In the Kingdom of Men

by Kim Barnes

  “There were some naysayers,” Ross said as the lights were raised, “but never tell an American there’s something he can’t do.” He pulled down maps from their rollers: the region, the area, the three districts. A discussion of the dollar versus the riyal, the market in al-Khobar, the food in the commissary, health clinic hours, Dhahran’s state-of-the-art hospital. A phone directory of services and emergency numbers. How to get mail, the weekly Sun and Flare tabloid newsletter, and Aramco World, the slick bimonthly magazine—all read and censored by the Saudis. He popped open a large black briefcase, passed around various forms, told us that the company would hold our passports and where we should go for our photo IDs. A quick slide show of customs and traditions. The woman’s abaya, the head covering and face veil called hijab, the man’s thobe, and the scarf called a ghutra. Ross unwrapped his own to demonstrate its construction, revealing a thin skullcap that masked his balding pate. He flapped the scarf into an open square, folded it into a triangle, spread it evenly atop his head, and secured it with a black leather agal. He told us about the Five Pillars of Islam, including the hajj to Mecca and the five daily calls to prayer. Muslim bus drivers, drillers, soldiers, sheikhs, even the king—all were obligated to stop whatever they were doing and kneel facing Mecca. We would get used to the singsong calls of the muezzin broadcast from the mosques’ minarets, Ross said, if we would just think of it as radio.

  “It’s a heck of a good life, but never forget that we’re guests in this country. They overlook a lot when it comes to us gringos, but you got to be respectful.” Ross had worked himself into a rolling sweat and mopped at his brow with the hem of his scarf. “The Arabs are known for their hospitality, but they are particular about their watering holes. Out in the desert, the wells are hard to spot, just old mounds of camel dung, but they belong to specific tribes. Stealing a Bedouin’s water is like stealing a man’s horse. He’ll shoot you for it.” He picked up his glass and took a long swallow, sopped his mouth. “Now, as you all know, there are some things that are okay inside the compound but verboten outside. The Arabs call these things haram—forbidden by the laws of shariah.”

  I listened to the familiar list of sins: dancing, gambling, drinking. Ross loudly whispered into the microphone that a bootleg instruction booklet, The Blue Flame, was available on how to build your own kitchen still. He winked. “Or you might just ask your neighbor if he’s finished with his cooker.”

  “Never!” a big man shouted, and everyone laughed.

  Pork was illegal, its handling and consumption haram, but sometimes rations could be found in the commissary’s pork room. “Chops, roasts, bacon. What’s Easter without a ham?” Ross paced the platform, became more solemn. “Men, as you know, the local women don’t show themselves. If you happen to see one, don’t talk, don’t touch. Don’t even look at them. We’ve got the best lawyers money can buy, but this isn’t the U. S. of A. The Saudis are serious about this stuff, and you’d better be too. We’re talking jail time, deportation, and that’s if you’re lucky.” He looked around the room to make sure he’d made his point, snapped his briefcase closed, pushed it aside, and settled one ample hip on the table. “Now,” he said, “let’s go over the rules for the gals.”

  It is forbidden for any woman to drive outside the compounds. No women allowed on the crew launches. No women allowed on the rigs. No women in the men’s section of cafés and coffeehouses. No women in the men’s suqs. No women outside the gates alone.

  “But”—Ross lifted his finger—“the Ladies’ Limo runs from Abqaiq to Dhahran and right into al-Khobar. You want to shop, get the girlfriends and hop on. Just don’t go wandering off or we might never find you.”

  Women who leave the compounds should dress in modest attire.

  “Leave the golf skirts at home, girls. These Arab boys aren’t used to seeing bare skin, and they might not be able to control themselves. They’d like you to wear the abaya, but we negotiated special dispensation. Best to look like you’re going to church. Back inside the compound, you can put on those swimsuits, dive into that pool!”

  The big man gave a loud wolf whistle, eliciting a chorus of snickers.

