Dr. Zahra
This email came at night, too late to be vaguely professional in provenance, and so they continued to email for hours, until they had made a plan to see each other in person. Alan had no clue how this could be done in the KSA and left the planning to her.
I’ll pick you up Wednesday, she wrote. I’ll be there at noon. Look for an SUV. I’ll write your initials on a card and put it on the windshield.
The next day, Alan could not sit still in the tent, and strolling the beach was not good enough. Instead he walked into the city’s grid, passing the men in jumpsuits, nodding to them like a foreman. He walked for hours on empty roads, his energy rising with every mile. Finally he returned and found the canal he’d sailed. He walked a time along the canal, dumbstruck by its clarity and the color possible here. Amid the dust and the buildings that might never be, and the sand forever trying to overtake it all, there was this immaculate thread of turquoise, an irrational color, an unnecessary color. People had not made the color, but they had helped it to occur here. They had built something and the water had flowed and so people had brought bewildering beauty into a place in which it did not belong.
Alan took a long time along the needlessly blue canal, and when he returned to the tent, he was surprised but not so much to find Rachel sitting on Brad’s lap, the two of them facing each other, soaked in sweat, their mouths trying to swallow each other, as Cayley worked away at her laptop, not twenty feet away.
Cayley noticed Alan in the doorway, and waved. But Brad and Rachel were not ready to stop. They looked to him, waiting to see if he intended to stay. He had no interest in what they were doing, and the next day was the weekend, when Zahra would be taking him to her brother’s seaside home for lunch, so he found himself without any reason to interfere. He left the tent and continued to walk until the day was done.
XXXII.
AN ENORMOUS SUV swung into the Hilton driveway. It was gleaming, all the hotel’s windows and lights reflecting on its obsidian exterior. Under the windshield Alan saw his initials, AC, as if the car was advertising its climate control. He smiled, and the back door opened.
Alan saw her legs first. She was wearing an abaya, but her ankles and feet, in strapped heels, were there before him. He looked up, and saw her smiling at him, her face alight in amusement.
He stepped into the car, in full view of a dozen bellmen and attendants, to all eyes a Western man invited into the car of a Saudi woman. How did it work?
Alan sat down and closed the door behind him and inside it was very dark. He greeted the driver with a smile and a nod, and they swung through the hotel turnaround, past the guard atop the tank, and out onto the highway.
Zahra wore a loose scarf over her hair, but her face was uncovered. In the golden light her eyes looked bigger and browner than they had in the hospital, and were lined with a tidy stripe of blue eye shadow. Her hair, with which she said she struggled, was so thick it seemed to have been not styled but carved. In the front, though, those curtains that needed parting. She did it again, using two fingers, revealing her face anew.
Alan wanted to say something significant. There were many things he wanted to say, but anything he might say needed vetting. What could he say in front of the driver?
—How is KAEC? she asked.
Like Yousef, she found it amusing how much thought and hope he had invested into the city-to-be. She said KAEC in a way that implied it was gauche and silly, a distraction from more essential things.
—Fine, I guess. They’re making progress.
Her look was skeptical.
—They really are, he said. It takes time.
—Lots of time, she said.
They sped through the city, its glittering malls and high-walled compounds. The driver pointed out the window and threw a few words over his shoulder.
—He says that’s the house of the Saudi Maradona. He thinks we care. Do you care? she asked.
Alan couldn’t guess which home the driver was referring to, but they were in the middle of a strange but common sort of Jeddah neighborhood, where on one side of the road there were extravagant walled compounds, painted in pastels and worth millions, and across the street there was a vast empty lot, where hundreds of trucks had dumped their construction waste. Tidy piles of rubble everywhere. Alan thought to ask Zahra about them but assumed it would be considered some kind of insult. He didn’t know how proud or unproud she was of her country, presuming it was her country. He still didn’t know.
—Water?
She had two glasses of water sitting neatly in the drink holders.
He took a sip.
—Good? she asked.
—Thank you.
She lifted her water glass to her lips, and seeing her like that, eyes closed, gave Alan a flurry of wild thoughts. She put the glass down, her tongue quickly catching a droplet.
—The drive is more than an hour, she said. By the time we get there we’ll know everything important about each other.
And this was more or less true. She told him about high school in Geneva. A former boyfriend who was now trying to overthrow the government of Tunisia. The time she tried LSD. A stint with Islamic Relief, working in refugee camps in Kurdistan. A year in a medical hospital in Kabul. Listening to her, Alan felt like a less necessary species.
—So you’re going to meet the King, she said.
He hoped she would be impressed. —That’s the plan.
—So do you personally present to Abdullah, or…?
Alan wished he could say yes. But he was too well-practiced in self-deflation, so said, —I’ll be part of the team. I really don’t know much about the technology. I’m here because I know his nephew, or knew him.
—And who’s the competition? she asked.
—I don’t know. Right now we’re the only ones in the tent.
—The tent?
—Don’t ask.
—I won’t.
She turned to the window, as if looking for inspiration. —It’ll be interesting now that the Chinese buy more of the King’s oil.
