Submission

by Harrison Young

  4

  The prime minister keeps his office in the souk, up a flight of wooden stairs that are always in shadow. “Servants’ quarters,” he likes to say, “are not meant to be grand.” There are eight interconnected rooms, with doors giving access to a covered balcony that runs the whole way round the building. He likes the “flexibility” of this arrangement, meaning that he can avoid tiresome meetings. It would also make it easy to receive unofficial callers – there are actually two stairways – but I do not think he takes bribes.

  Many people assume that I am more than just his secretary, but I am not. All he requires is that I look the part. So I wear silk, move slowly, and make the traditional sweet black coffee with unexpected skill. He addresses me as Mrs. Sullivan. Sometimes I wink at him, which he likes. I have learned enough Arabic to startle his visitors.

  This morning His Excellency is making a face when I arrive. He often does this: wild grimaces to accompany extreme announcements.

  “A combustible situation, Mrs. Sullivan. You will cope with it well, I know, but I may have to get under my desk.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister?”

  “The American lawyer who has been sent to spy on me arrives this morning. Also, we receive Dr. Maloof.”

  “And…?”

  “They will not get along.”

  The American arrives first. He introduces himself to me as Philip Cooper.

  Sheik Fawzi pretends they already know each other and opens a file having nothing to do with anything. He has me keep files on his desk for this purpose. I change them every day, in fact.

  “This morning’s problem: Hussein Maloof. Westernised Arab. Zaathi. Very unusual to encounter an educated Zaathi. Probably kidnapped or stowed away as a child on one of the ships when the French thought there was oil in Zaathah and sent in a lot of drilling equipment. Touchy about his antecedents.”

  “Why is he here?” says the American.

  “His Highness the Crown Prince believes we should have a census. He has met this Maloof in Paris. ‘He is a social scientist,’ His Highness tells me. He says this as if it were a rare capacity, like having perfect pitch or being an albino. He wants me to give this man a contract to count us.”

  “What is wrong with that?”

  “Two things. First, it is a waste of money. Admittedly, a small amount. But waste is waste. It will be a short step to personal helicopters and an international conference centre and from that to a steel mill. Why must all emerging countries have steel mills, Cooper? If we must have a steel mill, perhaps we should also have a coalmine. Perhaps also deposits of iron ore could be shipped in and buried in the desert, and we could send our young men to the Colourado School of Mines to be trained to go out and find them. It would be the most expensive game of hide and seek in the history of the world. This is only slight exaggeration.

  “Second, this census will cause a lot of trouble.”

  “Why is that?” says the American.

  “There are not enough Alidi.”

  “Ah.”

  “And now that you are in my confidence, perhaps you would let Mrs. Sullivan find you pencils and such.”

  Philip Cooper takes this dismissal pretty well, I think. Just gets up to leave. When he is at the door, which I am holding open for him, His Excellency speaks again: “By the way, Cooper, this individual who is coming to see us is himself not a simple case. Test him.”

  I find Cooper pencils, and also a desk, and tell him how the office works – open at seven, closed for the day at one-thirty – give him a key, show him the refrigerator, and express surprise that no one met his flight two nights before.

  “I met someone on the plane who gave me a ride,” he says. “Ian Something.”

  “Ian Elliot – of restaurant fame,” I say.

  “Quite a character.”

  Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of Dr. Maloof.

  “Would you begin, Doctor,” Cooper says, once they are seated, “by telling us what the study you propose will accomplish?”

  “It was not I, Mr. Cooper, but Prince Ibrahim who suggested the project.”

  “Yes we know that, but for the record…”

  I am organising the refreshments, so I miss bits.

  “…or perhaps an example would help. Alidar is a wealthy country. Presumably no one starves. The crown prince, having concern for the people, wishes to be certain. I can tell you, based on fieldwork elsewhere, that pockets of malnutrition probably do exist. I could go on, but that should make it more concrete. Not terribly abstract, hunger. I believe you even have it in America.”

