They followed the escort through the terminal out to his car, a limo like any other. They settled into the back and Jo turned to look out the window, tinted blue against the Arabian sun. As the escort navigated out of the airport onto a highway, a highway like any other, a little thrill passed through her. The skyline did not look like any other: scattered tall buildings in hazy colors, signs in a graceful, cursive script. She wanted to learn enough about this culture to create a place where boys and girls could expand their horizons, and where mothers could experience the twenty-first century in a new way.
But first they needed to get the job.
Ev said, “I wonder who else is interviewing.”
“My very thought. I expect we’ll find out.”
She glanced over at him, peering out the window. He looked intent. She hoped he would develop some enthusiasm and turn up the charm for the review committee. Ev had a way about him. He made clients comfortable because they sensed his lack of malice. When it came time for toughness, as it inevitably did, Jo took over. Now, even if she’d have to cajole him, she’d get him to perform because, bottom line, she wanted to win.
2
On this June morning, the Riyadh sky looked like milk. Jo sat at a window in the chilly hotel lobby, wrapped in black, waiting for the interpreter to finish his breakfast. He had arrived the night before too late to meet. Outside it was already over a hundred degrees, and palm branches swayed in the wind. Ev said the sky’s color came from sunlight scattering off dust kicked up by the hot wind. All that white overhead made her squint. She had stocked her purse with eye drops, just in case. She tightened the head scarf under her chin—it kept sliding off her curls—and stared out the window. Cars passed, but no people. A limo lurked in the hotel portico, the driver thumbing his phone behind closed windows. Her nerves felt frayed. By jetlag, of course, and anticipation. One always felt jittery before pitching a new client, but in an abaya? The head scarf blocked her peripheral vision; the shrouding might cramp her style.
The interpreter approached and sat beside her. He offered his hand.
“Mrs. Joanna, good morning. Please call me Peter. My name in Arabic is too hard to pronounce. I should mention the men here will not shake your hand, but you can feel free with the women.”
Jo sized him up. Fifty-five, bit of a belly, cheap suit, nice tie. An Egyptian, “the best of the best” according to one of the trustees at a previous client who did business in the Middle East and who had insisted they use their own interpreter rather than rely on a local. The trustee had said his guy was rough around the edges but smart and savvy, worth every extra penny. Which meant airfare from Cairo and a room at the hotel.
“Peter. Have you worked on cultural projects before?”
“No, I do mostly legal and business. But I am engineer by training, and I read your materials on the plane last night. No problem.” An educated voice, mild accent.
“Have you worked in Saudi Arabia before?”
“Of course. Here, in Jeddah, in Dammam. I know these people. They are different to Egyptians because they were nomads not so long ago. I can help you. If you are not pleased, you tell me to go home.”
“I don’t understand ‘nomads.’”
“I will tell you …”
The elevator dinged and Ev stepped out, notebook and computer beneath his arm, projector slung across his shoulder. Peter rose, hand extended.
“Doctor Everett, good morning. We use first names here after a person’s title.”
Ev said, “I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a bachelor.”
“Your interviewer may call you ‘doctor’ to show respect. If he does, please do not correct him.”
“Right. You’re an expert in protocol?” Ev looked annoyed.
“Not expert. But there is a great deal of diplomacy in my work.”
Ev turned to Jo. “All set. We won’t need to plug in.”
She stood. “We should go.”
Peter went to hail a taxi and they followed him out of the hotel. When the cab arrived, Jo grasped the abaya and the long skirt she wore beneath it in one hand and swished clumsily into the back seat. Ev sat beside her and slipped their good luck talisman, a spherical stone they had found at the Shenandoah River, into her hand. He didn’t get nervous at pitches; he left uncertainty to her. Peter climbed into the front seat and conversed volubly with the driver. She would have to get used to the harsh sound.
