A Hologram for the King

by Dave Eggers

  Yousef lit another cigarette.

  —Not the most masculine brand, Alan noted.

  Yousef laughed. —I’m trying to quit, so I went from regular size to these. They’re half the width. Less nicotine.

  —But more dainty.

  —Dainty. Dainty. I like that. Yes, they are dainty.

  One of Yousef’s two front teeth was at a diagonal, crossing its twin. It gave his smile a special sort of madness.

  —Even the box, Alan said. Look at it.

  It was silver and white and tiny, like a miniature Cadillac driven by an insect pimp.

  Yousef opened the glove compartment and dropped the box in.

  —Better? he said.

  Alan laughed. —Thank you.

  For ten minutes, they said nothing.

  Alan debated whether this man was taking him to the King Abdullah Economic City at all. Whether he was a charming kidnapper.

  —You like jokes? Alan asked.

  —You mean, like, jokes that you remember and tell?

  —Yes, Alan said. Jokes that you remember and tell.

  —It’s not a Saudi thing, these kinds of jokes, Yousef said. But I’ve heard them. A British guy told me the one about the Queen and the big dick.

  Ruby hated the jokes. —So embarrassing, she said after any evening out when he’d told one or ten. Alan knew a thousand and everyone who knew Alan knew that he knew a thousand.

  He’d been tested, even — a group of friends, a few years ago, had made him tell jokes for two hours straight. They thought he’d run through all that he knew by then, but he’d only begun. Why he remembered so many he’d never know. But whenever one was wrapping up, another appeared before him. Never failed. Each joke was tied to the next, like a magician’s string of scarves.

  —Don’t be such a cornball, Ruby said to him. You sound like some vaudevillian. No one tells jokes like that anymore.

  —I do.

  —People tell jokes when they have nothing to say, she said.

  —People tell jokes when there’s nothing left to say, he said.

  He didn’t actually say that. He thought of it many years later but by then he and Ruby weren’t talking.

  Yousef tapped the steering wheel.

  —Okay, Alan said. A woman’s husband has been sick. He’s been slipping in and out of a coma for several months, but she’s been staying by his bedside every single day. When he wakes up, he motions for her to come nearer. She comes over, sits next to him. His voice is weak. He holds her hand. ‘You know what?’ he says. ‘You’ve been with me all through the bad times. When I got fired, you were there to support me. When my business went sour, you were there. When we lost the house, you gave me support. When my health started failing, you were still by my side… You know what?’ ‘What, dear?’ she asks gently. ‘I think you bring me bad luck!’

  Yousef snorted, coughed. He had to stub out his cigarette.

  —That’s good. I didn’t see that coming. You have more?

  Alan was so grateful. He had not told a joke to an appreciative young person for many years.

  —I do, Alan said. Let’s see… Oh, this one’s good. Okay, there was this man named Odd. John Odd. And he hated his last name. People constantly made fun of it, called him and his wife ‘the Odd couple,’ named him ‘the Odd man out’ wherever he went, all that. So he’s getting older and writes out his will. And in the will he says when he dies he doesn’t want his name on the gravestone. He just wants to be buried in an unmarked grave with a plain headstone, no name, nothing. So he dies, and his wife respects his wishes. So there he is, in this unmarked grave, but every time someone walks by the cemetery and sees the unmarked grave they say, ‘Look, isn’t that Odd?’

  Yousef laughed, had to wipe his eyes.

  Alan loved this guy. Even his own daughter, Kit, shook her head, No, please no, whenever he tried to set a joke up.

  Alan continued. —Okay. Here’s a question. What do you call a guy who knows forty-eight ways of making love but doesn’t know any girls?

  Yousef shrugged.

  —A consultant.

  Yousef smiled. —Not bad, he said. A consultant. That’s you.

  —That’s me, Alan said. For a while at least.

  They passed a small amusement park, brightly painted though seeming abandoned. A Ferris wheel, pink and yellow, stood alone, wanting children.

  Alan thought of another joke.

