The Contract

by Sheila Grinell

  The chairman nodded, apparently accepting the notion of a sequence. Jo glanced at Myriam, who smiled broadly as if to cheer her on. They all rose, and Coutant opened the door to lead them out.

  Jo waited in Myriam’s ornate hotel lobby, her umbrella folded at her feet. It was late, hours after the dinner at which the group had continued their unresolved discussion of educational psychology and the use of information technology to support learning. Jo had walked to Myriam’s place through a cold drizzle to talk privately. She wanted Myriam’s help getting paid. She needed reassurance.

  Myriam stepped out of the elevator’s brass doors and waved at Jo. They sat together on a couch in a corner, Myriam tucking her head scarf tighter and smoothing her skirt. They were safely alone.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” Jo said. She hesitated, temporizing. “I see you don’t need an abaya here. But you still need to cover your head?”

  “I do not need to, I choose to. It gives me an advantage.”

  “Isn’t the veil illegal in France?”

  “Yes, but not the head scarf unless your employer forbids it. When Europeans look at me, they see I maintain my integrity. They see my power.” She raised her chin and locked onto Jo’s eyes.

  Jo felt Myriam’s power, but not because of her head scarf. How odd to consider it an asset rather than an encumbrance. Every time they met, Myriam forced her to rethink something. She admired the woman’s strength of character and her acumen.

  “In the plane coming over I watched a Japanese film. In the end, the hero sacrificed himself for his buddies. At the end of American films, the hero gets the girl. The Saudi film I once saw ended with a woman giving her daughter a bicycle despite social disapproval. Is that the Saudi ideal?”

  “Saudi people like tradition. Because we share a culture, we trust one another. We can be generous. We can give a girl a bicycle if that is her way of loving God.”

  “You’re making an argument against democracy. At least the kind we have in America with people from many cultures.”

  “Is it successful?”

  Jo had to think again. “Yes. Not entirely.”

  Myriam crossed her arms in front of her chest. “It is late. You have something to ask me?”

  Jo took a breath. “I don’t want to put you in a difficult position, but can you tell me what’s going to happen? Will the chairman insist on getting an app?” Jo felt tension in her chest and took another breath to clear it.

  “Yes, I think so. He is a proud man. But I agree with you and Mr. Phil that children should not carry smart phones in their hands at our museum. I will tell the director, and she will discuss with the chairman. You must have patience.”

  Jo felt a glimmer of relief. “Thank you. I am grateful for your support.”

  “You do not need my support. Your ideas are good.” She waited a beat. “I have something to tell you, privately. I want to tell you I am retiring next month, Inshallah. The director has nominated someone to take my place. I cannot say her name because it is not official yet, but she is like you. She is dedicated to the children.”

  Jo felt stabbed in the belly. “I’m sorry to hear that. Not for you, for me. I don’t know how to communicate without you.”

  “The director understands. Do not worry about the others. I do not.”

  But I do, Jo thought. I have to. “The chairman doesn’t want me around.”

  Myriam clicked her tongue, tsk, tsk. “You must not listen to the words. You must follow the meaning behind the words.”

  “He wants to eject us. He does not value me.” She felt panic begin to rise,

  “He does not think about you. He thinks about his own position. You must understand your position better.” She readjusted herself on the chair and took Jo’s hand. “This is our last meeting, my friend.”

  Jo nodded, breathing deeply, trying to keep the fear down.

  “It has been a pleasure. You are brave and you do your best for our girls.” Myriam squeezed her hand and stood. “Please give my regards to Mr. Everett. I always remember his bird made from chain.”

  “Myriam, can I call you sometimes? Or write?”

  Myriam let go her hand. “Of course. I will link with you on the internet. You will see I am modern.”

  Jo nodded, feeling hot and hoping Myriam wouldn’t notice. “Thank you.”

  “Good night.”

  Myriam rose and trundled into the old-fashioned elevator. The uniformed operator closed the shiny doors behind her.

