The Artificial Mirage

by T. Warwick

  “My name is Hamed,” the one in the passenger seat said.

  “Mohammed?”

  “No. Hamed.”

  In the distance, there were flames on the horizon like the flickering dawn of a new sun. Minutes passed. The policemen were silent as they flicked their way through real-time updates that came rolling down the windshield in Arabic script on traditional scrolls with official watermarks.

  “Where is that?” Charlie said.

  “It is Abqaiq. This is big tragedy for us. For our country. For the whole world.” Hamed went into occluded mode and began speaking quietly. The scrolls kept rolling across the windshield. Charlie used his translation app to read them. Abqaiq no longer existed, and there was sulfuric fallout and traces of radiation. The supply of oil would be halted. SSOC had privately displaced Abqaiq’s central function to a network of other pipelines and processing plants in the Eastern Province. It could have been worse.

  The streetlights showed the appearance of highway barricades lining the street. They slowed down and entered through a space where a barricade seemed to be missing. In a sea of LEDs, a large building appeared beyond the large dune that had been graded to keep the structure hidden from view of the road. The building was the same light brown color as the sand with narrow black slits of mirrored glass that made it look like an alien spaceship. To the right of the main building was a small mosque of the same color beneath a halo of Hawks shining spotlights on it. There were highway barricades in the middle of the road leading to the entrance, which forced the car to slow down to navigate sharp turns to the left and right. A policeman stood up from his chair under a large white parasol that would have been appropriate at an outdoor wedding reception. He had a broad smile, and his brown uniform was neatly pressed. “Peace be with you,” he said to the policemen in Arabic. His announcement appeared at the bottom of Charlie’s field of vision in English subtitles made to look like Arabic script. Hamed and the driver responded in kind, and he waved them through as if they were late for a diplomatic party.

  Charlie was amazed at his own compliance since the arrest. He hadn’t even been handcuffed. On the contrary, the police officers had been quite amicable. He considered the absurdity of going along with them as if nothing was wrong. He could run, but even if he could make it away from the building and disappear into the gridlocked web of downtown Al Khobar, his money would run out very quickly. He couldn’t work or make it past a checkpoint. Leaving the country wasn’t possible. So he just walked with them to the mirrored black glass entrance beyond the gate. The glass doors opened, and he braced against the rush of cold air. The officer attending the scanner was wearing black BDUs and was looking through the images very carefully. He gave a warm welcome in Arabic to the arresting policemen and stood solemnly before each of them and nose-kissed them. Hamed motioned with his arm for Charlie to proceed forward into a concrete courtyard. It was empty except for an Indian janitor in a green coverall uniform and a black plastic sweeper bot the size of a Great Dane. The janitor was sweeping sand into a long row. Suddenly, a gust of wind came along and blew the row of sand across the courtyard like a brown river that chafed and stung Charlie’s ankles. The bot stopped and was motionless, while the janitor went right back to sweeping. Beyond him, the loudspeakers from the mosque adjacent to the building began releasing a high-pitched howl.

  It was prayer time, but Lauren could not interpret it as such. To her virtual sensibilities, prayer time was just like the background music in a mall in Saigon. As they walked to the main entrance to the building, she began mocking the efficient walking style of the police officers. Charlie noticed the light brown Hawks circling high overhead as the heavy steel doors with thick coats of glossy brown paint slowly unbolted themselves and opened with a barely audible rumble. The floor and walls of the lobby were composed of black and brown marble in symmetrical designs. They led him down a hallway under a large AR sculpture of the king looking askance. When they reached the large office at the end of the hallway, they seated him in an ostentatious faux-gold chair upholstered with golden fabric opposite a large desk of the same design. A fusion of burning frankincense integrated with the strong extracts and oils that the policemen wore as cologne permeated the air. A large man in a thobe and gutra came in bearing a frown and seated himself behind the desk.

  “Hello, I am Majed. You must be Charlie.” The man spoke a clear bari-tone English that emanated from his ample belly.

  “Yes, I am. Hello, Majed.”

  “Well, Charlie. No doubt you understand the severity of your crime in our country.”

  “What crime?”

  “My guys found hash in the car you were driving.”

  “Really? Are you sure it was my car?”

  “It isn’t your car, is it? Your visa says you are an employee of SSOC… but your car is not an SSOC car. It is registered to an Indian man.”

  “Maybe the hash belongs to him.”

  “No, it doesn’t. He died many years ago in a refinery accident.”

  “I’d like to call someone.”

  32

  It felt like New Year’s Eve in Seppuku. The media had portrayed the aftermath of the Abqaiq attack as a triumph over adversity. The waitstaff and bartenders were all wearing silver capes redolent of the silver proximity suits the firemen in Abqaiq were seen wearing as they battled the unyielding flames. Saudi men and non-Saudi young women watched circular AR screens that played and replayed the news reports of the remaining blazes and scorched devastation. Above the AR screens and the tangible chandeliers that trembled to the music, an intricately detailed AR mandala covering the entire ceiling dripped blobs of colored gel ink, which the non-Saudi women proceeded to toss around like beach balls. The last of the flames of Abqaiq were still apparent in the distance through the wide strip of tinted window that ran the length of the bar.

