by Dave Eggers
—Yousef?
—I can’t believe you’re awake. It’s not even ten yet. Wait. It’s only seven!
—You want to drive to KAEC?
—When? Now?
—I’d like to be there by eight thirty.
—Make it nine thirty. No one will be there before nine. That way I can take you to a doctor to look at that thing on your neck.
Alan met Yousef in the hotel turnabout and got in the Caprice.
—Your sleep schedule worries me.
—I had a weird night.
Alan knew he shouldn’t mention the party at the embassy, but he wanted badly to tell Yousef. Yousef would find it funny, and would either be amazed that it happened at all or would say, Oh, those happen all the time. Either would be satisfying. But he had promised all those people, including the man in the space suit, and he had never in all his years broken such a promise, no matter how small.
They passed the man on the tank with the beach umbrella, and this time Yousef took a right, not a left.
—Where’s the doctor?
—Couple miles. Noor knows the woman who works in reception.
—Thanks for doing this, Alan said.
—It’s easy, Yousef said, and lit a cigarette.
—So I heard a good joke last night.
—I’m glad.
—You know what the foreign legion is?
—Sure. Like the French Foreign Legion?
—Right. So there’s a captain in the foreign legion, and he’s transferred to a desert outpost. On his orientation tour he sees this very tired, filthy camel tied out back of the enlisted men’s barracks. He asks the sergeant leading the tour, ‘Hey, what’s the camel for?’ The sergeant says, ‘Well, sir, we’re out here in the middle of nowhere, and the men have natural sexual urges, so when they do, we have the camel.’ The captain is taken aback, but he’s new there, and he doesn’t want to rock the boat. So he says, ‘Well if it’s good for morale, then I guess it’s all right with me.’ He goes about his business, and after he’s been at the fort for about six months the captain can’t stand it anymore, so he tells the sergeant, ‘Bring in the camel!’ The sergeant shrugs his shoulders and leads the camel into the captain’s quarters. The captain gets a footstool and steps up, drops his pants, and has vigorous sex with the camel. He finishes, and steps down from the stool. He’s buttoning his pants and he asks the sergeant, ‘Is that how the enlisted men do it?’ The sergeant looks at his shoes. He can’t figure out what to say. Finally he says, ‘Well sir, they usually just use the camel to ride into town to find the women.’
—Oh God! Yousef was laughing, banging the steering wheel. For a while I was worried — I thought it was going to be some anti-Arab thing. You know, the camel-fucking and all that. But that is good. That’s my favorite one yet. Noor will love that one.
Yousef pulled up to a large hospital, ringed by high walls. He stopped at the gate.
—The gate’s only a problem for me, not you.
Yousef greeted the guard, and as usual made head nods toward Alan, using the word Amreeka a few times until he was waved through.
They parked and walked into the hospital, and soon Alan was seated in a room painted avocado. The magazines were a mix of American and Saudi. A nurse soon entered, alone, and took his pulse and other vitals. She left, indicating the doctor would arrive shortly.
Alan stared at the floor, wondering how he might explain his decision to attempt surgery on himself with a steak knife. He saw no point in lying. Only an animal could have caused that wound.
A shadow darkened the floor beneath him and he looked up to see a short woman in a white coat.
—Mr. Clay?
—Yes.
—I am Doctor Hakem.
She extended her hand. He shook it. She couldn’t have been much more than five feet tall. Her hijab was worn tight, obscuring her hair but for one strand that had escaped and was flowing recklessly down her cheek. Her eyes seemed to take up most of her face and filled the room. Again his guidebook had been incorrect. He had been told unequivocally that though there were plenty of women doctors in the Kingdom, they wore abayas, and rarely if ever treated men. Only in circumstances of emergency, life and death, when no male doctors were near. Maybe, he thought, her presence proved he was dying.
—You have a growth of some kind on your back?
—It’s on my neck, really. I’m not sure if…
As he spoke she drew close, swept behind him, and her hands were upon him before he finished his sentence. She encircled his wound with her fingers. His composure fell off a cliff.
—Ouch, she said. Did you do something to it?
Her accent was not exactly Saudi. It seemed to intermingle a half dozen others, from French to Russian.
He chose not to lie. —I did a bit of investigating.
—With what?
—A knife.
—Was this an attempt on your life?
Alan laughed. He couldn’t tell if she was kidding him.
—No, he said.
—Are you taking any medications? Prozac or—
—I’m not depressed. I was curious. I was just trying to see if—
—It looks like it was a serrated blade.
—It was.
—Did you sterilize it?
—I tried to.
—Hm. You have a minor infection.
She backed up to look him in the eyes. Her face was heart shaped, her chin small, her lips luxurious and pink. He felt wrong looking at her. He wanted too much from her.
—Well, it’s just a lipoma, probably.
—And that’s not bad?
He stared at her name tag: Dr. Zahra Hakem.
—No, it’s just a growth. Like a cyst.
—And it’s…
—Benign.
—You’re sure?