The taxi traveled quickly along wide, uncrowded streets lined with multi-storied, stucco-faced buildings. Air conditioners protruded from windows. Small windows, flat roofs, cheap construction like other expanding cities in the warm places in the world. They turned into a street of storefronts with signs in graceful Arabic and bold Roman letters, then into the driveway of a modern office tower. The cab stopped and Peter negotiated with the driver while Ev handed her out. The lobby was lined in marble and bone chilly. They took an elevator to the sixth floor. As they stepped out, Peter whispered. “Let your husband start. Then you can talk.”
A man in white robe and checkerboard headdress greeted them. “I trust your journey was uneventful.” He extended a business card to Peter.
Peter said something in Arabic and gestured to Ev. “This is Mr. Everett and Mrs. Joanna.”
“How do you do? I am your chairman today. Come meet everyone.” Perfect American English.
He led them into a conference room with a shiny oval table. Seated along the far side were six other men dressed similarly but with distinctly different faces. Jo wondered if they came from different regions. The chairman sat at the head of the table and gestured for them to sit opposite the committee. As Peter pulled out Jo’s chair, he whispered, “The chairman is an Aramco executive on loan to this project. You know Aramco? The Saudi oil company? Good.”
Mr. Aramco introduced the others by name and title—impossible to remember—and asked them to speak. One at a time, through Peter or in halting English, each explained what he hoped the future children’s museum would accomplish. While one man talked, some of the other men fiddled with their head gear, flicking the checkered cloth over their shoulders the way a teenage girl might flick back long hair. One man removed his headgear entirely and, after smoothing the cloth, repositioned it and the crown-like cord that secured it back on his head. Jo would have thought such fussing to be impolite.
As the men spoke, her chest began to contract: they had too many goals, and the goals were too grand. Serve every child in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, from infant to elementary school; lay the foundation for a career in renewable energy; improve the preparation of elementary school teachers; lead the world in research on early learning; contribute to a positive image of the nation’s future. Most clients wanted too much at the start, and gradually you schooled them in reality. Jo worried that these men could not be schooled; what reasonable person would even dream of teaching toddlers about renewable energy? She hoped the female boss knew better, so she took a chance on interrupting.
“May we also hear about what the deputy director expects? Will we be able to meet with her?”
Aramco said, “She is listening.” He pointed to a speakerphone in the middle of the table that Jo had not registered. A female voice crackled from the speaker: “Please continue. Tell us about your firm.”
Jo felt her cheeks start to burn. How embarrassing to miss a cue!
Ev looked at her with raised eyebrows. She nodded. He started the projector and launched into their standard pitch. He displayed photos of their most successful and innovative projects, quoted testimonials from owners, showed video clips of children having a fine time. He stopped abruptly at the end of the video segment. Jo stepped into the gap. “Do the gentlemen or Madam Director have any questions?”
Peter translated a long reply from the man with drooping eyelids: “We know about your work, and it is very good, but nothing you showed us relates to the goals we have for our children. How would you address our requirements, which extend beyond American children’s museum
s, even the famous Indianapolis, which belongs to the past and not the future?”
Jo was taken aback. She had not expected the man to know the scene in the US, let alone to share her secret opinion of one of its most venerable institutions. She should recalibrate. “We would expect to have extensive dialog with you to discover, together, how your wonderful vision could be implemented for your audience. We don’t know enough yet about family habits and parents’ expectations for a museum visit, or even if they have expectations. Our first steps would be to listen and learn.”
A conversation erupted in Arabic. Peter sat quietly, face neutral, while the men seemed to argue with one another, waving papers clutched in hands. Jo worried they objected to her statement. Impatient clients sometimes said, “Why should we pay you to learn? You’re supposed to be the expert.” Or they didn’t have the money to spend on visitor research. This client was neither hasty nor poor. Perhaps these men knew their goals to be only aspirational. Jo glanced at Peter, still impassive, and Ev, doodling, while the conversation roared on.
She didn’t dare interrupt again.
