The Contract

by Sheila Grinell

  “The men’s outfits are tough to wear, too. It doesn’t make them liars. What’s eating you?”

  “It kills me to think we could be helping an oppressive regime.”

  “What about helping an oppressive regime do right by kids?”

  “I don’t want to fight, Jo.”

  “Neither do I. You let me worry about consequences. Suspend judgment until we get the facts, okay?”

  “I will try.”

  “Thanks for the call.”

  Jo cut the connection. She felt pretty sure that Becca wouldn’t be able to contain her disgust however much she wanted peace. Becca was short on tolerance. Jo would continue to exude calm. That’s what you did for your young staff, whether or not you felt calm.

  She poured a cup of now strong tea, took her toast to her desk. As she waited for the computer to power up, the dream flashed back into her head. With a start, she realized it wasn’t Becca’s comment that had conjured Robbo, it was the entire Saudi affair. She wanted the job—no, she craved the job—because it would be a culmination, recognition for all her years of sacrifice and struggle. And she needed to pay off the bank loan. Very soon.

  What if they didn’t get it? Her heart beat harder. She refused to pursue the thought.

  9

  Two weeks after the scenario/proposal had been delivered, word came that D-Three was wanted in Dubai. After having read both finalists’ submissions, the Saudi review committee had decided to hold face-to-face meetings with the contenders, which could happen more quickly in the United Arab Emirates. Once again, no travel money accompanied the summons, so Jo swallowed hard and bought tickets for herself, Ev, and worth-every-extra-penny Peter to come from Cairo. Jo was pumped to go, like an athlete before a big meet. Not so Ev. He said he’d already done his bit in giving the committee a fine design to review. But he would follow her lead.

  They arrived in Dubai the day before the scheduled morning interview. Peter met them at their hotel looking casual in jeans. As they registered, Peter told them he had organized an excursion that evening. He said his man on the ground had obtained tickets to tour the Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world. They would have to pay his guy a small premium for the hot commodity, and it would be polite to invite him to join them at dinner afterwards. Jo shrugged; she wanted to explore Dubai, where she could walk around freely in Western clothes, on her own, but Peter had already made decisions for them. As arrogant as the client. Too bad she needed him to interpret the language, and the Arab mind.

  Peter’s man, in thawb and white headdress, met them in the lobby fifteen minutes later, and Peter bundled them into the man’s car. The man drove expertly through crowded streets onto a modern urban boulevard. He parked at a plaza with an upscale shopping mall on one side and an artificial lake on the other. In the lake, a long rank of water jets sprayed high to music, and above the mall you could sense more than see something looming overhead. The four of them entered the mall’s air-conditioned, metallic lobby and joined a group of tourists being ushered toward an elevator. The driver waved to Peter and stepped out of the line. Peter followed Jo and Ev into the crowded elevator, which zoomed with eardrum-compressing speed to level 125. They exited into a glass-walled observation deck and a spectacular view of Dubai beginning to twinkle in the twilight. You could walk 360 degrees around the tower core and, in places, step outside the glass onto a patio in the warm evening air. Jo floated from one perspective to another while Ev investigated the armature supporting the deck’s glass skin. Jo could see an avenue of garish skyscrapers in one direction, a flat, sandy landscape in another, and on all sides the gangly booms of construction cranes, the agents of Dubai’s bizarre ambitions—where else would you find an artificial island shaped like a palm tree, made of sand and rocks dredged from the bottom of the sea?

  Peter watched them with a grim expression on his face. Jo wondered if he feared heights. When they had completed a full circuit of the observation deck, he herded them into a long corridor that wound downward. Along the corridor’s inner wall, graphic panels featured images of the construction of the tower, highlighting the faces of the people from 196 countries who had participated. You pushed a button to hear the recorded words of architects and carpenters, men and women in various dress, saying they were proud and humbled by their contribution to the grand structure. The faces were appealing and the graphics elegant, some resembling Islamic calligraphy. Jo was enchanted by the sheer humanity of it, the deliberate melding of Middle Eastern and Western practice and technology. Perhaps her potential client was also capable of such synthesis.