  “It’s the job of the mutaween,” Ross went on, “the Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, to enforce the laws of shariah. You won’t often see them, but they do carry canes. They leave us Aramcons alone, but no need to spur them.” Ross straightened and hoisted his trousers, which had worked their way below his belly. “Questions?”

  Mason looked at me, but I was remembering my grandfather, how he’d switched me for cutting the sleeves from my dress. August in Oklahoma, and I thought I’d die of the heat. No neighbors for miles, and still my bare shoulders were an insult to the Lord.

  When Ross directed us to the refreshment table, Mason was stopped by Burt Cane, and I saw them fall into easy conversation. I moved into line, but before I could get my coffee, a woman minced up to me, her feet swollen in the clench of high heels. A fall of blond hair framed her heart-shaped face. I’d thought she might be my age until I saw the heavy makeup caking the corners of her mouth.

  “Hi,” she said in a chirpy Texas drawl. “I’m Candy Fullerton, Ross’s wife. Welcome to the Aramco family!” She held out her hand, sharp as a hatchet.

  “Gin McPhee,” I said, and shook the fingertips she offered.

  “Are you all liking your new house?” Her eyes canvassed the room behind me.

  “It’s wonderful,” I said.

  “Give it a year, and you won’t be so easy to please.” She looked at me from the corners of her eyes. “Buck and Betsy Bodeen lived there until three days ago, you know. He was the head of Materials Supply. I’m sure you’ll want to redecorate. Those marble floors are so gauche.” I stole a glance to locate Mason, saw that Burt Cane had his full attention, but Candy ignored my distraction. “As soon as Ross gets promoted to general manager, we’re moving to Dhahran,” she said. “Abqaiq is in the middle of nowhere.” She pursed her lips. “Watch out for the houseboys. They always try to take advantage of newcomers.”

  “Yash seems fine,” I said.

  “He’s uppity.” The corners of her mouth winced, then lifted as her eyes took on new focus. “Carlo is here,” she said.

  I followed her gaze to where a compact man with a camera crouched on his heels. Green silk scarf tied across his high forehead, dark beard sharpening his chin, gold hoop earrings, bloused white shirt undone and exposing a thatched chest, buccaneer’s boots to his knees—how I could have missed him, I wasn’t sure.

  “He’s Italian,” Candy said. “Isn’t he cute?” She toggled her fingers his way, but when he didn’t seem to notice, she turned back to me. “Listen,” she said, “how about a round of golf tomorrow?”

  “I don’t—”

  “You can learn.” She glanced behind me and touched my wrist. “I’ll send you a personal invitation to the club.”

  I watched her hone in on Mason, her voice rising as she extended her hand and smiled brightly, edging in until her breasts brushed his arm. I was glad when he looked up, saw me watching, and shifted away. I turned to the coffee and was adding powdered creamer when I felt someone touch my back.

  “Hi,” the woman said. “I’m Ruthie Doucet.” She spread her arms wide. “Welcome to the Aramco family!” She rolled her dark eyes to where Candy Fullerton was laughing openmouthed at something Mason had said. “Did she ask you to join the Ladies’ Golf Club?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Don’t,” Ruthie said. “There’s better company to keep.” She hooked my arm. “Come on. I’m dying for a cigarette.”

  We sat at a table decorated with little flags stabbed into half-moons of Styrofoam: the Stars and Stripes, the green Arabic script and sword, Aramco’s rust-colored circled double A, bold as a cattle brand. Ruthie crossed her legs as she scouted the crowd. Brunette bouffant, blue eye shadow, pearly lipstick, a tartan skirt and cap-sleeved pullover—she was nearing forty, I guessed, but had the elec
tric air of a teenager.

  “How long?” she asked.

  “We flew in yesterday.”

  She offered me a cigarette. I hadn’t smoked since that first seductive puff in Mason’s car, but I figured I could fake it. She loosened one high heel and rubbed the arch of her foot. “From?”

  “Houston. Oklahoma before that.” I held the smoke in my cheeks, let it out in a puff.