  —Okay, this one’s better. There’s a policeman. And he’s just pulled up to the scene of a horrible car accident. There are parts of the victims everywhere, an arm here, a leg there. He’s taking it all down when he comes across a head. He writes in his notebook: ‘Head on bullevard’ but he spells it b-u-l-l, and he knows he’s spelled it wrong. So he crosses it out, tries again. ‘Head on bouelevard.’ Again he spells it wrong, too many ‘e’s. So scratch scratch. He tries again. ‘Head on boolevard,’ b-oo-l. ‘Damn!’ he says. He looks around and sees that no one is looking. He nudges the head a little bit with his foot, takes out his pencil again. ‘Head on curb.’”

  —That’s good, Yousef said, though he hadn’t laughed.

  They drove in silence for a mile or two. The landscape was flat and blank. Anything built here, an unrelenting desert, was an act of sheer will imposed on territory unsuited for habitation.

  Charlie’s body, when they pulled it from the lake, looked like debris. He was wearing a black windbreaker, and the first thing Alan thought was that it was a pile of leaves wrapped in a tarp. Only his hands were visibly human.

  —Do you need anything from me? Alan asked the police.

  They didn’t need anything. They’d seen the whole thing. Fourteen police and firemen watched Charlie Fallon die in that lake over the course of five hours.

  V.

  —SO WHY ARE YOU going here?

  —Where?

  —KAEC.

  Yousef pronounced it like cake. Good to know, Alan thought.

  —Work, Alan said.

  —You in construction?

  —No. Why?

  —I thought maybe you’d help get it started. There’s nothing happening there. No building at all.

  —You’ve been there?

  Alan assumed the answer would be yes. It had to be the biggest thing anywhere near Jeddah. So of course Yousef had seen it.

  —No, he said.

  —Why not?

  —There’s nothing there.

  —Not yet, Alan corrected.

  —Not ever.

  —Not ever?

  —It won’t happen, Yousef said. It’s already dead.

  —What? It’s not dead. I’ve been researching this for months. I’m presenting there. They’re full steam ahead.

  Yousef turned to Alan and smiled, a huge grin, monumentally amused. Wait till we get there, he said. He lit another cigarette.

  —Full steam ahead? he said. Jesus.

  On cue, a billboard came into view, advertising the development. A family was arranged outside on a deck, an unconvincing sunset behind them. The man was Saudi, a businessman, a cellphone in one hand, a newspaper in the other. The woman, serving breakfast to the husband and two eager children, wore a hijab, a modest blouse and pants. Below the photo was written KING ABDULLAH ECONOMIC CITY: ONE MAN’S VISION, ONE NATION’S HOPE.

  Alan pointed to it. —You don’t think that’ll happen?

  —What do I know? I just know they haven’t done anything yet.

  —What about Dubai? That happened.

  —This isn’t Dubai.

  —It can’t be Dubai?

  —It won’t be Dubai. What women want to come here? No one moves to Saudi Arabia if they don’t have to, even with the pink condos by the sea.

  —The woman on the billboard seems a step forward, Alan said.

  Yousef sighed. —That’s the idea, they say. Or they don’t say it, but they’re hinting that at KAEC, the women will have more freedoms. That they’ll be able to mix more freely with the men and drive. That kind of thing.


  —And isn’t that good?

  —If it happens, maybe. But it won’t happen. It might have happened at one time, but there’s no more money. Emaar’s a bust. They’re going broke in Dubai. Everything was overvalued and now they’re busted. They owe money all over the planet, and now KAEC’s dead. Everything’s dead. You’ll see. You have any more jokes?

  Alan was alarmed, but tried not to take Yousef’s pronouncement too seriously. He knew there were detractors in Saudi and elsewhere. Emaar, the global developer that built much of Dubai, was in trouble, victim of the bubble, and everyone knew that without King Abdullah’s personal involvement and his own cash, KAEC was in trouble. But of course the King would put his money in. Of course he would ensure that it moved forward. It had his name on it. It was his legacy. King Abdullah’s pride would not allow him to let the whole thing fail. Alan made all these assertions to Yousef, trying to convince himself, too.