Now looking at her hands, small and with short, bitten fingernails, he asked about its proximity to his spine, the likelihood that it had caused his clumsiness, his slowness, his lack of energy, every other malady and weakness he’d felt.
—No. I see no connection to any of those things.
—I just want to be sure. It would explain some things.
He listed his ailments, his many scattered worries.
—And your feeling is that this bump is the cause of it all?
She was looking at him, studying, smiling warmly.
—Is that unlikely?
—I would say it’s unlikely.
—I just need someone to say there’s nothing wrong with me.
—There’s nothing wrong with you.
—But you haven’t been in there yet.
—No, but I know what it is.
As if to honor his concern, she took another look at the bump, prodding it, seeming to measure it with her fingers.
—It really couldn’t be anything but a lipoma.
—Okay, he said.
She came around in front of him and sat down. She looked at him directly, her eyes open and studying him.
—This really has you worried, huh?
He cleared his throat. There was suddenly something stuck.
—I’m worried about a lot of things, he said.
She stood and wrote a few notes in her chart.
Alan had the sudden thought, which hadn’t surfaced before but which must have been there all along: if the bump was cancer, and he was dying, he would not have to worry anymore. Bankruptcy would not be a concern. Kit’s tuition and future would not be a concern. Surely they waive the tuition when fathers die.
Dr. Hakem retrieved some supplies from a drawer and returned to his neck. She was behind him, and he inhaled deeply. He hoped for an airy, sunny scent, but hers was something else. He couldn’t place it. He thought of trees, earth. It was musky, rich. He thought of a forest after rain, a hint of wildflowers.
—I had the same thing a few years ago, she said. A tightening in my chest. Like a panic, a heart attack kind of sensation. And I was sure when I got an EKG and
all that I would find out that I had a murmur, or an irregular rhythm, something that would explain my fatigue and everything.
She put some ointment on a bandage, taped it to his neck, and returned to her stool in front of him.
—And? he asked.
—And it was nothing.
—That’s too bad, Alan said, and they both laughed.
—We’re stuck with our stupid good health, she said, and he laughed harder. But really, I can see why it would worry you. The placement of it would cause anyone some concern. So we’ll remove it, and then we can be sure. How’s that?
He was still looking at the wall. He didn’t know if he should turn to face her. He glanced her way and found she was looking directly at him, her eyes steady, huge. They were brown, with spokes of green and grey and gold. Her age was hard to place. She could be anywhere between forty and fifty, maybe a bit older. Unable to sustain her gaze, he looked down. Her shoes were stylish, low-heeled and strapped. He turned again, focusing now on the wall, on a bundle of wires there, entwined like arteries, leaving the room and heading down the hall.
—I can do the surgery in about a week. Does that work?
Alan had hoped with great fervor to be gone from this country in a week, but he found himself agreeing. They made the appointment and she stood.
—I’ll see you soon, Alan.
—Thank you.
—Don’t worry.
—Okay.
—Nice to meet you.
—Nice to meet you, too.
Back in the lobby, Yousef paced like an expectant father. When he saw Alan, his eyes went wide.
—So what is it?
—Benign. It’s nothing. Lipoma.
—It’s not cancer.
—She doesn’t think so.
Yousef shook Alan’s hand. —I’m very glad.
—Me too.
—Abdullah’s in Riyadh. Heard it on the radio.
Alan didn’t know if he was relieved or not.
They left the building.
—And you had a woman doctor? Where was she from?
—I don’t know.
—Saudi?
—I didn’t ask.
—An Arab?
—I think so. I can’t be sure.
—But probably an Arab?
—My guess would be yes.
Yousef thought this was fascinating. There were plenty of women doctors, he explained, but still, odds were against Alan running into one at first opportunity.
—Was she veiled?
—Just a hijab.
—She saw you alone?
—Yes, she did.
They reached the car, Yousef twirling his keys. He seemed pleased.
—Interesting. Interesting.
XXI.
INSIDE THE TENT, it looked like the young people had been gassed. They were splayed out in the middle of the tent, legs overlapping, arms drifting outward. It looked like Jonestown.
Alan rushed to them.
—Cayley? Rachel? Brad?
They slowly opened their eyes. They were alive.
—Air-conditioning stopped working, Rachel managed.
They rose slowly, groaning.
Brad checked at his watch. —Been asleep about an hour. Sorry.
Cayley looked up, eyes glassy. —Wait. What happened to your neck?
Alan explained his trip to the hospital. He showed them the bandage, discussed the prognosis, and they seemed as hopeful as he was — that there might be some medical explanation for whatever was afflicting him.
—So you think after you get it removed, you’ll be better? Cayley asked.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
—Signal was strong today, Rachel said, rescuing her. She opened her laptop but soon issued a disgusted scoff. Now there’s nothing.
—Any chance of the King showing up today? Brad asked.
—Afraid not. He’s in Riyadh, Alan said.
Brad fell back to the rugs. Rachel and Cayley followed. Alan stood over them for a few moments, as they all thought of things they could say to each other, and, mutually failing, said nothing.