Aramco spoke and they hushed. He stood. “We have another interview now, but please join us for lunch at twelve forty-five, after prayers, in the restaurant across the street. I hope you will be comfortable in the lobby until then.”
They rose. Peter and Ev shook hands with each of the interviewers. Ev gathered his notebook and the computer gear, and they stepped across a cool marble hallway into an atrium where several clusters of armchairs surrounded coffee tables. In a corner, a young man in street clothes tended a bar. He approached after they had settled down, asking, in lilting English, if they would like coffee or tea or a cold drink. Peter leaned over and whispered, “Pakistani. All the daily work here is done by foreigners. Indonesians, Filipinos, Uzbekistanis. From the Muslim nations with too many people and too little money.”
“What about Mr. Aramco? Isn’t he a Saudi?”
“Yes. He is representative of the owner, the king. Management is Saudi. But Westerners do the technical jobs. Your client wants to change that.”
“Why renewable energy? What about medicine, or computers, or a thousand other things?”
“Think what would happen to this country if they ran out of oil.” Peter’s eyes glittered, as if he relished the prospect.
Jo bridled at the hint of animosity. Clients deserved respect, until they proved they didn’t. She made a mental note to filter Peter’s commentary as … prejudice? Or cynicism? But could she, herself, respect these costumed men who wouldn’t shake a woman’s hand? She leaned across the coffee table. “They didn’t seem to like our presentation.”
“Oh, no. They really liked your answer about dialog. They were arguing how to go about it. There is always much discussion at these meetings. They all like to talk.”
“When will we get to ask them questions? There’s so much we need to know.” She didn’t hide her disappointment.
“You Americans are too fast. They like process here.”
The waiter brought juice for Peter and Ev and water for Jo. They sipped and the men sank back into the cushions. Ev seemed content to sit without speaking. Jo’s head ached from jetlag; she had slept little in the short night. She leaned back in her chair and gazed at the atrium skylight, feeling tired and cold. Colleagues had told her that even if they did win the job, getting the final payment out of Saudi Arabia might take years. She missed the comfort of her own culture. And her own bed.
Peter’s voice roused her—she must have dozed off—saying it was time to meet their hosts for lunch. He led them out into the white heat. They crossed the street mid-block, and Ev headed for the restaurant door. Peter pulled him back saying, “We must use the family entrance for Mrs. Joanna.” He led them around to the side of the building and into another door that led to a foyer shielded by a screen from the lobby proper. Mustachioed, foreign-looking waiters pointed the way to a private room.
Evidently they were the last to arrive. In the center of the room, the committee members had divided themselves between two white-cloth-covered tables. Against the far wall a long buffet bore a phalanx of chafing dishes and platters of cold foods. Mr. Aramco waved them toward three chairs at his table. Droopy eyelids sat at the other table, with two European-looking men. Jo caught her breath: she recognized Phil Owen, a competitor, a smarmy Brit who had made his reputation as a designer by knocking everyone else.
She turned to Ev, who said, “Yeah, I see. You sit.” Ev loped over to the other table to shake hands with Owen and the other European.
Jo whispered to Peter, “Can’t stand that guy. If they’re foolish enough to select him over us, they’ll get what they deserve.” Phil Owen made her teeth hurt. He snowed clients with trendy rhetoric and never measured the impact of his work. Yet good, earnest people hired him, again and again. Instead of her and Ev.
Peter whispered back, “Don’t worry. You have the better table. The others do not have good English.”
Ev returned to the table, and the chairman invited them to help themselves to the buffet, ladies first. Peter’s eyebrows shot up and he winked at Jo. So, she thought, in Riyadh, ladies do not go first. She decided to exploit her privilege. She adjusted her head scarf, then slowly surveyed the buffet. She helped herself to a meat-and-rice dish and one of the salads that looked familiar. Ev followed, loading his plate with a little bit of everything, his love of experimentation trumping his lack of interest in food. Usually Ev just needed to fill up while Jo sought the proper combination of nutrition and calories.