  Peter’s man awaited them in a restaurant near the base of the elevator. He spoke no English. The four of them took a table and ordered from an international menu. After the drinks came, Peter raised his glass.

  “To success! Tell me, did you enjoy yourselves? Yusef did well, no?”

  Jo said, “Yes. Is Yusef going to accompany us tomorrow?”

  “Just tonight. He is Qatari. A friend from many years. Tomorrow I will be your guide. Do you see the fountains? They are beautiful at night with so many lights. Of course they are not made in Dubai. Dubai can only buy. From the Chinese.”

  Ev said, “Nope. Las Vegas. What you call the fountain was designed by a US firm.”

  Jo wondered how he knew that. She couldn’t predict what he did or did not pay attention to. A few design magazines came to the office, but she rarely saw him reading.

  Peter said, “The design, yes. But the Chinese can build it cheaper than the Americans. Let us not concern ourselves with manufacture. Not until after you win the contract.” He sipped his juice.

  Was there a message in that comment? Peter’s motives eluded her. She said, “I assume you read the proposal. Any questions?”

  “It is very clear and very good. Ah, here comes our food.”

  Over dinner Peter laid out his strategy for the interview, recommending that Jo and Ev alternate speaking. Ev should walk the committee through the scenario, he said, and Jo should discuss the business side of the design process. Silently, she agreed with him. He had their number, all right. She hoped he had the Saudis’ as well. She asked about etiquette. He told her anything goes in Dubai. No one said another word about the Burj Khalifa or the Qatari’s presence.

  Back at the hotel, Peter and his friend disappeared into a hallway, and Jo and Ev went upstairs for the night. They unpacked and plugged in chargers. Jo wanted to rehearse again—their run-through on the plane had been fitful—but Ev turned on the TV, flipping through channels, and she knew she’d lost his attention for the next little while. She made Keurig tea and looked out over the city. There was the Burj Khalifa shining in the distance with a thousand lights, a graceful, tiered spire, each tier more slender than the one below, anchored somehow in the sand. An elegant achievement, spiraling upward from the commerce at its base. It heartened her, proof that inspired design can raise the human spirit regardless of point of origin.

  They sat in the lobby waiting for a limo. Jo had dismissed Peter after the abortive interview. He’d been just as stunned at the outcome as she and even more useless, fawning to the committee instead of confronting them. Jo had been royally pissed. Ev had silently packed up their things.

  The interview had begun promptly, the same faces as before around a table, the same man in charge, only this time he had shaken Jo’s hand. She had looked for a speakerphone. Seeing none, a chill had passed through her; she didn’t know what the director’s absence meant, and she didn’t dare ask. After they had settled in, Ev began to walk the committee through the scenario, explaining the size and configuration of the demonstration displays, what family visitors would do, and how the team would collect data on people’s reactions. Ev spoke with guileless charm, as always, and Jo thought surely the committee would respond accordingly. The chairman cut him off mid-sentence.

  “Thank you, Doctor Everett. We understand your proposal. I want to ask about something your competitor has presented.”

&n
bsp; Ev looked at Jo. Jo looked at Peter, who raised an eyebrow in an otherwise expressionless face.

  The chairman continued, “Owen Associates has proposed that before we proceed, we should do market research and develop a strategic plan. Responsible product development proceeds in such a manner in many industries. Doctor Everett, would you agree?”

  A second chill passed through her. She interrupted Ev, “Yes, certainly. But you can’t do market research without first showing people the product. People in Riyadh know very little about children’s museums, so you can’t expect to get good information from them. That’s why we have proposed mounting a provisional display, so families can experience a sample of the product. And then you’ll know what marketing questions to ask.”