  —But what if he dies? Yousef asked. He’s eighty-five. What then?

  Alan had no answer. He wanted to believe that this kind of thing, a city rising from dust, could happen. The architectural renderings he’d seen were magnificent. Gleaming towers, tree-lined public spaces and promenades, a series of canals allowing commuters to get almost anywhere by boat. The city was futuristic and romantic, but also practical. It could be made with extant technology and a lot of money, but money Abdullah certainly had. Why he didn’t just put the money up himself, without Emaar, was a mystery. The man had enough money to raise the city overnight — so why didn’t he? Sometimes a king had to be a king.

  The exit ahead said King Abdullah Economic City. Yousef turned to Alan, raised his eyebrows in mock drama.

  —Here we go. Full steam ahead!

  They exited the highway and drove toward the sea.

  —You sure this is the right way? Alan asked.

  —This is where you wanted to go, Yousef said.

  Alan saw no sign of a city-to-be.

  —Whatever it is, it’s there, Yousef said, pointing in front of them. The road was new, but it cut through absolutely nothing. They drove a mile before they arrived at a modest gate, a pair of stone arches over the road, a great dome atop it all. It was as if someone had built a road through unrepentant desert, and then erected a gate somewhere in the middle, to imply the end of one thing and the beginning of another. It was hopeful but unconvincing.

  Yousef stopped and rolled down his window. A pair of guards in blue fatigues, rifles draped loosely over their shoulders, approached cautiously and circled the car. They seemed surprised to see anyone, let alone two men in a thirty-year-old Chevy.

  Yousef spoke to them, mentioning his passenger with a rightward nod of his chin. The guards leaned down to see the American in the passenger seat. Alan smiled professionally. One of the guards said something to Yousef, and Yousef turned to Alan.

  —Your ID.

  Alan handed him his passport. The guard disappeared into his office. He returned and handed the passport back to Yousef and waved them through.

  Beyond the checkpoint, the road split into two lanes. The median was covered in grass, burnt and struggling, kept alive by a pair of men in red jumpsuits who were watering it with a hose.

  —I’m guessing these aren’t union men, Alan said.

  Yousef smiled grimly. —I heard a guy in my dad’s shop the other day. He said, ‘We don’t have unions here. We have Filipinos.’

  They drove on. A row of palm trees began in the median grass, all of them newly planted, some still wrapped in burlap. Interspersed every ten trees or so were banners attached to lampposts, bearing images of what the city would look like once finished. One featured a man in a thobe getting off a yacht, briefcase in hand, being greeted by two men in black suits and sunglasses. In another, a man was swinging a golf club at dawn, a caddy next to him — another South Asian, presumably. There was an airbrushed rendering of a fabulous new stadium. An aerial rendering of a beachfront lined with resorts. A photo of a woman helping her son use a laptop computer. She was wearing a hijab, but was otherwise dressed in Western clothing, everything lavender.

  —Why would they advertise those kinds of freedoms if they weren’t sincere? Alan asked. The risk Abdullah’s taking in pissing off the conservatives is pretty big.

  Yousef shrugged.

  —Who knows? It impresses guys like you, so maybe it’s working.

  The road straightened out and again cut through desert without feature or form. Streetlights were placed every twenty feet or so, but otherwise there was nothing at all, the whole thing like a recently abandoned development on the moon.

  They drove another mile toward the sea until the trees appeared again. Groups of workers, some in hardhats, some wearing scarves on their heads, huddled under the palms. In the distance, the road ended a few hundred yards from the water, where a handful of buildings stood, looking like old gravestones.

  —This is it, basically, Yousef said.

  The desert wind was strong, and the dust came over the street like fog. Still, two men were sweeping the road.

  Yousef pointed and laughed. —This is where the money’s going. They’re sweeping the sand in a desert.

  VI.

