“Yes. I hope to learn a lot more about your country.”
The director folded her hands on the table. “Your company is innovative, but you are small, without resources. How will you provide all the services we require?”
No pleasantries from this woman. “We collaborate with a range of companies who can do everything you might need, with the same high standards we have. I’d be happy to send you details about them and the museums we have built together, especially the ones outside the US.”
‘I am aware of your previous work. But here we must do more.”
“In what way?”
“We must connect the learning at the museum to the teaching in schools. We need a system to accelerate the development of our children. We need to use twenty-first-century methods.” She paused, looking into Jo’s eyes, then Ev’s. “I am only interested in exceptional design for my project.”
“Yes, certainly. May I ask, have you seen a system you might want to emulate anywhere else?”
“No. We will develop a children’s museum that leads naturally to better understanding and performance in school. It must be measurable.”
What a tall order, Jo thought. “May I ask you about a concern of mine in that regard? Many museum exhibits and programs depend on social interaction, on opportunities for conversation or collaboration among visitors. We may not be able to design a full range of experiences where genders do not mix.”
The director flicked her wrist. “That is not a concern. We know how to arrange it.”
She addressed Ev. “You are quiet. What do you wish to tell me?”
“You shouldn’t preach to little kids about renewable energy. Kids need to see something concrete.”
Jo sighed inside. Ev on a tear.
The director asked in a bright voice, “In your opinion, what should you do?”
Ev stood and pulled a greasy chain from his jacket pocket. “I borrowed this from a bicycle at the hotel this morning. Watch.” He placed the chain on a hook and spun it in a wobbly circle, around and around until it snapped into an arch that looked like a beak and then collapsed. “Ask a kid what she saw. Then you can let her feel it and guess where its energy came from. And where it went.” His face glowed with the pleasure of his invention, just like a kid’s.
“I see your point. Is there anything else you wish to say?”
Ev shook his head.
The director pushed her chair back from the table and rose. “I regret there is no more time to talk. I have another appointment. Myriam will see you out. I enjoyed your comments.”
Jo’s mouth snapped shut. Was that all? Why bother summoning them for ten minutes’ conversation? She felt a flush of anger pass through her and was determined not to show it. The director had proven herself to be as arrogant as her male colleagues.
Ev picked up the unused projection hardware, and the assistant led them back to the lobby. Stopping at the exit, Jo asked Myriam to stay with them a moment to answer a few questions.
“What did the director mean when she said you know how to mix genders?”
Myriam nodded. “There is no problem. Boys will come three days and girls will come two days so they can all be free.”
“But won’t the girls need chaperones?”
Myriam smiled. “On girls’ days, the female staff will be in charge. On boys’ days and family days, the male staff will be in charge.”
“Do you mean to say the museum will have two separate sets of staff?”
“That is our way.”
“Does the director realize how expensive that is?” “Of course. The director is a brilliant woman. She has PhD. She is very good with the politicians. She will get the money.”
“But she couldn’t get money to bring us here.”
“You can charge later.”
If there is a later, Jo thought.
Myriam leaned in. “You must realize it takes patience to make change in my country. Patience and cleverness. The director has both.”
“Yes, but we learned very little about your requirements. We need to know a lot more.”
“The director must be very careful with information. There are people who do not want her to succeed. I cannot say more.”
“Can you tell me why the committee asked us to focus on renewable energy?”
Myriam raised her hands and touched fingertip to fingertip. “My country is expert in energy. We have graduate school of petroleum studies in Damman. We want our children to work in all forms of energy. So they must be inspired to learn. My words are not clear.”
“Your words are clear, and I respect your government’s desire to diversify. But we fear the topic is too abstract for young children.”
Myriam nodded. “That is why we need your help.” She turned to Ev. “Mr. Everett, how did you make the metal bird? I want to show my son. He studies physics.”
Ev put down the equipment case and pulled the chain from his pocket. He spun it until a beak formed and collapsed. He offered it to Myriam, grease and all, but she demurred. Jo fought to hide her distress.
As Ev pocketed the chain, Phil Owen strolled over, grinning like the Cheshire cat.
“I see you’re here, too. Playing games with the client?”
So, the director’s next appointment. Jo’s voice took on the arch tone Ev disliked. “We had an excellent conversation.” She busied herself with the equipment case. Ev cupped her elbow in his non-greasy hand and they walked away. Jo waved thanks to the loyal Myriam.
They sat silent in a taxi. Ev lowered his window, and hot city air flooded in. Jo’s chest contracted. Damn Riyadh. Damn the director. Damn Phil Owen. She should have taken the goddamn chain away from Ev. She erupted.
“Why couldn’t you follow the plan?”
“Myriam liked the demo.”
“Myriam doesn’t pay the bills.”
Ev said nothing.
“I should have left you at the hotel.”
The taxi careened around a corner, sending the equipment case to the floor. Ev retrieved it. He settled back onto the banquette. Jo sat rigid.
He said, “Are you sure I’m the one you’re angry at?”
“You’re the one who just blew three grand, and maybe the whole job.”
“Maybe that’s the right outcome.”