They ate. The chairman, who seemed in the best of spirits, led them in chitchat. After a bit, Jo asked him about the other table. He said the committee had scouted the world and narrowed the field of potential consultants to two. Jo should be pleased to have risen to the top. Indeed, she said, she was. For the rest of the copious meal, he said nothing more about business. Jo, too, confined herself to chitchat, giving up the effort to impress. Ev tasted all the dishes on his plate, one at a time, making no particular effort to talk. When they stood to leave, she glared at Phil Owen and swept ahead of the others into the family lobby.
In the cab back to the hotel, Jo let loose. “Why did they parade Owen in front of us? Is it some kind of test?”
“Mrs. Joanna, you must understand,” Peter said. “This is the way of nomads. At the table, all are welcome. There was no offense intended. Did you see how many dishes there were and how much was left?”
“So?”
“They will throw it away. Every meal, they will serve too much and throw it away. Nomads must always show they have more than enough to feed all who stop at their tent. These people have not lived in tents for generations, but the custom persists. It is a question of honor. You are being treated honorably.”
Or arrogantly. Not much difference between honor and pride in this part of the world, Jo thought. She sat in silence for the rest of the drive.
In the hotel lobby, they agreed to meet later for dinner and a little sight-seeing. Jo wanted to visit a mosque. Peter said you can’t go into a mosque but you can go into a shopping mall, and you should. There would be no families in the evening, but they would see the women spending the money their husbands got from the government. Ev said he’d rather look at desert architecture. Jo bit her lip and let them plan the evening. She craved a nap.
Upstairs, abaya draped over a chair, she stretched out on the hotel bed. Her limbs felt heavy, her brain fuzzy with fatigue. And frustration. Usually by this point in an interview process, she’d have picked up clues to the potential client’s character. Here she could guess at nothing. She didn’t know who really was in charge, where the money came from, how long it took to make decisions, or how success would be defined. She wanted to get Ev’s take, Ev, who saw the world through rainbow glasses, a different color every day. She could rely on his singular vision back home because she could place it in context. But here? Her mind flashed to the rest of the crew waiting for them back in the office in Oakla
nd, four employees needing to hear that their bread would be thickly buttered this coming year. She needed to think clearly. No, she needed sleep.
3
Jo had met Everett Dana in Atlanta, where she’d gone to make signs for the 1996 Olympics, two years after college. Their paths crossed one spring day on the lawn of the Fernbank Natural History Museum during a solar eclipse. Little had she known that the chance encounter would lead to a partnership, first in business and then in love.
The lawn that afternoon teemed with people lined up at telescopes to look indirectly at the sun. Over against a fence, a row of booths caught Jo’s eye. One table was covered with little boxes in jewel colors. She walked over and picked up a shiny red box. A rubber eyepiece, like you see on binoculars, was stuck to one of its faces, so she raised it to her eye and was dazzled by the view: a kaleidoscopic scene that sparkled, like sunlight winking around the edges of leaves. When she pivoted, the colors spun. She pointed the box up at the sky and down at the ground: both views scintillated. She turned the box over, searching for the source of its brilliance.
A man in a hoodie sitting behind the table said, “You seem to like it.”
“How does it work?”
“Do you want a hint?”
She examined the box again, tracing its ruby surface with her finger. “I give up. Where’s the light source?”
He pointed to the sky. “A periscope. You’d figure it out if you took it home. Not complicated, really.”
“If I took it home I’d reverse engineer it and sell it to the museum’s gift shop.”
“That would be wonderful. Would you really?” “Only if you wouldn’t sue me.”
“Why should I sue you? The more people play with sunlight the better.”
She thought, this guy’s not for real. “Aren’t you selling these?”
‘Yes, to get money to make more. I want people to appreciate sunlight. What better time than at an eclipse?” His hands opened wide like a benediction.
The Contract Page 2