren called up from downstairs.
“I appreciate it. Just a minute,” Charlie said.
When he came out of the bathroom, Majed was standing in front of him. He had put on clear AR glasses and was surveying Charlie like he was a painting. They walked downstairs.
“You don’t have a profile, Charlie.”
“Didn’t think I’d need one here in Saudi.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A few months.”
Everyone laughed as if his comment were uproariously funny. “Saudi isn’t as boring as you’ve been led to believe,” Darren said with a knowing glint in his eyes. “There are some lively parts to it.”
“Not for straight guys,” Majed said, and everyone laughed except Charlie.
Charlie looked past him at Lauren, who had stopped dancing ballet in a pink silk dress and was standing erect on her toes. She was staring at him beneath clown makeup with painted tears. He didn’t remember applying that particular app.
“Are you going to help me get that stuff out of the car?” Charlie asked after a long, silent pause.
“Just a second,” Majed said as he scrolled through a long menu that had him waving his hand before flicking him some Iconmaker apps.
“What’s this?”
“To spruce up your profile. Don’t worry. No viruses. I promise.”
“Wallah?”
“Something like that.”
After they returned from the car, Darren rambled on in corporate speak about meeting challenges versus facing problems, and Charlie tuned out. “I’d better get going,” Charlie said.
“Are we going to that concert in Dubai next week?” Albert asked.
“Hmm. I haven’t decided. Let’s have another glass. Who’s driving?” Darren said to Albert.
“Majed.”
“Where is he?”
“I think he went back upstairs,” Charlie said.
Charlie walked out without bothering to say good-bye a second time. He slid back into the car and quickly proceeded to scroll down to the navigation attachment to his next address. “Got it,” he murmured to himself as he clicked on it, and the car roared into a jolting K-turn. Lauren sat undisturbed in the passenger sheet, mouthing the words to a love song she seemed to be listening to on the Bahraini radio station.
29
There was a stoplight in the middle of the desert. Across the intersection were the blackened outlines of a few shuttered storefronts. Charlie let his head slide over to the left in a meditative dream, which ended before it could begin with a tapping on the window. He looked over and saw a woman in an abaya. Only her black eyes were visible between the slits in the black fabric covering her head. He nodded as she held out her black-gloved hand, seeking alms, but the light turned green, and the car accelerated on its own just as he was reaching in his pocket.
“Who was that woman?” Lauren asked.
“Nobody. A ghost. She was lost.”
“Oh.”
After twenty minutes, there were streetlights illuminating the sand-colored walls, which conspicuously lacked razor wire. The car turned down one of the nameless residential streets that were only differentiated by AR numbers that lit up on his windshield and disappeared as he passed. The car slowed to a walking pace, and the map indicated the house in a 3-D aerial view on the windshield.
He parked the car across the street from a large house surrounded by high walls and a faux gilded gate. Lauren appeared in front of the gate, pointing triumphantly before running back to the car; she blew him a kiss as the windshield faded out. He lifted up the back seat and grabbed one of the last remaining satchels of hash. Above the gate, a phosphorescent blue Butterfly with a telescopic lens protruding from its head was flapping its wings just fast enough to stay aloft. He looked up and examined it; it had the wingspan of a somewhat diminutive Hawk. H
e decided to wait before putting his glasses back on. The pastel gray and khaki walls of the neighboring houses stretched to where the streetlights ended at the black empty space of the desert. Turning back, he looked across the street at the sidewalk and wondered if it had ever been used by anyone.
The gate parted gently, and he walked into the magenta cobblestone courtyard that sparkled under the LED floodlights. It was difficult for him to discern which way to go at first. The Butterfly, flapping lazily, hovered behind him as the gate closed. The main house was directly in front of him with fresh white pastel paint like icing on a cake. Saleh had said Omar was in a tent. He walked to the left of the main building and down an alley to the back of the house. The tent consisted of a hardened acrylic white canopy above a structure made of white PVC siding. He turned and saw the Butterfly making its way back toward the entrance.
Three blonde women in their midtwenties were sitting on cushions on the floor, giggling among themselves. They paid no attention to him as he passed. To his left, a man in a black thobe was lying in a hammock, projecting the view from the front gate in AR. “You can bring that inside,” he said.
“You’re Omar?”
“Yes, I am. Here.” He removed a stack of Saudi riyals from his thobe pocket and held it out for Charlie to collect.
“Y’all are really philosophical about death.” The voice, coming from inside the tent, sounded like Cameron.
Charlie crouched down a little to fit in the small entrance. The door opened, releasing billows of hash smoke. Cameron was sitting in the corner. Five young Saudi men in thobes and baseball caps turned backward were sitting like Native Americans along the edge of an intricately designed Pakistani carpet that came to within a few feet of covering the white tile floor completely. Everyone was high and laughing uproariously. As he turned, he saw the Butterfly was so close to him that he felt a light breeze on the back of his scalp.
One of the Saudis, sitting in the back corner like it was the head of a dining room table, shooed it away dismissively with his hand. Charlie noticed the silver ring that wrapped around his thumb like a snake. “Is that a stylus?”