  Outside on the boulevard, Jo let the rain cool her bare head. As she walked, her heartbeat gradually slowed and the threat of panic faded. She followed the wide street to a brightly lit intersection. She stood in front of a cafe where people sat outside, crowded under an awning, conversing and drinking at this late hour. The metallic stink of Gauloises accosted her despite the damp. She stepped to the curb to hail a taxi. It splashed by without slowing down. She was disheartened by everything Paris. She anticipated another sleepless night before her morning flight home.

  Jo sat at the departure gate, waiting for the delay to end and her head to clear. The sleeping pill she had taken had left her feeling dislocated in space. The arched walls of the terminal seemed to press on her from overhead. She’d traveled through vaulted corridors and tube-like passageways to arrive at this uncomfortable chair, feeling like an ant crawling unconsciously through the colony, subject to the order an unfeeling nature imposed. In her case, the architects of the airport and the Paris city fathers who had hired them. And the Saudi establishment that would not reckon with her. She folded the magazine she had been trying to read and closed her eyes. She rued the time and money she’d spent on this latest episode in the Saudi saga, but she’d had no choice. If only Myriam could have been more reassuring.

  Myriam. Her one reliable collaborator. A fully developed woman who thrived in circumstances Jo could never have tolerated. She wanted to know the secret to Myriam’s equanimity. She craved her respect. What had Myriam meant by “you should know your position better”? Her position was clear: the Saudis should hire them to design their children’s museum because they could do it best. Ev could light a fire, and she’d manage the burn. Was that her “position,” packaging Ev for public consumption? No, no, she did more. She taught clients how to think, and they admired her for it. She earned more than a fee, she earned admiration. She’d thought the Saudi job would earn her the world’s admiration. Instead it tortured her with stops and starts and unanswerable questions.

  A gate agent appeared at the podium and fussed with the microphone. He announced in French and English that the flight had been cleared to board. Jo slipped the magazine into her suitcase and collected her purse and raincoat. She stood behind a fat man with two overflowing bags and braced to spend the coming eleven hours crammed into an economy seat. The line began to creep forward. She felt alone and friendless. The pit of her stomach contracted: perhaps the job wasn’t worth it after all. She’d insisted that D-Three take a big, fat chance, and they had less than nothing to show for it.

  Ev had been right about the job. She bowed her head in contrition. She should have listened better. He understood things she didn’t. Perhaps he understood Becca in a way she didn’t. She should forget about the kiss. She needed him just as he was.

  The fat man could not find his boarding pass. While he fumbled through his second bag, Jo slipped around him and into the Jetway. She wanted to lay her burdens down for the next little while. She wanted to watch movie after movie to distract herself until she could rest at home.

  23

  Jo searched the kitchen cabinet for zinc or vitamin C or anything else that might kill the germs clogging her sinuses. If she could get a little physical relief, she thought, maybe her spirits would improve. She’d been home for two days, in bed with a cold thanks to her late night walk in the rain, laid low by vertigo. For the last couple of years, every time she got sick she got dizzy. She hadn’t been able to sit at her desk for more than five minutes, and she had
n’t really wanted to. She could not troll for a new project in case the Saudi job imploded, not while feeling so low. Instead, she had lain down and let the sounds of the office drift up to her sickbed. Ev had noticed her sneezing, of course. Each morning he asked if she needed anything, and when she said no, he disappeared into the studio to refurbish another of his old pieces. Jack had set him on a course from which he would not deviate. She’d had no energy to protest.

  It was early; no one else had arrived yet. Diane, Carlos, the friend of Andy’s who had taken over some of Becca’s work—any one of them might walk into the office and see her disorder: uncombed hair, ratty T-shirt, eye bags unconcealed. You could tell she was pushing fifty. She groped along the upper shelf beyond her line of sight. Her hand brushed against a cylinder in a back corner and she pulled it forward. An ancient canister of bouillon cubes. Might help, couldn’t hurt. She removed a cube and returned the canister to the shelf. She put on the kettle and took a mug from the dishwasher. She needed three more minutes of privacy to make a lousy cup of broth. Who said having your business in your home was a good idea?