Alan decided to let them sleep the day away. He stepped outside and looked around, having no particular notion of what he should do.
He walked down the promenade until it ended and met a dune. He turned to the water. He wanted badly to step onto the sand, but worried about the staff seeing him. There were those gauzy windows in the tent.
Farther down the beach, Alan saw a high mound of sand with an unmanned tractor, a bucket loader, next to it. If he could get past the mound, and disappear behind it, he could touch the water undetected.
He hustled down the shore, around the mound, and sat down in its shade. Once there, Alan peeked over the pile, confirming that he could not be seen by the white tent, by the Black Box, by anyone in the pink condominium. He was invisible to all but the fish in the sea.
Alan wondered, continually, about his own behavior. No sooner had he done something, something like hiding behind a hill of dirt by the Red Sea, when he would wonder, Who is this man who leaves the presentation tent to hide behind a hill of dirt?
He took off his shoes and scooted closer to the water. A light wind kicked up hairline ripples in the sea. The sand, just a shade from white, was messy with fragments of shells, as though someone had been dropping dishes for a hundred years.
The beach was narrow, and soon he could feel the light spray of the tiny waves on his instep. Alan rolled up his pant legs and dipped his feet into the water. It was as warm as the air above, but it cooled as it deepened. He stood now, careful not to show himself too much. Again he stepped outside his skin and doubted his sanity. It was one thing to wander the site. Another to make his way to the beach. But to take off his shoes, roll up his pants and wade in?
The sea ahead of him was unbroken by the mast of any sailboat, any vessel of any kind. This seemed a remarkably underused body of water, at least what he’d seen of it. In the eighty or so miles they’d driven to get here Alan hadn’t seen much in the way of development. How could so much coastline go so little exploited? He thought about buying one of the properties here. He could buy one or two, rent them out half the year and still come out ahead. He was in the middle of the calculations when he realized he was not the man who could do such things. He had nothing to spend.
He reached down into the water to examine a shell that appeared unbroken. It was whole, pristine, something like a scallop. He put it in his pocket. He found another, this one a cowrie, glassine, tan-colored and leopard-like, with dozens of white spots. He’d owned cowries before, and probably still had five or six in a box somewhere. But he’d never found one in the water like this. It was perfect, too — he turned it over and over and found it unbroken, unscratched. Its teeth were smooth, variegated. There was no reason for it to be this beautiful.
When he was young he’d been a shell collector. Nothing serious, but he knew the names of some of the basic varieties. He’d had a book, the look and heft of which he could still recall, that listed all the world’s most prized and valuable shells. There had been one shell, Conus gloriamaris, The Glory of the Sea, said to be worth thousands. He could picture it today, a long cone decorated with thousands of small half loops, obsessive and seeming hand-drawn. The shell had been incredibly rare. Legend had it that in 1792 a collector, owning one of the world’s few specimens, bought another at auction, only to destroy it, making his first specimen more valuable. Alan used to pore over that book, and his mother, thinking the collecting, the memorization of figures, the obsession with risings and fallings of the market, was giving him a sharp mind for business, bought him others, and he memorized the names, the seas where they were found.
He rolled his pants up to his knees, and, while bending over, he brought some water to his face. He licked his lips, tasted the salt.
When Kit was very young, they would sit on the beach, on the Cape, on the Maine shoreline, sometimes Newport. She in his lap, they would rake their
hands through the rocks and sand, looking for sea glass and notable shells and sand dollars. They compared their findings, dropping the best into a jar they’d emptied of pennies and nickels. He missed her at that age. The size of her then, the weight of her when she sat in his lap. She was three and four years old then, when he could lift her, he could envelop her. He could hold her close, cover her completely when she cried, smell her matted hair, nuzzle her behind the ear. He nuzzled too much, he knew. He didn’t stop when she was seven, when she was ten. Ruby would give him disapproving looks, but he couldn’t stop. When she was fourteen he still wanted to bury his nose in her neck, smell her skin.
He thought of a letter he could write to Kit. He would tell her that her expectations for her mother were unfair. He wondered if Kit knew Ruby had given birth to her naturally, with no drugs, no epidural. Would that impress Kit? Probably not until she tried it herself.
‘Kit, you say your mother hasn’t changed, but she has. A hundred times she’s changed. It’s important to know that with adults, though there is continual development, there is not always improvement. There is change, but not necessarily growth.’
This was not likely to be helpful. Maybe he was wrong. Ruby had not changed much at all. She had always been impossible. Too strong and too smart and too cruel and, all the while, too restless to be satisfied with a man who sold bicycles. And everything after their first meeting was a disappointment.
He had been in São Paulo for business. This was with Schwinn. The idea was to open a factory there, roll out a half dozen models, sell them to South America, avoid the tariffs. But the trip had been a bust. The local contact was a lunatic, a thief. He’d thought they would pay him up front some astronomical fee, and Alan was sure he’d disappear the second he cashed the check. So he called Chicago, told them they were starting from scratch down there. They shrugged and shelved the whole thing. But Alan’s flight home wasn’t for another eight days.