  Lauren sauntered through the crowd in a short black vintage Gaultier cocktail dress without touching any of the AR beach balls. As she passed a row of sofas, an overly plump Saudi man in a thobe that must have required three times the fabric of an average thobe grabbed onto her hand as she walked past. Saleh appeared and stood above the man, demanding he let go without saying a word.

  “Been waiting here long?” Saleh whispered into Lauren’s ear.

  “Waiting for what?” She looked up incredulously. An AR message came twirling across the flames. She had a call from the Al-Harbo prison in Saudi Arabia. “I’ll be right back, sweetie.” She wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace that lasted half a second and quickly made her way down the stairs, past the samurai armor, and out the front door into the rain, where one of the large Batak valets in a perfectly tailored black faux-silk suit and matching shirt buttoned to the top was standing with an umbrella big enough to accommodate three of him. She darted under it and looked up at him with a flirtatious smile. The news reports had said to stay away from the rain. She waited a moment for her ears to readjust to the lack of loud music, but the call had ceased.

  She walked back up the stairs and nudged Saleh as she sat next to him in one of the oversized chairs at the bar. “I thought you were in Saudi,” she said.

  A smile cracked across Saleh’s face as he manipulated various charts of oil futures. “I had to come here. Aren’t you happy?”

  “What about your family?”

  “Riyadh. I sent them there.” He looked through the charts to the flames of Abqaiq. “Another drink, my angel?”

  “Sure. But I’m not going home with you tonight.”

  “My home is not here in Bahrain.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  The bartender brought a bottle of Krug in a bucket and poured two glasses for them. Saleh raised his glass to Lauren. “May you sleep well tonight, my angel.”

  “What are we celebrating?”

  “Being homeless, of course.”

  The next morning Lauren was watching the infinite blue Gulf sky through the floor-to-ceiling window of Saleh’s hotel suite. A black s
tripe in the middle of the sky was the only reminder of the burning of Abqaiq. The waves, which were reduced to ripples by the time they reached the white sand beach, were kicking up in the distance. Without real waves, like in Vietnam, it was more like a vast lake. It was nearly noon, but Saleh had thoughtfully dialed down the window tint setting to Permanent Dusk before leaving. She stumbled to the kitchenette and plucked a chocolate-covered strawberry from a silver bowl that was still steaming from the dry ice beneath it.

  Stephanie rolled over on the gel-ampoule mattress covered in floral-patterned sheets and moaned grumpily without opening her eyes. “What are you eating?”

  “Strawberry.”

  “Oh. Bring me one?”

  Lauren picked up the silver dish and placed them next to Stephanie. She sat down on the bed.

  “Feed me,” Stephanie said with an open mouth and closed eyes.

  “What do you think about HIV?” Lauren said.

  “What are you talking about, darling?”

  “Well, like Saleh. He could have it, right?”

  “Honey, anyone could have it. The question is do they have it. Probably not. Anyway, who gives a fuck? You can get meds from India and hop the train to Qatar once a month to renew your visa.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m just thinking like long-term.”

  “Long-term? That’s a long word, darling.”

  “I don’t know. It’s just like Charlie and what happened…”

  “Charlie?”

  “I got a text last night. It was from some jail in Saudi.”

  “Was it from him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It could’ve been anybody.”

  “You think it was him?”

  “What if it was? Stay the fuck away from him. You’re worried about catching HIV? Worry about catching what he’s got. There’s no cure for it. And it’s much more contagious. Trust me, darling. My father had it.”

  Stephanie waited for Lauren to feed her another strawberry. Her eyes were now wide open. “Look. If it’s really bothering you, then find out if it’s him. His embassy will know.”

  “Thanks, Stephanie. I like that you listen to me.”

  “Of course, darling. I’m not all bitch.”

  33

  “You called a woman,” Majed said after he took a sip of mint tea from the dainty frosted glass on his desk.

  “What makes you say that? I wasn’t able to get through.” Charlie glanced over his shoulder to see that no one was there and the door had closed.

  “Ah. I see. Was it a woman?” Majed observed Charlie eyeing the plastic bag containing his AR glasses.

  “Of course it was. Who else am I going to call?”

  “Perhaps, yo ur lawyer?”

  “Well…” Charlie tried to keep a straight face. He knew that laughter under the circumstances would be seen as a sign of disrespect, and he felt there was still a chance they would just deport him and avoid the inconvenience of processing him.

  “Women,” Majed said. “How many crimes have been committed in the name of them? In the name of some woman. In the name of some money for a woman…a dowry…” He took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair, and narrowed his eyes. “You are lost, Mr. Charlie. I know you are not Christian.”

  “That’s not what my visa says.”

  “Yes, I know. But I have lived in your country. Many people in your country do not believe in God. Some of them even believe that God is dead. Can you believe it?”

  “I’ve heard it mentioned. But they have that freedom. That’s what it’s all about, right? Maybe you just went to the wrong places.”

  “And here you are, feeling upset because I’m holding some software,” Majed said as he gingerly picked up the bag containing Charlie’s glasses and looked hard into his eyes.