  “Don’t let’s worry about America, Doctor. What else do you expect to learn about Alidar?”

  “Infant mortality, family size, literacy, distribution of linguistic and tribal groupings, significant intergenerational feuds…”

  “Talk about the feasibility study.”

  “The object at this stage is to determine how hard it will be to obtain information, how much time must be devoted to winning people’s trust, whether it will be necessary to recruit local people who have migrated to the coastal areas to return to their home villages to conduct the surveys. Unlike myself, Mr. Cooper, some Arabs react badly to a direct approach. We are a backward people. It is many centuries since we conquered half the known world –”

  “References?” says Cooper, interrupting. I cannot believe he is normally this rude, but you never know with Americans.

  “I beg your pardon?” says Maloof.

  “People we can contact who have been satisfied with your work in the past.”

  “My organisation works on a confidential basis. We never disclose clients’ names.”

  “Horse shit.”

  His Excellency intervenes: “Perhaps we could defer the question of references.”

  “Cost?” says Cooper.

  “For the feasibility study, one hundred fifty thousand, plus expenses.”

  “Dollars?”

  “Dinars,” says Maloof. An Alidi dinar is worth about five English pounds, or ten American dollars.

  “Oh, this is quite ridiculous,” says Cooper.

  Maloof is looking contemptuous, and Fawzi is about to speak when the sound of excited voices and rapid movement intrudes from the next room. The door opens and the King of Alidar comes in. I recognise him from the portraits that hang in every public building. Also the son, whose picture I have also seen, and a magnificent Nubian. We all stand up.

  “Your Majesty, may I present two of your newer servants?

  “The brave American I know already. He runs in the desert. Be careful, Fawzi, or he will wear you out.”

  “I didn’t realise who you were, sir,” says Cooper.

  “I remember no discourtesy. You stopped to talk.” His Majesty turns toward Dr. Maloof but speaks to Fawzi. “This other individual I do not know.”

  “Dr. Maloof,” says Fawzi.

  “He dresses like a European but he looks like one of us.”

  “Your Majesty has a keen eye,” says Maloof. “There is a family tradition that we have Alidi blood.”

  “Dr. Maloof will be counting Your Majesty’s subjects,” says Fawzi.

  The king turns to his son: “So this is the socialist you told me about.”

  “Social scientist, Father.”

  “Fawzi, come to lunch tomorrow.” His Majesty is evidently finished with Maloof. “And bring Mrs. Sullivan.” He barely glances in my direction. “My daughter, Fatima, wishes to meet her.”

  The king leaves as abruptly as he arrived. We all follow him to the door. When he is gone, Maloof laughs. “Mubarek has betrayed you, Mr. Cooper. You have better manners than you pretend.”

  “As each occasion demands,” says Cooper, unbending very little.

  “And the price is one hundred fifty thousand dinars. You may deliver the contract to me at the Regency Hotel any time before eight, when I leave for the airport.”

  As soon as he too is gone, Cooper is speaking to Fawzi: “With respect, you
were no help at all.”

  “I told you the crown prince wants to hire him.”

  “So do you, evidently. And you kept diffusing the tension I was trying to create.”

  “Dr. Maloof is a proud man.”

  “I thought you wanted me to test the limits of that pride,” says Cooper.

  “Perhaps I was also testing you.”

  Cooper starts to object, but Fawzi continues before he can speak.

  “You are not a principal here. If I require you to lose, you must lose.”

  “I am not good at that.”

  “You have the luxury of being an American.”

  “That, I think, is what you ordered: American, one each – as they say in the army – has law degree, can get to the point. Prime Minister, who is this guy? You two know each other.”

  “This is not an auspicious beginning, Cooper. I will assume it is jet lag. I know Maloof, as I know most Gulf Arabs of prominence, by virtue of my position. That does not mean we are confederates.”

  “It felt like you were.”

  “Perhaps I wanted him to think that.”

  “Why would you want that?”

