The Contract

by Sheila Grinell

  THE CONTRACT

  Copyright © 2019 Sheila Grinell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2019

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-648-0 pbk

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-649-7 ebk

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019939202

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To Pax and his family

  The highest result of education is tolerance.

  –Helen Keller

  CONTENTS

  QUALIFICATIONS

  PROPOSAL

  STRATEGY

  DEMONSTRATION

  CONTINGENCY

  QUALIFICATIONS

  1

  They stepped out of the Jetway into a marble-walled corridor leading to passport control. Joanna pulled a roller bag, and Ev lugged an equipment case across the tiled floor. They followed two fit-looking young men dressed in athletic wear. Jo felt worn and grimy in comparison. She ran her tongue over the crust that had formed on her front teeth during the eight-hour flight from London to Riyadh. The gate agent at Heathrow had warned that mouthwash with any alcohol content would be confiscated, so she had jettisoned it before boarding. What else, she wondered, didn’t she know about Saudi Arabia that she should?

  “Tell me again, when are we meeting the interpreter?” Ev asked.

  “Not now. His name’s Peter, and he arrives tonight from Cairo.” Jo had already told him twice. Ev didn’t attend to detail, except when building one of his models. He’d been her business partner for ten years and husband for five; she kept lists for both of them.

  They followed the athletes around a bend in the corridor, and the queue came to a halt. Ev shifted the messenger bag containing his notebook and drawing tools to his other shoulder. Jo used a bungee cord to secure her briefcase on top of the roller bag. It contained their travel documents—documents were always safer in her keeping than in his—and their correspondence with the potential client. They’d come to Riyadh to present their company’s qualifications to design a museum for children. And to see if they could work in a country under Shariah rule.

  Ev took a few sheets of paper from his pocket and put them in the messenger bag. He had spent most of the final leg of their thirty-two hour journey from Oakland doodling. Jo wondered if he had sketched something charming for tomorrow’s pitch, or if he had been sulking, still resenting the trip. She wanted to placate him.

  “Did you notice the flight attendant’s cap? Half a scarf draped from ear to shoulder makes it look Middle Eastern without getting in the way.” On questions of design, they never disagreed.

  “Yeah.” He looked straight ahead.

  “Are you going to ignore me the whole time we’re here?”

  “You know I think we don’t need this job.”

  “And you know I think we do.”

  Ev thought she wanted to make a pile of money because she couldn’t stand being in debt. True, but she had a better reason. This job could catapult them into the ranks of designers who command big fees and get celebrated in the New York Times. She wanted one undeniable, top-tier win. She was forty-eight, and it was time to make her mark.

  She lowered her voice. “You’re not going to be rude, are you?”

  “These people don’t believe in reason. I won’t know how to talk to them.”

  “You think Americans believe in reason?”

  “They should. The Founding Fathers did.”

  “Ev, this is business.”

  “We’re here, aren’t we?” he said, as if to end the discussion.

  Sure enough, she thought, for better or for worse. She was gambling that he’d come around once he got a chance to build something. She didn’t dwell on how she’d feel if he didn’t.

  The queue resumed moving, and passengers from further forward in the jumbo jet merged into the crowd. They found themselves behind a family: three small children in Nike jackets, a portly man in a business suit, and two women shrouded in black. The women wore abayas, loose garments like graduation gowns, over their clothes; their heads were wrapped in scarves with a flap of cloth in front of the face so only their eyes could be seen. Jo wondered if they had sat face-covered all the way from London. One of the women appeared to be youngish: lithe, with jet-black beading along the edges of her garment. The other, squat, might have been the grandmother. Or perhaps a nanny, if money were plentiful. She and Ev had designed children’s museums outside the US before, in Denmark and Brazil, and had needed to make only minor tweaks to their US-style plans, children being children. But here, where a woman must be accompanied by a male guardian, how does a mother explore a museum with her child? The pit of Jo’s stomach contracted. They were vying for a job that might be impossible to execute to their standards: how do you encourage curiosity in a place where thoughts are policed?

  The corridor led to a cavernous room with two signs overhead, one in Arabic and one reading “Immigration” in English. Inside, past a gateway labeled “Foreigners,” a crowd of short, rough-looking men massed in front of a counter marked “First-time Entry.” An orderly line of suited men stood in front of “Business—Diplomats.” Jo pulled Ev over to the end of the Business line. There was no other woman in sight. She wondered if she should cover her hair with the scarf she had packed for the purpose. She thought about the mail-order abaya in her bag. Should she duck into a ladies’ room and put it on over her travel clothes? She wanted to show the proper respect, if only she knew how.

  In a minute, a man in uniform, perhaps a soldier, walked toward them, pointing to Jo.

  He said, “Lady, visa?”

  Jo nodded yes and extended her passport opened to the visa stamp. He examined it, walked away with her passport in hand.