  THE ENTIRETY OF the new city thus far comprised three buildings. There was a pastel-pink condominium, which was more or less finished but seemed empty. There was a two-story welcome center, vaguely Mediterranean in style, surrounded by fountains, most of which were dry. And there was a glass office building of about ten stories, squat and square and black. A sign attached to the facade read 7/24/60.

  Yousef was dismissive. —That means they’re open for business every day, every hour, every minute. Which I doubt.

  They parked in front of the low welcome center, located just off the beach. It was adorned with various small domes and minarets. They got out of the car, the heat profound. It was 110 degrees.

  —You want to come with? Alan asked.

  Yousef stood before the building, as if deciding if anything within could be worth his time.

  —Add it to my bill, Alan said.

  Yousef shrugged. —Could be funny.

  The doors opened outward, automatically, and a man emerged, in a gleaming white thobe.

  —Mr. Clay! We have been expecting you. I am Sayed.

  His face was thin, his mustache wide. He had small, laughing eyes.

  —I’m sorry you missed the shuttle, he said. I understand the hotel had some trouble waking you.

  —I’m sorry to be late, Alan said, his eyes steady.

  Sayed smiled warmly. —The King won’t be coming today, so your tardiness is inconsequential. Will you come inside?

  They entered the building, dark and cool.

  —Alan looked around. Is the Reliant team in here, or…

  —They’re in the presentation area, Sayed said, waving in the general direction of the beach. His accent was British. All these high-level functionaries in the Kingdom, Alan had been told, had been educated in the Ivy League and U.K. With this guy, Alan guessed St. Andrews.

  —But I thought maybe I would give you the tour, Sayed said. Does that hold appeal for you?

  Alan felt like he should at least check in with the team, but did not say so. The tour seemed harmless and was likely quick.

  —Sure. Let’s do it.

  —Excellent. Some juice?

  Alan nodded. Sayed turned, and another helper handed him a glass of orange juice, which he handed to Alan. The glass was crystal, something like a chalice. Alan took it and followed them through the lobby, full of arches and images of the city-to-be, into a large room where an enormous architectural model, waist-high, dominated.

  —This is my associate, Mujaddid, Sayed said, indicating another man, who stood by the wall in a black business suit. Mujaddid was about forty, sturdily built, clean-shaven. He nodded.

  —This is the city at full completion, Sayed said.

  Now Mujaddid took over. —Mr. Clay, I give you the dream of King Abdullah.

&n
bsp; The model’s tiny buildings, each as big as a thumb, were all cream-colored, with white roads winding throughout, curving gently. There were skyscrapers, factories and trees, bridges and waterways, thousands of homes.

  Alan had always been a sucker for a model like this, vision like this, a thirty-year plan, something rising from nothing — though his own experiences with bringing such a vision to fruition had not been so successful.

  He’d commissioned a model once. The thought of it brought a twinge of regret. That factory in Budapest was not his idea, but he’d leapt upon the task, thinking it was a step to greater things. But converting a Soviet-era factory to a Schwinn-owned, capitalist model of efficiency—this had been madness. He’d been sent to Hungary to tackle the project, to bring American bicycle manufacturing to eastern Europe, to open up the whole continent to Schwinn.

  Alan had commissioned a scale model, he’d had a grand opening, there were high hopes all around. Maybe they could send the Hungarian bikes beyond Europe. Maybe back to the U.S. The labor costs would be nothing, the craftsmanship high. Those were the assumptions.

  But it fell apart. The factory never worked to capacity, the workers couldn’t be trained, they were inefficient, and Schwinn didn’t have the capital to properly modernize the machinery. A colossal failure, and from then on Alan’s days at Schwinn, as a man who could get things done, were numbered.

  And yet looking at this model now, Alan had a sense that this city might really happen, that with Abdullah’s money it would happen. Sayed and Mujaddid were staring at it with him, seeming just as fascinated as he was as they explained the various stages of construction. The city, they said, would be complete by 2025, with a population of a million-five.