  “I met Lucky in Beirut,” she said, “We moved here from the States after he got out of the air force, fifteen years now. Any kids?” When I hesitated, she dipped her hand as though in understanding and went on. “We’ve got one son, Joey. He’s in boarding school at Hargrave.” She pointed her cigarette to where a man nearly twice her size was filling his mouth with cookies, and I recognized him as the one who had shouted his answers at Ross. “Lucky!” she called. “Lucky Doucet! Come and meet Gin.”

  Sandy hair clipped into a crew cut, brown eyes, a chip-toothed smile that made him look younger than he was, Lucky, tanned brown as a beechnut, rolled toward us, a slight limp in his stride. He shook my hand gently, as though he were afraid he might hurt me.

  “My husband …” I said, and cast about for Mason.

  “… is already taking his job too serious.” He chuckled the kind of laugh that could turn into a full-bellied guffaw without notice, his words fast and thick, their staccato rhythm both strange and familiar. He motioned to where Mason was deep in conversation with Burt Cane. “I can see we’re going to have to loosen that guy up.”

  Mason worked his way to our table, shaking hands as he came. When he saw me with the cigarette in my hand and hiked an eyebrow, I smiled and took another drag. Ruthie introduced him to Lucky, and the two men began discussing their jobs as drilling foremen, Lucky over a crew of Arabs in the desert, Mason a new recruit on the sea—and then moved easily into banter about the recent formation of the New Orleans Saints. I leaned in closer to Ruthie, nodded to where the man with the camera stood near the door as though trying to steal away.

  “He looks like a pirate,” I said.

  Ruthie followed my eyes. “Carlo Leoni? He’s Aramco’s official photographer,” she said, then in a low whisper, “and gigolo.”

  “Here?” I asked, my mouth gone slack.

  “Where better?” Ruthie gave a knowing smile. “Boredom is the desire for desires, you know.” When Mason turned our way, she drew back. “Let’s have lunch on Monday,” she said. “I’m dying to see what you’ve done with the place.”

  I hesitated, wondering whether I had done anything at all with the place and what I would fix for our meal. I’d never learned to make the little sandwiches Houston wives favored, cucumbers sliced paper-thin, cold soup alongside. Each luncheon, each tea, I’d find myself reaching for the salt, spooning more sugar, just to taste something. I’d go home, put on a big pot of brown beans, boil up a ham bone, cut in a slab of bacon, bake cornbread in a cast-iron skillet, sheen it with lard. If it was cucumber I wanted, then chunks of it with rings of sweet onion, floated in vinegar and oil, doused with salt.

  “I’ll bring dessert,” Ruthie said, and was off to chat with a group of wives. I missed her immediately.

  Abdullah waited for us after the meeting, leaning against the Land Cruiser, talking with a few other Arab men, who lowered their gazes and moved away as we approached. I stopped until Mason touched my arm.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “They make me feel so strange,” I whispered, “like I’m poison or something.”

  He lifted his shoulders. “I think they do it out of respect.”

  I forced a smile for Abdullah as I ducked into the back of the Land Cruiser. I looked around at the other women coming from the building, most dressed in light summer clothing that showed their arms and legs, and wondered whether the Arab men who worked inside the compound believed themselves in heaven or in hell. I flapped my program against the heat, imagining that Abdullah had been talking about me. Mason sat quiet, lost in thought, but Abdullah motioned to the horizon as though he could see something brewing in the clear blue sky.

  “Tonight, there will be one last rain,” he said.

  “In the desert?” I asked. “How do you know?”

  “Because I am Bedu,” he said, and looked at me in the rearview. “You will learn.” I recognized a hint of teasing and grinned back until Mason began quizzing him on the correct pronunciation and meaning of Arabic phrases—the early salutation morning of light, the night’s greeting evening of goodness. I listened without hearing, Abdullah’s promise still ringing in my ears.

  Back home, the rooms were redolent of … what? Something I had never smelled before. Yash greeted us at the door. “Dinner at six, memsahib.”

  I followed him into the kitchen. “Ruthie Doucet is coming for lunch on Monday,” I said.