  “I said ‘perhaps’. And I would have thought someone from the excellent firm I am told you come from would be more sophisticated. Let me give you your first culture lesson. Nothing in the Arab world is simple. That is why we are never in a hurry to ‘get to the point’, to borrow your phrase. The ‘point’ is often bloody – as you would know if you had been reading the newspapers for the past year. When I conclude that you have learned to listen, I will teach you to read. I did not ask for an adviser, and I did not ask for you. Since you are here, I will try to make intelligent use of you. If you adopt an intelligent attitude, you may find your time here an enriching experience. But you must accept that you are an employee, and that some of what you see will be mystifying.”

  I have never seen Fawzi adopt this tone before. Cooper is more important than I had assumed.

  “I may not be ‘sophisticated,’” he says, “but for the record, I do not think Dr. Maloof is primarily a demographer.”

  “What then?”

  “Some sort of entrepreneur.”

  “Everyone in the Gulf is an entrepreneur,” says Fawzi. “And businessmen are preferable to holy men.”

  There is rather a long silence.

  “Be cheerful,” says Fawzi finally. “You were never expected to like me.” He goes into his office and closes the door.

  I suppose I should describe Philip Cooper. He is shorter than I expected – five foot nine, perhaps. There is no fat on him at all. Quick movements, giving a hint of the muscles beneath his shirt. Left-handed, blond hair cut short, intelligent eyes. When he smiles, you remember he is American, but otherwise there is something of the stray dog about him. An alpha male, to be sure, but homeless. One could have sex with him for days, I would think.

  5

  The reason you weren’t supposed to talk about the insurgency in Zaathah had to do with genealogy. Allison Baxter was explaining it to Philip, drawing a diagram on a napkin in Ian’s Restaurant. Philip was having trouble following her.

  The Arab with the Bentley was the King of Alidar. Philip should have figured that out when he met him. Philip’s new boss looked like a monkey, and they were not going to get along. He would ship Philip back to New York as soon as he could get around to it. Arthur would tell him he’d set a new land speed record for screwing up and he would get a lot of free time to look for another job. The only friendly face in the crowd was the king’s son, who looked even dumber than Philip felt.

  None of which actually concerned him as it should. He was in shock from having seen a beautiful woman…surrendered. “Bring Mrs. Sullivan,” the king had said. It was like being in the Middle Ages. It was like being in a slave market. It was like walking into a room full of fresh-cut lilies and being hit in the face with their scent.

  Cassandra Sullivan was totally gorgeous, you understand: red hair, pale skin, tall, capable, angular, English. In New York she would be married to a billionaire who didn’t know what had happened to him. But she wasn’t in New York. She was in Alidar, where women had no legal existence. One had to assume she belonged to the prime minister. And now she belonged to the king. Just like that. Her own desires not relevant.

  Philip’s first impression had been that she could be good company, actually. Sort of patted him on the shoulder verbally, when a pat on the shoulder was exactly what he needed, and did it in an asexual way, which was quite amazing when you considered how stunning she was.

  Later she’d seemed frosty. “Go to Ian’s,” she had said, when Saturday officially ended. “You should meet some Europeans.” It had sounded like a reproach.

  Ian’s Restaurant was in an old whitewashed building beside the harbour. It could be approached either by boat or from the souk. The restaurant had several rooms, the largest of which opened onto a terrace and a small swimming pool, which was primarily an excuse for sunbathing. Europeans came for the food and the gossip, both of which were of high quality. Young Arab businessmen – most in long robes and checked headcloths – came to look at the European girls beside the pool. Or so Cassandra had implied.

  “Europeans” meant anyone who wasn’t an Arab. In Alidar, Americans were Europeans.

  Ian had greeted Philip like an old friend when he showed up, given him a good table, sat down and ordered him a bottle of wine on the house – Alidar didn’t seem to be difficult about alcohol – and immediately launched into conversation the same as when he’d collapsed into the seat next to Philip on the plane, just as the door was being closed, full of admiration for the Russian taxi driver who had taken him to JFK in twenty-five minutes.