  The kettle whistled. She poured water over the bouillon cube and, moving slowly, steadying herself with one hand on the wall, took the mug upstairs to the bedroom. She set it down on the night table beside her phone. Next to the phone lay the Shenandoah River rock Ev had given her a million years ago. A poor substitute for the man himself, she thought. She sat on the bed, and as she slid her legs under the quilt, the phone chimed. Owen, so soon. She reached for the phone and knocked the broth onto the floor. A moan burst from her throat. She unlocked the phone.

  “I’ve had a call from the chairman’s office. The director wants to move the app into the next phase of the project. The chairman has agreed to sign off on this phase, and we’ll see our money within a month.”

  She sat up straight. Hooray for Myriam and the director!

  Owen gloated, “La Villette did the trick. You can thank me now, and then again, after you get your check.”

  She didn’t bother to correct him. “Thanks for the good news.”

  “I trust you’re satisfied with our little collaboration?”

  She’d be damned if she would ever share a project with Owen again. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  He mumbled good-bye and ended the call.

  She pulled back the quilt and went to the bathroom to get a towel to clean up the spill. She could feel a grin widening her cheeks. Her heart rose from the depths to its rightful place in the center of her chest. She had to spread the news. She texted Ev to come see her. She sent a cryptic message to Diane, asking her to pick up Vitamin C on her way in to work. She wanted to tell them face-to-face that the Saudi project lived on. She felt vindicated for having pushed so hard. She felt happier than she had in weeks.

  Bending slowly, she dabbed at the spill and deposited the wet towel in the hamper. As she stepped toward the closet to find a better shirt, Ev walked into the bedroom with concern written on his face. He stopped short when he saw her smile. In the closet, she grabbed a Mexican blouse, a frilly embroidered thing that a grateful client with a second home in San Miguel had given her and that she never wore. She never wore frills, but today was different. She slipped the blouse over her head and turned to him.

  “Owen just called with news. He said they’re pushing the app into the next phase and we’ll be paid in a month. The next phase! We’re solid.”

  “Are you feeling better?” He didn’t look happy.

  “I have a cold, but I’m feeling great. Let’s celebrate when the staff gets here. Maybe you could pick up pastries? And fruit? Or should we cater lunch?”

  “I think you should take it easy.” He sat on the bed.

  She sat beside him. “I was beginning to doubt everything I thought I knew about our line of work.” She poked him in the shoulder, expecting a friendly tussle. He did not react.

  “Have we been offered another contract?”

  “One step at a time.” She found his sobriety puzzling. Maybe he was stuck on a problem in the workshop.

  “It’s too soon to celebrate. Stay in bed. Get better. You don’t need to rush.”

  She stood up quickly and the world spun. She sat down. “Still dizzy. I’ll stay down. But I need my laptop.”

  He nodded and got up. “I’ll get it.”

  Triumph tasted sweet, she thought. Triumph over the chairman, and Owen, thanks to Myriam’s intervention. A thought snagged her: how would the job proceed without Myriam? Could she find another way to navigate the client’s bureaucracy? They’d been tangling with the Saudis for nearly a year, and she still did not know if the client would let them design something wonderful and bold. At least now they’d have the opportunity to try.

  A knock on the door. Diane entered carrying Jo’s laptop. She handed it over along with a bottle of Vitamin C. “Ev told me. Congratulations.” She paused in the doorway. “You look nice.”

  “Thanks. In half an hour or so, I’m going to send some schedules to print. Would you bring them up to me? And bring tissues. They’re in the supply closet.” Her mind whirled through the changes she intended to make in the charts. She’d text Ev when she had results to show him.

  Two days later, once she could maintain her balance going up and down stairs, Jo insisted on celebrating. She organized a party for the staff and their families to thank them for their grace under pressure, and, to tell the truth, to soften them up for another year or two of hassling with unpredictable deadlines and unknown conditions in the Middle East. She picked a Friday night and ordered Lebanese food—they drink alcohol in Lebanon—and a camel for the kids to ride. They set up a buffet table outside, on the patio between house and studio, opening both buildings for the Arabian-themed scavenger hunt that would follow dinner. Andy rigged up speakers to broadcast the playlist of oud songs he had compiled. The weather was mild and dry; they could see the sun lowering across the Bay.