  “Perhaps I will make a cold carrot soup,” he said.

  “You will?”

  He lifted his eyes at my surprise. “I am your houseboy and your cook,” he said. “I prepare your meals, clean your rooms, do your laundry, and run your errands.” He saw the look on my face and allowed a thin smile. “You will get used to it, believe me.”

  “Ruthie says she will bring dessert,” I offered.

  Yash waved the thought away. “Her houseboy is from Pakistan. What does he know of sweet?” He turned to the sink. “Besides, he is leaving the country, as she will discover soon enough.”

  I stood for a moment, watching him rinse the vegetables, before moving to our bedroom, where the blankets were smoothed, the pillows tucked. Yash had unpacked the rest of our luggage, ironed and hung Mason’s shirts, slacks, and my dresses, and folded away our underwear. I stood staring into the drawer, imagining Yash’s handling of what my grandfather had called my unmentionables. When Mason came in, I showed him the clothes neatly stowed.

  “Even my panties and garter belts,” I whispered.

  He gave a one-sided smile. “Not bad work if you can get it.”

  That evening, I found the table set with small bowls of sliced bananas, dates, and nuts, a tureen of chicken stew that smelled of bay leaves, garlic, cinnamon. I sat across from Mason, folded my hands, and felt something like a prayer coming on. And maybe a prayer is what I should have offered right then, some gratitude for the grace of that moment. Instead, I dipped my finger into the stew and sucked like I had been starving all my life. I looked up to see Mason watching me.

  “You just go ahead, Ginny Mae. You go right ahead and enjoy.” He spooned the rice and curry. “The pool looks nice. You can get your tan.”

  “I don’t own a swimsuit,” I said. He knew I never had.

  “I bet Ruthie’s got one you can borrow.” He tapped a few more raisins into his stew. “I’ve been craving a cobbler. Make me a pie, why don’t you?”

  “I’m thinking I’ll plant a garden,” I said. “The backyard is nothing but sand. Maybe I can bring in some manure.”

  Mason focused on his coffee, stirred in a spoonful of sugar. “You heard what Ross was saying today. Maybe it’s best if you stay in the compound while I’m gone.” When he saw the look on my face, he raised his hand. “Just this first time,” he said. “Two weeks isn’t so long.”

  I lowered my fork, tried to keep my voice steady. “Two weeks?”

  “That’s my shift,” he said, “my tour. Two weeks on the rig, but then a whole week back here in camp with you.”

  Two weeks, I thought. I had never been separated from Mason for more than the few nights I had spent in the hospital. When Yash stepped in with more coffee, his mouth arched in dismay, I forced a smile.

  “Is it not good?” he asked, and hovered over the tureen, sniffing.

  “Very good,” I said, “thank you.” But all I could think about were those hours without Mason.

  When Yash disappeared back into the kitchen, Mason reached out and placed his hand over mine.

  “Listen,” he said. “There’s plenty to do right here in Abqaiq. Get to know some of the other wives, pla
y some cards, find your way around.” He ducked his head to catch my eyes. “Okay?”

  I lifted my shoulders.

  “Good girl.” He gave my fingers a final squeeze. “I’m going to check out that study,” he said. “Makes me feel more important than I am.”

  I moved into the living room and turned on the television. Channel 3 was showing the Alfred Hitchcock Hour, but the sound was distorted, as though a storm were blowing through the studio. When Yash came to tell me he was leaving for the night, I rose from the couch, not sure what was appropriate to say.

  “I will return in the morning. Sleep well,” he offered, and quietly pulled the door closed behind him.

  I joined Mason in the study, where he was surveying the large framed map of the Middle East hanging on the wall, one corner pulled away as though someone had tried to peek underneath. “See where it broke the landmass,” Mason said, and traced the country’s boundaries, the shorelines on either side like the pieces of a puzzle, perfectly fitted, the peninsula straining at its borders as though it might let go its tenuous connections, set itself adrift. He thumb-shined the already gleaming heads of the brass horses that held up a matching set of red leather books, each scripted in gold Arabic.