  “Precisely. We want to create a sample of the product, as you put it. We want you to deliver the demonstration you have described for one hundred thousand dollars, and Owen Associates will perform the market research and produce a strategic plan. You will subcontract with them.” The chairman leaned back, smiling, hands on his belly.

  The thought of working under Owen appalled her. She back-pedaled. “I’m delighted to hear that you want to do a demonstration. We’ll have to revise our proposal to come in under a hundred grand. Perhaps it would be best for us to work directly for you?”

  “But we want synergy, European analysis with American know-how. Our children deserve the best the world has to offer. We have made a commitment to Owen Associates. Please negotiate with them.” He paused. “The commitment is for planning only. We want to see the results before we contract for the entire project. Think of this as a feasibility exercise. On all sides.”

  Peter said, “That is wise.”

  The chairman raised his hand to signal that the subject was closed. Peter stood, and D-Three followed. They shook hands, Peter glad-handing the committee, Jo desperate behind her smile, and left the room. In the taxi, Peter congratulated them on getting a piece of the pie. He said it was most important to get your foot in the door because riches will follow. Jo told him his services were no longer necessary.

  Now Jo and Ev sat opposite each other in the chilly lobby waiting for a limo to the airport. She felt tired and disheartened. She glanced at Ev. His face had a faraway look that meant no use talking to him now. She brooded about Phil Owen. Some of their colleagues considered him a brilliant maverick; she considered him a self-serving prick, exploiting his Oxbridge accent and museum people’s credulity. Years ago, when they’d first met, he’d asked questions about one of D-Three’s works in progress, a seashore environment with wave table, tide calculator, and touch tank for anemones and crabs. She’d been proud of the compact “beach” they’d designed and flattered by his attention. He’d asked for the script, and despite a flash of doubt—colleagues didn’t ask for scripts mid-project—she’d given it to him. A month later, he published a critique in an academic journal decrying designs that replace authentic objects with models and videos. He used their “beach” as an illustration, tearing it apart. D-Three’s client did not see the article, but their colleagues did after Owen cross-posted it widely. Jo was forced to defend D-Three’s work at conference after conference for years. She got good at it, developing a rationale backed by data from studies various researchers had performed, but that didn’t take away the sting.

  She bumped Ev’s elbow to command his attention. “I’m sorry we came. Back home no one would change the scope of the RFP and force one competitor to subcontract with another. We were warned these people don’t respect contracts.”

  “No one is forcing you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “They want to steal our stuff for a hundred grand. It’s a bait and switch.”

  “Maybe it’s an opportunity. Build a couple of cool displays. Show them how to do it right.”

  “We wouldn’t make back our investment. The boss wasn’t even there.”

  He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Hey, this could be to our advantage. Let Owen take the risk. He gets the bond, he manages the accounting and reporting.”

  “Owen is an asshole but he’s no idiot. What makes you think he wouldn’t pass any liability on to us?”

  “He could try.” He leaned back, making a tent with his fingertips, a sign that he’d said his piece.

  The call to prayer issued from a loudspeaker somewhere outside, penetrating the marble lobby. A hush passed through the guests clustered there. Several men in thawbs appeared to excuse themselves to their interlocutors and then step behind a partition at the rear. The reception staff, men in hotel uniform, lowered their eyes but continued punching their computer screens. Must be foreigners, Jo thought. Then she chided herself for being presumptuous, like Peter. At the thought of him, despair at the amount of money they had spent on this trip welled up.

  “If they knew what they wanted, why lure us here in the first place? They could have held this meeting by Skype.”

  Ev folded his hands. “Maybe Owen talked them into it yesterday. He’s good at pitching his shtick. Maybe they didn’t know what they wanted until yesterday.”

  “Do you really believe an Aramco executive doesn’t know what he wants? They’re immoral.”

  “They’re different.” Ev’s voice was gentle, almost pleading.

  “What do you know about them that I don’t know?”

  “I don’t know anything about them. But I know you. You’ll make it work.”