  Ev whispered, “I guess you get special treatment.”

  “Or deported.”

  “This is one for your memoirs.”

  She shushed him, watching the uniformed man until he disappeared behind a barrier. She steeled herself: the Saudis knew how to pump oil, but they didn’t know how to design museums for children, and she did. They needed to let her in.

  The soldier-guard returned, empty-handed, and beckoned her to follow. She reached for the roller bag, but he waved her off. In a panic, she sought out Ev’s eyes. Everything important lay in the briefcase on top of the bag. She begged him silently to take care of it.

  Ev saluted her.

  He could be so cavalier!

  She marched behind the soldier-guard toward First-time Entry. He pushed in front of the crowd and indicated a scanner on the counter glowing laser green. A clerk with downcast eyes showed her a card with pictures of where to place one’s fingers and walked her through the fingerprinting process without touching her. The soldier-guard said “lady” and pointed to another man with epaulettes on his uniform.

&nbs
p; She presented herself.

  “Mrs. Dunhill? You are alone?” He scrutinized her passport.

  It’s Ms. Dunhill, married to Mr. Dana, she thought reflexively. “My husband is over there in line.”

  “Follow me.” He stepped behind a barricade into a glass-walled cubicle and sat behind a desk. There were no other chairs. She stood facing him.

  “Why do you come here?” He frowned.

  “My husband and I own a design company. We were invited to bid on a job.” She wanted to avoid saying anything controversial, whatever that might be.

  “Who invited you?”

  “The name of the government agency is on the papers in my briefcase.” She pointed past the barricade.

  “Why do you have multiple-entry visa?”

  “Is that wrong? I sent our passports to a courier company that sent them to your embassy in New York. They came back as you see. I’m sorry, I don’t read Arabic.”

  He stared, as if doubting her truthfulness. “What is your plan?”

  Were they in trouble? “If we get the job, we’ll come back, but I have no plan.”

  He examined the visa again. He picked up the phone receiver on his desk and spoke to someone. She stood there, frozen in place while he talked. Was this job already doomed?

  He replaced the receiver and looked her up and down, the sides of his mouth drawing down in evident distaste.

  He glared. “There is no selling. Or you go back to America.”

  She nodded. She struggled to stay silent.

  He opened the desk drawer and removed a stamp. He marked her passport and handed it back to her.

  “You wait. There.” He pointed down another corridor.

  Feeling like Alice at the rabbit hole, Jo stepped out of the cubicle and down the indicated aisle, unfrozen arms and legs twitching. She reached a row of benches against a wall and took a seat near a young woman in an abaya, but with uncovered face, sitting beside an older woman and man. The young woman acknowledged Jo. Her eyebrows were darkly penciled in the shape of a chevron, and her teeth were very white. Jo leaned back; where was Ev when she needed him?

  After a minute, the young woman leaned toward her. “English?”

  “American.”

  “How do you do? I am English teacher.” She pointed. “My mother, my father.”

  “Can you tell me what is going on here?”

  “We are waiting. A small problem. You are alone?”

  “My husband is still on line.”

  “Ah, your husband. It is not good to be alone.”

  “Do many people speak English here?”

  “Only a few. I must work harder.” The woman chuckled at her own joke. Pointing to Jo’s disheveled curls, she added, “You have pretty hair.”

  “Thank you.” How odd, Jo thought, relaxing an inch. She had expected to be treated formally in this most conservative city in a conservative nation. “You are a teacher, you say?”

  “Yes. High school.”

  “Isn’t it unusual for a woman to work?”

  “Girls must study. The nation needs teachers.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “I love my work.”

  Jo wanted to ask a hundred questions: Do you work full-time? How did you become a teacher? Are you married? Where did you learn English? She settled for, “Do you have a family?”

  “Four children. Maybe more, Inshallah.”

  Who watches four kids while mom works at a high school? Perhaps Saudi women had more options than she had imagined. Options that she and Ev could build on—if they got the job. She relaxed another inch.

  The woman leaned closer. “This is my parents’ first trip to Riyadh, and I must help them.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Yes. For my education. But many people do not leave their home town, especially older people.” The space between her eyebrows contracted. “I am concerned. Your husband must guard you.”

  “I’m sure my husband is trying to find me.”

  Music issued from inside the designer purse at the woman’s feet. She fished out a smart phone, said, “Excuse me,” and held an intense conversation. Or an ordinary conversation that sounded intense to Jo’s ears.

  A knock on the wall. The officer with epaulettes stood frowning at her. Ev stood beside him towing their luggage. She rose and gathered her purse.

  The teacher placed her hand over her phone and said, “Your husband?”

  Jo nodded.

  The teacher addressed Ev. “You must not leave your wife alone. Some men, they will misunderstand. They will think she has no value to you.”