Alan had not known this.
—I wonder, she went on, if everything will follow that. I wonder if Abdullah and the whole crew will suddenly shift their allegiances. Maybe you’re no longer the favorite.
Alan was suddenly transported far away from this car, from Zahra. Quickly he was in a room in Boston, meeting with Eric Ingvall, who was asking what went wrong, why he hadn’t anticipated this, factored in that. And then Kit and her college. And then the money he owed to everyone he knew.
—I’m sorry, Zahra said. Don’t worry. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. I’m sure you guys have a few years left of preferential treatment.
She was smiling slyly, her forefinger tapping the rim of her glass. But could she be right? No one could beat Reliant on price or technology. Who else had a hologram? He didn’t know, actually.
—I’m sorry, Alan. I’ve got you worried.
—No, no. Not at all.
—You seem distracted all of a sudden.
—No, no. Sorry.
—You have an in with the nephew. That’s helpful, I’m sure. Abdullah is very loyal, I know. And anyone doing business in the Kingdom better know a royal or two.
They talked about Abdullah. Zahra liked him far more than the monarchs who preceded him. Alan said something about how it seemed good to have a reformer in the position of Abdullah, and soon found himself comparing Abdullah to Gorbachev and de Klerk. When he’d finished he knew he’d gone too far. But Zahra chose to leap over the mess of his misperceptions into a different topic entirely.
—I have children, she said.
—I assumed, he said.
—You assumed?
—Maybe not assumed. I assumed it was possible.
—I thought you meant you had seen something in my hips. You know, like the people who can tell from the way a woman walks.
—I’m not that clever.
—Well, they’re teenagers now. They li
ve with me.
—Their names?
—Raina, Mustafa. She’s sixteen, he’s fourteen. I’m trying to prevent my son from becoming an asshole like his father. Do you have advice?
—Does he tell you anything? Alan asked.
—Did you tell your mother anything?
Alan had not. Who did young men talk to? Young men have no one to talk to, and even when they do, they don’t know what to say or how. And this is why they commit most of the crimes of the world.
—Get him alone somewhere. Something like camping.
Zahra’s laugh cracked the air open.
—Alan, I can’t take my son camping. People don’t go camping here. We don’t live in Maine.
—Don’t you go to the desert?
She sighed. —I guess some do. The boys do, to race their cars. Then they wreck them, and they show up in the ER. I’ve saved two that way. But most of the time they die.
Alan said he’d heard something about this.
—From your guide?
—Yousef. He’s a great kid.
—And he has nothing to do here.
—That’s what he says, too.
Zahra thrust open the curtains of her hair and this time, because they were in her car, and traveling down the coast, and the sun was outside and there were stripes of sun within, he was momentarily breathless.
—What? she asked.
He smiled to himself.
—You’re laughing at the thing I do with my hair. My husband used to make fun of me.
—No, no. I like it.
—Stop.
—I really do. I can’t tell you how much I like it.
She twisted her face into one of guarded belief.
The road inhaled and exhaled, hugging the coast. He felt that the sunlight around them could be tasted, could be touched. He loved it all, the patches of empty land stacked with garbage. He loved the medical school featuring a Woman’s College and a Man’s College — two ends of the same building, looking vaguely like Monticello.
—It’s almost comical, right? she said.
—There’s a certain clarity to it.
She laughed, then reassessed him.
—You shouldn’t be nervous.
—Do I seem that way? He was only ecstatic.
—You won’t look at me.
—I was just watching the scenery. It reminds me of so many other coasts. The pink adobe on the water. The white yachts.
He sat back, watched the passing sea, the necklace of bleached homes strung beside it.
—Where are you from? he asked.
—You mean, where are my parents from? Their parents?
He knew it would be some unprecedented combination of peoples.
—I guess, he said. Is that a weird question to ask?
—No, no. They’re from everywhere, really. Here, Lebanon. Some Arab blood, but my grandmother was Swiss. One great-grandfather was Greek. There’s some Dutch in there, and of course I have lots of family in the U.K. I’ve got everything in me.
—I want that, too.
—You probably already do.
—I don’t know enough about it.
—Well, you can find out, Alan.
—I know, I know. I want to find out where everyone comes from. Every side of me. I’m going to ask around.
She smiled. —It’s probably time. Then, realizing that might have sounded scolding, she added, I mean, you have plenty of time.
Alan was anything but offended. He agreed with her completely.
—What do you think our kids would make of this? he asked.
—How do you mean? You and me? Because we represent some kind of big culture clash?
—I guess so.
—Please. We’re separated by the thinnest filament.
—Well, that’s the way I think.
—That’s the way it is. She looked at him sternly. I won’t let us play those games. It’s so tiresome. Leave that to the undergraduates.
The driveway was interrupted by a steel gate, which the driver removed with a button somewhere in the visor. It slid away, revealing a modest ranch house of cream and white, with arched windows, pink doors and curtains.