  One of the receptionists approached them, bowed to Jo. “Ms. Dunhill? Your driver called to say he’ll be here at the end of prayers, in about a half hour. Is that satisfactory? I can look for a taxi if you are pressed for time.”

  “No, thanks. I’d rather sit here than at the airport. Ev?”

  He nodded. The receptionist bowed and withdrew. Jo turned back to her husband. “Are you saying you want to proceed on their terms?”

  “I think you’d regret it if we didn’t.”

  “You want to play around in the studio. I’m the one who has to stomach Owen.”

  Ev reached over to touch her knee. “You’re more than a match for him.”

  “Why have you changed your mind? You didn’t want to make this trip, and you’ve been lukewarm all along.”

  “Because we can make it right. I like a challenge. And you want this one.”

  “But under Owen’s thumb?”

  “We’ll solve the Saudis’ problems. They need us.”

  “So do our other clients.”

  “They need us more.”

  “But they don’t play fair.”

  “Who gets to define fair?”

  “Not Phil Owen. I refuse to let him control us.”

  “He can’t.”

  “So you say.” She pulled out her phone, pretending to check email while she corralled her careening thoughts.

  Ev might be unpredictable, but he had her back. They were connected underground, roots twining and supporting each other. She’d learned to stop and listen when her feelings hit a wall, to dig out the message lurking in his few words. He didn’t have answers, but he sometimes pointed to a truth she’d missed. She trusted him as she trusted no other. Even when his interests conflicted with hers, he took her side, like the New Year’s Eve she’d drunk too much and wanted to screw without her diaphragm. He’d said he didn’t want to be a father by accident and slowed her down.

  Did he have a point? Might an administrative layer between D-Three and the capricious Saudis help? If she could prevent Owen from interfering with their creative process … and the client had already sort of blessed their ideas. She would sleep on it. Ev had softened her spine.

  Ev bent closer to her. “I’m glad to lose Peter.”

  She looked up from her phone.

  “Last night when you went to the bathroom he invited me to go with him and his buddy. He said you can get anything in Dubai much cheaper than in Saudi.”

  “What did he mean?”

  “I didn’t want to find out.”

  The receptionist
approached, saying that the driver had skipped his prayers to accommodate them and would be outside in five minutes. They gathered their belongings, Ev hefting the computer and roller bag, Jo folding their jackets over one arm and grasping her briefcase with her free hand. Inside the briefcase were fifteen full-color pamphlets beautifully illustrated by Carlos, designed and bound by Becca. Jo had been too distracted by the turn of events to distribute them to the committee. Feeling their weight, she asked the concierge to overnight them to Myriam, as a token of appreciation and so the director could see what a quarter million would buy, not the hundred grand they’d been allotted. This trip had not turned out as expected, and Peter had been worse than useless. Still, she hoped to salvage something that could launch them into the big time.

  10

  Jo rolled over in bed and glanced at the clock. They’d reached home late the night before, and her jetlagged brain didn’t click into gear. Ev was not beside her. A package lay in the depression he had left in his pillow. He did this now and then, sent her doodads of his invention instead of love letters. She picked up the package and unpeeled the brown paper wrapping. It was a little cardboard box with a peephole. Looking in, she saw her own eye reflected again and again, seemingly to infinity. On the left, she saw the word “before” and on the right, “after.” She lowered the box, puzzled but pleased. Ev would explain later. She could never anticipate his thinking, although she thought she understood how it had evolved. Despite his reticence, over the years she had managed to piece together the story of how he wound up on her doorstep one day, carrying a bag of tools.

  The commune Ev’s parents had founded on an old farm in a West Virginia holler had attracted a few dozen people who wanted to live off the grid. The communards had brought tools and supplies with them to turn a barn into a dormitory and shower. At first they shared everything, including sexual partners. That made everyone angry for one reason or another, so they settled into monogamy and soon sprouted a handful of kids. They grew vegetables and raised chickens, some of which they bartered for booze and books and other necessities.