  “She’s not my God.”

  “Of course not. How could she be?”

  “Look—”

  “You should try to make your peace with this world before you leave it.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Inshallah.”

  “You think your culture is so different from ours, but it isn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You practice polygamy, right?”

  “Polygamy is illegal in your country.”

  “Only in marriage.”

  “Then it is different.”

  “I guess.”

  “Marriage is before Allah.”

  “Right.”

  Majed leaned forward. “Perhaps you should consider your situation, Mr. Charlie. Now is your opportunity to find peace. I do not wish for you to suffer.” Majed spoke like he was explaining a new game to a child. Another closed transaction. He looked at Hamed and another policeman in a black uniform, who had just appeared at the door, and then back at Charlie. “It is time for you to leave now.”

  As they were walking in the hallway, Hamed caught hold of Charlie’s upper arm and guided him in front of a shiny brushed-steel door with a plastic orange iris scanner adjacent to it at the end. Hamed and his friend scanned their eyes, and the door lock clicked open. It was an elevator.

  34

  Days had passed, but it felt like weeks since he had told the representative from the US Consulate that he was relinquishing his right to a trial. The man, in his late twenties and pale in an Indian tailor’s version of a Brooks Brothers suit, had seemed heartfelt in his attempt to convince him that he had a chance at a trial. But Charlie’s arrest had already gone public, so an acquittal would be an unacceptable loss of face for them. His life felt garbled. Everything was out of place. Ruin one thing in the sequence, and everything that followed was rendered wrong. He could accept his losing leveraged position and everything that had followed, but death was a worthless transaction without Lauren.

  There was no air-conditioning, so he tried to move around as little as possible. He lay in his bed, staring at the three black plastic ceiling fans until the chime for dinner sounded. They altered the chimes daily. It felt like Wednesday, but he wasn’t sure because they never told him the day. The chimes felt more soothing than the calls to prayer. He walked to the door and received his gray plastic tray through the small door that swiveled open and began its twenty-second countdown before closing with the same silent whoosh as his own door. He could feel the awareness of his eating slipping. He was chewing more loudly than he ever had before. He tried to stop. But to no avail. He laughed at the silliness of it. Who was he trying to impress? He placed his tray back in the swiveling door as soon as it opened.

  The unfinished concrete walls of his cell looked like slabs of ancient gray cheese. His senses had become so enhanced that he felt more aware of himself and his environment than ever before: the cold concrete against his skin, the taste of pita bread and olive oil, and its interactions with the enzymes in his mouth and stomach as it assimilated into his body. But there was no sunlight, and worst of all, there was no AR.

  He could close his eyes and reconstruct Lauren in detail, but each time her features became slightly more eclipsed by the glaring sun that he saw emanating from behind her. Majed had promised him he would get his glasses when he was transferred, but he didn’t know when that would be.

  Lauren had apparently received the message he had given via the consul. After a series of official communications reports between the prison and the embassy in Bahrain, a date and time had finally been set for her to visit him. Visiting visas to Saudi Arabia didn’t exist and a woman was forbidden from entering alone, so a video conference was set up.

  They led him into a dark room and left him alone. The image appeared, and Lauren’s eyes filled the entire wall. The camera panned back and adjusted to frame her body. Saudi laws required her to be shrouded in a black abaya, which hid an elegant pink Chanel suit that was revealed at the edges of her gloveless wrists. Charlie could tell she was perturbed no one could see any more of it. Her legs were pressed together and turned facing to the side “How are you feeling?” she asked.

&n
bsp; “Just lovely. I’m getting a little tired of drinking halal beer, though.” Charlie looked around the room at the glossy brown walls. The only aberration was the iris scanner by the door and the projector above him. On the floor of the entrance was a traditional clock projected from a hole in the ceiling. He watched the second hand flicker. “I miss augmented reality. Something other than this clock would be really nice.”

  “I know it must be difficult for you.”

  “They’re the ones doing all the work. All I have to do is stay here.” He watched as Lauren returned a look that was less expressive than what he might have expected of AR Lauren. “I want you to have my glasses when this is done.”

  “Why?”

  “I just want you to have them. The police have them now.’”

  Lauren put her elbow on the glass table underneath the large sun umbrella that rained down a chilled mist. Slowly, she let her head fall into her palm as a mischievous smile spread across her face. She started fluttering the fingers on her other hand, displaying her new stylus, which looked like it could be an engagement ring. She looked at it and continued to smile as she looked back at Charlie, who continued to perspire despite the change to the cooler ambient temperature of the visiting room. “Hi,” she said in the way she would when she wanted to have sex.

  “You’re using a Dragonfly. When did you get that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “You never had one before.”

  “You never bought me one.”

  “That’s true. I wish I had.”

  Lauren giggled. “It belongs to the embassy. They let me use it up here on the roof. When are you going to get your glasses back from the police?”

  “I don’t know. They’re keeping them for now.”

  “Charlie, we’re not married.” Lauren raised an eyebrow as she waved the hand with her stylus and fluttered her fingers without taking her eyes off him. “Stephanie helped me make a video of me in the purple stockings. You remember those, right?”