  The old woman reached for her daughter’s arm with both hands, as if to stop her talking. The teacher addressed Jo.

  “Welcome to Saudi Arabia.”

  The officer moved away.

  Jo leaned into Ev, relieved to see his smile. He passed the roller bag handle to her; the briefcase, thank goodness, had remained attached. He’d kept everything safe. Ev took her elbow and steered toward the exit doors, whispering, “Sorry it took so long. The guard kept walking up and down the line saying something I couldn’t understand. I finally figured out he was looking for Mr. Dunhill. I pulled out one of our brochures to show him he wanted me.”

  “I was worried you wouldn’t find me.” She swallowed to release the catch in her throat.

  “What happened to you?”

  She whispered, “I got fingerprinted. The officer who brought you took me into his office and warned me not to sell anything or else.”

  “Did you provoke him?”

  “No! He was hostile from the start.”

  “What about that young woman?”

  “She has four children and loves her work as a high school English teacher. My mind is boggled.”

  “I figured you’d find someone to talk to.”

  “She found me. She asked twice about my husband. She wants you to protect me.”

  “You don’t need protection.”

  Jo suppressed a flash of annoyance. In Ev’s mythology, Jo was invulnerable. He said she could handle anything and deferred to her in practical matters, big and small. She had learned over the years that if she called him on it, she would get nowhere. “Optimistic,” he would say; “oblivious” she would think.

  But maybe things were different here.

  They passed through Customs unimpeded. Out beyond the security doors, they walked along a rail behind which a scrum of men in bedraggled suit jackets bore placards in their hands. Jo looked for a “Dunhill + Dana + Design” sign. Seeing none, she led Ev to a lounge area with a coffee bar advertising internet access. They sat in plastic armchairs to wait for the escort they’d been promised.

  People bustled around them, getting coffee and cola, lugging suitcases and jackets, talking noisily. Jo extracted a compact from her briefcase and examined her face in the mirror: jet-lagged, plain, and unadorned. She had always gotten by on smarts and grit. She would do so here. She took a deep breath and stuffed the compact back into the briefcase. The test was about to begin. Not the presentation she and Ev would make to the review committee—they knew how to present their qualifications. No, the test would be learning the ropes of a society that repressed women yet where the potential client, the deputy director of the agency that had summoned them, was female.

  White-robed men ambled by, sometimes trailed by families. Little boys and girls bounced along, appearing to complain when corralled, just like at home. But the taller girls, already in black, walked sedately. Jo had been assured that the client intended to treat boys and girls equally, but seeing nine-year-olds in abayas made her itch under her skin. She rummaged in her bag for her scarf, a subdued blue rather than black. She covered her hair, tying the ends around the back of her neck; the airport clamor dimmed.

  She concentrated on the task at hand: looking for their escort. In the scramble to submit their qualifications to bid on the job, she’d had little time to bone up on Saudi protocol. She’d read the State Department advisories but nothing el
se. Of course, she’d seen plenty of images of Saudi leaders in the media, darkish men with prominent noses clad in sunglasses, checkerboard headdress, and a long, white shirt. Would a driver wear the same outfit as a pol?

  Minutes passed. She wondered if there had been a miscommunication. She pulled out her phone to call the client, but she had no bars and the Wi-Fi network required a password. More minutes passed; Ev doodled while she fretted. She reached for the equipment case and unzipped it. Ev looked up from his notebook.

  “I’m going to Skype them,” she said.

  “Relax. They’ll track us down.”

  “Maybe the driver can’t find us. Let’s ask the barista for the password.”

  “Nah, we haven’t been here all that long.”

  “So we sit here for hours while the driver goes back to his office for instructions?”

  “There could be traffic or something. Wait a while.” He closed the notebook and tucked it into the messenger bag at his feet.

  She zipped up the case and sat back. She would wait another fifteen minutes, no more. She retied the scarf over her hair. She would not invite the ire of another bureaucrat.

  Ev nudged her arm. “See that guy over there?” He pointed to an older man in a white headdress. He carried a magazine, peered right and left as he strolled. His knee-length white shirt—a thawb, the State Department called it—stretched tight over a pot belly. “Is that our brochure in his hands? Maybe he’s our guy.”

  Ev waved and caught the man’s eye. A smile broke out and he waddled toward them. Coming close, he pointed to Jo’s scarf and then her picture in the brochure, shaking his head and smiling. Ev laughed. “He means he didn’t recognize you. Thought you were a local.”

  Evidently this was their escort, dressed like a prince. Perhaps he was a prince. She’d better not make assumptions. After all, on one of her first jobs, the paint-spattered person who’d picked her up at the train station had turned out to be the agency’s director. She extended her hand to the roly-poly escort. He ignored it. He pulled out the handles of their bags and motioned them forward with a tilt of the head. At last, she thought with relief. They were back on track.