  Australian. Described himself as a merchant. Even pulled out his passport to prove it. Only mentioned the restaurant later.

  “What do you sell?” Philip had asked, wondering why the man had an Arab passport.

  “Old machines. Construction equipment mostly. But I can tell you’re not a trader.”

  “Lawyer,” Philip had said.

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  Philip had laughed.

  “No offence. Just never struck me as interesting work. I’ve had friends who were lawyers, though. One got me out of jail in Jakarta. Got me out of the country, in fact. Useful folks to know. Glad to know you.”

  “Why did you say I couldn’t be a merchant?” Philip had asked.

  “Because the skill is not in selling but in knowing what to buy.”

  “That sounds profound.”

  “No charge.”

  “Where do you buy this construction equipment?”

  “Kuwait mostly. They have decent mechanics from Pakistan so the stuff’s in good shape, but they’re so rich they want everything to be new. Last time I was up there I saw a brand-new Mercedes with a flat tire abandoned by the side of the road in from the airport.”

  “And where do you sell the equipment?”

  “Yemen, Egypt, the Sudan, sometimes further down in Africa…”

  So here he was with Allison. Ian had sent a note to her table: “Want to meet a fellow citizen?”

  “…the Sultanate of Zaathah,” she was saying, “is at this moment ruled by Fayez the Third. His grandfather – F-One, I’ll call him – in his old age had by a much younger wife a last child, a son, whom he saw fit to educate abroad. This individual, whose name is Suleiman, claims the throne of Zaathah on the grounds that F-Two was not F-Three’s true father. Suleiman is a person of some charisma, and has adherents from his mother’s side in the mountainous border areas. So far, so good?”

  “I’m with you,” said Philip, lying.

  Allison was the sort of woman you could imagine a normal man wanting to marry. She was quick and friendly, and also rather pretty if you stopped to think about it. Slim waist. Small, efficient breasts that did their job with a minimum of fuss. Efficient skin that clearly never burned.

  She was married, in fact. To a banker. Tommy. Nic
e guy, according to Ian, who’d filled him in as Allison was being relocated. “He’s probably in Saudi today.” Equally buttoned up and healthy looking. Shyly serious about his work. Subscribes to Foreign Affairs, and if there was no other audience, he could be engaged in well-informed discussions on the politics of oil. Worth knowing.

  “If that were all there was to it,” said Allison, “Suleiman’s rebellion would be of no particular importance outside Zaathah, since the Sultanate is rich in nothing except inhabitants, and no one actually cares who rules it.”

  “No one except Suleiman,” said Philip.

  “Yes, of course,” said Allison briskly. “The situation is complicated, however, by the fact that Suleiman’s mother was undeniably descended from M-One – sorry, Mubarek the First of Alidar. Her mother, Suleiman’s grandmother, was M-One’s first wife. He married her in about 1917, when no one dreamed he would become king. Mountain women are evidently very beautiful, though how anyone would know I can’t fathom, as they cover up completely, including rather gruesome leather masks. The worldwide influenza epidemic at the end of the First World War killed off a number of his relatives and left him two steps from power. So he sent his beautiful wife and their daughter, the future mother of Suleiman, back to the mountains – claiming of course that the daughter wasn’t his – made a more politic second marriage, had his rather dim older brother pushed off a parapet or something, and took control, ruling briefly as regent for his decrepit uncle, and from nineteen twenty-three to nineteen sixty-one as king. M-Two, who rules here today, is the only surviving child of that second marriage. So you see the point?”

  “Um, I think so.”

  “What this means is that Suleiman’s claim in Alidar is plausible. Kingship can descend through the female line here, but it is supposed to go through the first wife, so everything depends on who got Suleiman’s grandmother pregnant, which no one can prove one way or the other. If his insurgency succeeds in Zaathah, he’ll have the prestige and resources to assert his rights – excuse me, his claim – in Alidar.”

  “Is Suleiman likely to get control of Zaathah?”