Neither of them spoke for the rest of the diesel-scented ride.
At the hotel, Ev said he had to see a man about a bicycle. Jo, condescending, said she’d transport the hardware. Up in their room, she threw off the abaya and shook off her shoes. She sat in the chair beside the window, squinting against the sun at the beige-and-white buildings lining the street below. Her pulse slowed. Perhaps Ev hadn’t blown the interview; he’d given the director a dose of their style, an honest if graceless one. Maybe it was Phil Owen’s appearance that had pushed her over the top. She’d known the s.o.b. was competing for the job, with all its contradictions. She didn’t really believe boys and girls could explore freely behind a wall of taboos.
A rap on the door; Ev’s muffled voice: “Is it safe?”
“It’s safe.”
He sat on the bed, attentive.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
“Maybe we should let Owen get the contract,” she murmured.
“Is that what you want?”
“No.”
“I know. This job is your baby.” He rose. “I’ll start packing up.” He went into the bathroom.
What a know-it-all, she thought, but he knows me, all right.
She leaned back into the upholstery. Surely the director could have been more collegial. On the other hand, if they were offered the gig, and if Ev would do his magic, she could test the woman’s resolve. Jo did not consider herself a subversive, but if the director meant what she said about playing in the twenty-first century, she needed radical help.
5
Back in Oakland, Jo steered the station wagon beneath the eucalyptus tree that overhung their driveway and switched off the headlights.
When they’d first moved in, she had wanted to cut down the tree because the falling nuts clunked on the windshields of clients’ vehicles. But Ev had insisted such a mighty creature deserved respect. Jo had countered that it wasn’t native. Its forebears had been imported from Australia to shore up the gold mines. Ev had replied the species should be congratulated for immigrating successfully. He loved trees, called them noble and benign beings, the pride of evolution. So they’d kept the tree, nuts and all, and every damp day, its odor permeated the property. It had rained hours before their arrival, a rare event in summer, and as she opened the driver’s side door, the pungent aroma signaled “home.”
The house they’d bought in a hurry was perfectly functional although quirky, sort of like Ev, Jo often thought. The realtor had told them the house was designed by Bernard Maybeck or maybe Julia Morgan, which intrigued them. The house turned out to be by neither iconic Bay Area architect, just a solid example of Arts and Crafts style. Brown wood-shingled exterior; multi-paned windows; a peaked roof that jutted beyond the walls, giving shelter from rain and sun. They had ripped out interior walls on the ground floor, except for the kitchen and bath, to make one large work space and a semi-private cubby for meetings. They lived in the rooms above, reached by an improbably cantilevered staircase built by Ev: a sunny bedroom, a spare room containing their TV and Jo’s stationary bike, and a generous bath. Behind the house, a patio led to a glass-walled studio containing Ev’s machines and supplies. Clients seemed to enjoy watching Ev at work behind the glass, protected as they were from the noise and dust.
Although it was late, all four staff members were waiting in the office to hear the news from Riyadh. Becca, a recent college graduate, did the graphic design that Jo sold to clients since she no longer had time for it. Andy, the IT guy, worked nights on the websites that constituted a steadily increasing share of the business. Carlos, a draftsman, and Diane, Jo’s sister and part-time bookkeeper, had hung around to find out if the Saudi project was a go. Jo scanned their expectant faces; only Becca frowned.
Jo said, “Thanks for waiting. I don’t have much to report. We didn’t get a chance to ask questions. I don’t know much more than I did before.”
Ev said, “I got an idea for a one-man demo that I’m going to work up. Could be a demo or a stand-alone exhibit.”
“Please, not now,” Jo said. “I’m tired and these people need to go home.”
“Of course. I need to get some rope and stuff.” Ev picked up the roller bag and headed to the staircase. “Good night. Manana.”
Diane said, “When are you going to know?”
“I can’t say. We haven’t been invited to submit a full proposal yet.”
Diane slung her colossal purse over her shoulder. “Well, I’m glad we’re still in the running. Gotta go.” Diane usually arrived at work breathless and left in a tizzy. Younger and larger than her sister, she carried a huge bag that overflowed with clothes, food, papers, whatever. In the office, she tallied sums neatly and entered them in QuickBooks meticulously. She seemed to lead a sloppy, hurried personal life but an exacting professional one, as if two distinct people. Diane kept the candy bowl on her desk full; the rest of the team liked her.
Carlos and Andy muttered something and prepared to take their leave. Becca hung back while the others walked into the night. Becca leaned toward Jo and spoke urgently.
“Why can’t they tell you anything? I think you’re being bullied. We should stop wasting our time on them.” Becca was a tall young woman, gently tattooed. She wore minuscule skirts over tights and layers of tank tops, and sometimes when she hunched her shoulders, as with so many tall girls who want to appear shorter, the top of a breast emerged at her neckline. Yet her designs were clean and cool.
“If this job comes through, we could do the most important work we’ll ever do. More important than amusing rich white kids in the suburbs.”
Becca fired back, “You’d prefer rich Saudi kids?”
Jo suppressed impatience. “Those kids’ moms walk around with cloth over their faces. Even if we pried up the veil a little, we might make something happen. We could give the next generation ideas that change their lives.”