When they entered, the driver stayed in the front room while Zahra led Alan to the back, to a room facing the water. She poured juice for the two of them and sat next to him on the couch. The sea outside was a raucous blue, dusted with tiny whitecaps. Across the room, a painting of what appeared to be the Swiss Alps.
—Strange in a beach house, Alan noted.
—Everyone wants to be somewhere else, she said.
They stared at the picture.
—It’s horrible, isn’t it? My brother buys paintings everywhere he goes. Every resort town. He has the worst taste.
—Have you seen snow?
Zahra turned to the ceiling and laughed, a burst of thunder.
—What? Alan, you are such a puzzle. You’re so smart about some things, but then so oblivious about so many others.
—How am I supposed to know you’ve seen snow?
—You know I studied in Switzerland. They have snow there.
—Depends on where.
—I’ve skied dozens of times.
He didn’t know what to say.
—Oh Alan.
—Okay, you’ve seen snow. Sorry.
She looked at him, closed her eyes, and forgave him.
She downed the rest of her juice, laughing into her glass.
—Time to swim.
—What do you mean, swim?
—We’re going swimming. You’ll borrow my brother’s suit.
He used the bathroom to change into a pair of blue shorts, and when he was ready, he stood by the glass door that led to a small sandy beach and what appeared to be a ramp leading into the water. It was like an underwater concrete runway, from the back deck to the sea. It was as clean and geometric as a boat launch.
He felt a touch on his back.
—You ready?
Just her fingers, and he lost all composure.
—Sure. Let’s do it, he said, loathing himself.
He didn’t dare turn around. He would have time, soon enough, to see her in her bathing suit. She stayed behind him, and her fingers stayed on his back, and he chose not to move. She saw him looking at the odd ramp.
—My uncle liked to snorkel, so he made this for himself. It’s cruel and indulgent, but it works. The fish are still here.
Her uncle had actually dredged the sea floor so there could be an easy way to enter the water, without having to walk on the coral.
—You go in, she said, handing him a snorkel and mask. I’ll follow. I need to send the driver on an errand.
He opened the door, stepped out and made his way to the water. Here it was cooler than by King Abdullah’s rising city. After the runway, the sea floor was rocky and dropped swiftly away.
Treading water, Alan fitted the equipment over his head. He pressed his face to the water and saw immediately that the sea was clear and the coral abundant. A flurry of bright orange fish drifted into view. He pushed his way out farther, following the line of coral underneath. It was gloriously alive and, though not untouched, it was thriving. Within minutes he saw a huge clownfish, swimming in circles, a pufferfish, puttering along with its undersized fins. A school of tangs, a rusty parrot fish. A roving coral grouper, with its look of perpetual dissatisfaction.
He went to the surface for air. There was too much to see, too many colors, the shapes irrational. Looking to the house for a sign of Zahra, he saw nothing. Not wanting to seem anxious, he turned from the shore, following the coral on the sea floor out, deeper, and saw the larger fish, those who traveled freely between the shallows and the deep. Ahead, the drop-off was extreme. The water below was inky, the bottom unseeable. A shape flew before his mask. It was bright, blinding, huge. He kicked and rose from the water, trying to see it from above.
The shape rose, too. It was Zahra.
—Alan!
His heart
was hammering.
—I hoped to scare you, but not that much.
He was coughing.
—I’m so sorry.
Finally he could speak. —It’s okay. I shouldn’t have been scared.
He looked to her. He saw her head, her hair tied up, her jawline exposed — far more delicate than he’d imagined. She was beautiful wet, her black hair gleaming, her eyes alight.
But all else was underwater.
—I have to get back under, she said. Neighbors.
She nodded to the houses that ringed the inlet.
—I have to warn you, though. I’m dressed like you. If someone sees us snorkeling, they’ll think it’s two men. Just two backs uncovered, wearing men’s trunks. You understand?
He thought he understood, but he did not understand. Not until he put his mask into the water again. Then he knew. She was not wearing a top. Her shorts were blue striped, male. He skipped a breath. My God. He followed behind her, watching her long strong legs, her long fingers trailing, the sun touching her everywhere, flashbulbs popping.
She turned back to him, smiling wildly around her mask, as if to say, Do I surprise you? She had some idea of how good she was, how much she pleased him. Then she turned back, all business, pointing below, to the thousands of fish and anemones of every improbable color, everything alive and grabbing upward.
He was dying to be closer, to have everything. He wanted to rub against her accidentally, to twist and roll in the water with her, to scream into her mouth. He settled for following her, ignoring the fish and coral below for a look at her breasts, descending from her, glowing, swaying.
She tried to get him to swim at her side, but he hung back, hoping to limit her view of him. They swam down the shoreline and he took a chance, grabbing her ankle, pretending to want her attention, to show her an oversized clownfish below. She came to him, and took his arm in her hand, squeezed. Finally his answer. He was sure. But what to do then? There were too many stimuli, in this water, under this sky, the light a latticework shifting over her bright flesh. He had never seen anything more beautiful than her hips rising and falling, her legs kicking, her naked torso undulating. She swam out farther and paused where the floor dropped precipitously into deepest blue.