  Carlos brought his pretty wife and two little girls and his older son, who stood around looking bored. Andy brought a girlfriend, a pale teenager whom Jo had met once or twice before. Garth, Andy’s buddy who had taken over Becca’s newsletters, brought another buddy whose neck and arms were covered in multi-colored ink. Jo tried not to stare at the paisley design, not what you’d expect on a burly guy. And, of course, Diane brought Joey, almost six feet tall now, who grinned when he saw Carlos’s girls. He broke away from his mother and lurched toward them. Diane watched him out of the corner of her eye as she poured herself a glass of Merlot.

  A truck pulling a horse trailer parked across the street, and a man in a turban unloaded the camel. He positioned the gangly creature in the driveway and made it sit down, folding its legs underneath its body, which brought the tandem seat on its hump to chest height. Jo signaled “go ahead,” and the handler beckoned the kids. The girls squealed and ran up to the camel. Carlos’s boy followed, and then Garth’s tattooed friend. Joey hung back, fear on his face. Diane gentled him forward, but he said a loud “no, no.” Carlos’s older girl stopped in her tracks. She called her sister and the two of them ran to Joey, each one taking a hand and urging him to approach the camel. The older girl asked the handler to help her sister mount and then Joey. She mounted last, sitting behind Joey and holding his waist. The handler gave a signal and the beast lurched upward, releasing a pungent cloud of dust. Everyone clapped and cheered as the handler led the camel down the street. They could hear Joey yelling, “Oh, oh, oh” as the camel swayed. The handler led the camel back, made it sit, and helped them dismount. Joey finally looked happy. He sought out his mom, who told him how proud she was of him and thanked the girls for their courtesy. Jo had to admire whatever it was that made the girls enjoy nursing a disabled boy twice their size. She felt a flash of sympathy for everything Diane had endured and would continue to endure as Joey grew but didn’t mature. She felt grateful not to be so burdened.

  Carlos’s boy took the next camel ride, followed by his parents, riding together, Ca
rlos cussing in Spanish as they bumped along. Andy, then Garth took a turn. Ev watched the camel but didn’t ride. He seemed fascinated by the way its joints collapsed as it sat. Jo half expected him to run for his notebook, but he stayed with the company. When no one else wanted to ride, Jo asked for quiet. She stood on a chair and raised a glass.

  “To the world’s best design team! Even the government of Saudi Arabia recognizes your talent!” She took a sip. “Ev and I want to thank you for all your hard work. And I hope you find the work to come even more exciting and rewarding. Cheers!” The others cheered back. “Dinner is ready. Would the camel riders please sanitize their hands before helping themselves to food?”

  She stepped off the chair and stood at the head of the buffet line with a box of wipes, doling them out liberally. The second time Andy passed, he thanked her for the vegetarian option. She had forgotten about his preference, but, hey, she’d take the credit. She surveyed the table: there was enough food for seconds all around.

  Diane appeared at her elbow and leaned toward her ear. “There’s a phone call for you on the landline.”

  Jo frowned. “I don’t want to leave the party.”

  Diane spoke over the female voice trilling in the background. “Trust me, you need to take this one.”

  Jo handed her the wipes and stepped into the office. She picked up the receiver on Diane’s desk. Myriam.

  “We have a tragedy. The director’s husband crashed his airplane. He is gone, and the director must leave the government. No one will contact you, so I tell you the museum project is over.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Her husband’s family is related to the king, not her family. No one in the government will listen to the director now. I am sorry.”

  Jo felt her gut shrink. She stumbled over her words. “I … give the director my condolences. I … I am sorry, too.”

  “It cannot be helped. I will not call you again.”

  Jo could not speak.

  “Good-bye, my friend.”