“And you think the government would let us?”
Jo sat at her desk to signal the end of the conversation. “The government is run by people. We’re dealing with people. Until they prove otherwise, I will give them what they say they want.”
Becca slowly packed her messenger bag. “I think you’re being naïve. I can’t believe I just said that.”
Jo laughed. “You have to trust me. Go home. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I’ll do the work, you know.”
Jo smiled through her fatigue to reassure the girl. “Good night.”
As the door closed behind Becca, Jo unpacked her briefcase. She returned her passport to its accustomed place beside her checkbook and sat back to think. Becca, short fuse notwithstanding, might be right. It might be impossible to do the kind of work they loved to do in Saudi Arabia. But everybody on staff needed a paycheck, especially Diane, a single mom ferrying a handicapped child to endless doctors’ appointments. She feared disappointing the staff, and herself. They had formed a cohesive team. When big jobs came and Jo brought in free-lancers, the regulars mentored them, and the job got done efficiently. She was proud of their esprit as well as their product.
Things had not always been as good. Two years back, in a flurry of bravura in response to praise for their work in Brazil, Jo had made a business move that, in retrospect, she shouldn’t have. The error still resonated.
D-Three, as they referred to the company internally, had been collaborating with a print shop in Walnut Creek to make way-finding graphics for a retail chain when the print shop’s owner, a man with a temper, divorced his wife and planned to leave the Bay Area. Wanting to continue the project, a massive assignment from their first big commercial client, Jo offered to buy the owner out for a price that she considered a steal, and he agreed. She wanted to position D-Three to offer clients the whole package—design and production of all their graphic needs—at a reduced cost. Ev went along, saying he trusted her entrepreneurial instincts. She spent a month negotiating with the bank and lawyers, and then took over the reins at the print shop. They finished the commercial project on time and on budget, to Jo’s great satisfaction. Then she turned her attention to the print shop itself. At first, she handled it without much strain, shuttling between Oakland and Walnut Creek to approve drafts and sign checks. Then the idea to expand the business entered her life in the person of Skinny Flynt, as the staff later came to call him.
Chris Flynn had credentials: two years at each of two name-brand New York advertising agencies. Approaching thirty, with long hair and a skeletal body, he’d come to the Bay Area because his mother, who now lived in El Cerrito, was ill, and he needed freelance work to tide him over. Jo liked his credentials and his energy; he’d either liven up the old-timers in the print shop or scare the stodgiest away, either of which would be good. She offered him a commission on any new jobs he might bring in. He got to work with purpose: he canvassed every likely business in five East Bay communities, with modest success. She offered him a base salary to supplement the commission.
Then he approached her with an idea.
“Look,” he said, pointing to the list of people he had contacted, “these guys don’t need printing, they need customers in their stores. They need marketing! You could do it for them. You’ve got it all, the graphics, the printing, the IT capacity. The only thing missing is analysis. And some software for fulfillment.”
“You’re suggesting I start a new business?”
“No. Modernize the one you have. No one else around here can offer anything close. These guys don’t want to trek to San Francisco to meet with an underling at a big firm. And they don’t trust folks on the peninsula. Opportunity is knocking.”
“Surely there are marketers in Oakland.”
“Yeah, but not with t
he graphics and business chops you have. I’ve seen what well-designed messaging can do. I’ll help.”
“I’ll think about it.”
She did, and she talked with Ev, who told her he didn’t like Skinny Flynt, period. Annoyed at his refusal to open his mind, she called their lawyer, who could see no reason not to proceed. When Jo ran the numbers, the prospect looked iffy. But she wanted to proceed; she wanted to leap into the future, as forecast by Chris Flynn. So she offered him a generous share of any new accounts he could bring in and got busy studying marketing. She left Ev in charge of the design business.
The new venture seemed to blossom. She bought the necessary software and called in a consultant to train her and the staff to use it. She accompanied Flynn to sales meetings; they gave a good pitch, had a few nibbles. The nibbles turned into two small jobs they managed to fulfill, and then Chris reported a big fish on his line, a medical equipment manufacturer with sales subsidiaries across the country. Jo flew them to Pennsylvania to meet the manufacturer at its headquarters. Chris gave a brilliant pitch, and they left, excited and encouraged.
Over the next four months, it seemed the big fish played out the line, dragging Chris to sales meetings at all its branches, while Jo continued to trawl around the Bay. The print shop began to suck up all her time; she would return to the Oakland house in the evening to see Ev still behind the glass in his workshop. Most nights, she fell asleep before they could talk. If he missed her company, he didn’t say.
Then Chris returned from the last of his sales trips and walked into her office, an unreadable expression on his face.
“They’re going for it. Targeted marketing from the central office tailored to each site. A million-dollar account, for sure.”
She jumped up from her chair to hug him, but he caught her arms and seated her.
“I don’t know how to say this so I’ll just say it. They want me to handle the account. In-house.”
“What does that mean?” She felt herself flush.
“I’m leaving D-Three. I’m sorry it worked out this way, but it’s too good to pass up.”
The Contract Page 4