A Hologram for the King

by Dave Eggers

  Hasan explained that he had had trouble getting firm commitments from anyone, and the few chains that had bought in originally, years ago, when the city was announced and groundbreaking began, had since backed out. There was fear about the viability of Emaar, the development company. There was concern about having the bin Laden family contracting company involved. There was, above all, the concern that the city would die with King Abdullah. That without his reformist spirit, his tolerance of small acts of progress, things would regress, and all the liberties promised at KAEC would be ground into the sand.

  —But on the ground floor, you have some restaurants just about open, Alan noted.

  —That’s a bluff, I’m afraid. We have not sold those spots. Another drink? Alan had finished his second.

  Hasan went back to the bar and made his preparations.

  —Alan, there are deals to be had here. If you were to come in for one of these units, you’d pay a fraction of what people will pay a year or two from now. You could flip it and make a tenfold profit.

  Now Alan heard Yousef’s predictions ricocheting back to him. That the city was broke, that Emaar was broke, that it would never happen. That the whole idea would die with Abdullah.

  Hasan brought the drink to Alan.

  —Thank you my friend, Alan said.

  Hasan smiled. —I’m very glad to have a drinking partner.

  Alan asked about the King, why he didn’t simply spend the money to build the city, to see it finished, or at least functional, during his lifetime?

  —We have an expression in Arabic: ‘You cannot clap with one hand.’ We can’t make this city alone. We need partners.

  —Come on, Alan said. Abdullah could build this city in five years if he wanted to. Why drag it out over twenty?

  Hasan sat with that question for a long moment.

  —I have no idea, he said.

  And so they shared their frustrations of being at the mercy of factors out of their control, too many to count. Hasan had been living at KAEC for a year, had committed to being a pioneer here, and had hosted dozens of men like Alan, trying to help them envision themselves there, too.

  —It could be a good life someday, Hasan said. But I fear the will is not here to finish the job.

  And lacking the will to leave or do anything else, Alan stayed with Hasan, playing chess and drinking Scotch, for the next many hours. When he left, Alan was approaching drunkenness and felt wonderful. He stepped into the stairway, intending to go down, but instead he went up. He passed a closed floor, but the stairs kept going up until he found himself opening a door to the roof. The view was startling, beach and buildings and canals and desert all dusted with a murmuring golden light. He needed to leave but could not bring himself to move.

  XXVI.

  ALAN SLEPT WELL, not knowing why, and when he woke, the hotel phone was again blinking red. Alan listened to the message, from Yousef. He was leaving for a while, he said, and wanted to come by and say goodbye. He’d be there that morning unless he heard otherwise. Alan’s relief was great. A feeling of dread had crept up on him overnight, a sense that something had happened to his friend. This is the peculiar problem of constant connectivity: any silence of more than a few hours provokes apocalyptic thoughts.

  Alan dressed and dropped through the atrium to the lobby.

  —You’re here.

  —I am. Yousef looked unwell.

  —You okay?

  —I don’t know. I’m a little freaked out.

  —The husband?

  —And his henchmen, yeah. They showed up at my house.

  —I thought you were at your cousin’s.

  —I was, but he got nervous. He lives with his grandmother and he didn’t want trouble around her, so I went home. I get there and an hour later, they show up.

  —What did they do?

  —Should we sit for a second?

  The waiter came, and Yousef ordered an espresso. Last night I was sitting there, watching Barcelona against Madrid — did you see that game?

  —Yousef!

  —Right. So I heard some noises outside. I stood up and saw three men at the window. I almost crapped in my pants.

  —And what did they do?

  —Just stood there. That was it. That was enough. It means they know where I live and they’re not afraid to come there, to stand a few inches from my window and watch me. I have to leave.

  —I’m so sorry.

  —Yeah, well.

  —Where are you going?

  —Up to my father’s place in the mountains. They won’t go there. And the other guys in the village will look out for me. We have guns and all that.

  Alan pictured some kind of Wild West standoff. It intrigued him more than he could explain.

  —No, no, he said. Stay here. I’ll get you a room. They have security. You’d be safe. Invisible.

  As Alan described it, it began to seem like a very viable idea. Yousef waved it off.

  —No, no. I want to be home. It’s the weekend. Good time to go.

  —How long will you be gone?

  Alan had the sudden fear he wouldn’t see Yousef again.

  —I don’t know. I have to feel safe for a few days. I just need to get to a place where I can see everything around me from a clean vantage point. Then I’ll, you know, assess. That’s why I wanted to come to see you. I might be there for a while, and wanted to say goodbye, in case this is the last time I see you.

  Yousef’s face betrayed no particular emotion. He was not that kind of man. But Alan felt that he needed to be around Yousef, that Yousef was the only sane man for a thousand miles.

  Ten minutes later Alan was in Yousef’s car, his duffel bag tossed in the trunk and together they were on their way to the mountains. They were on the highway for a few minutes, Alan feeling euphoric, before Yousef pulled off.

  —We have to stop at my dad’s shop. I have to get keys to the house, permission to stay there, all that.

  —You don’t have your own key? Alan asked.

  —That’s what I mean. He treats me like a teenager.

  They spiraled up a six-floor parking garage in the middle of the city.

  —This is the Old City?

  It all looked very new.

  —The Old City is about three square blocks at this point, Yousef said. They knocked down the rest of it in the seventies.

  The garage was attached to a shopping mall. Alan and Yousef took a series of escalators down, past a half dozen luggage and jewelry shops, past groups of young women in abayas, glittering handbags on their forearms, groups of young men hungrily inspecting them.

  When they got to the first floor, Yousef led Alan out of the mall and into an alleyway, dropping a century or two along the way. This part of the Old City was a series of interconnected alleys where merchants had set up small shops. They sold nuts, candy, electronics, soccer jerseys, but the most popular category for sale was women’s lingerie, displayed prominently in the windows. Alan raised an eyebrow to Yousef and Yousef shrugged, as if to say, What, you’ve just discovered the contradictions of the Kingdom?

  —Here it is, Yousef said, and stopped about twenty feet in front of a corner store, all glass, a thousand sandals visible within. There were two men standing behind the counter. One was about Alan’s age, and seemed the likely father. There was another, much older man beside him, hunched over, leaning heavily against the counter, as if it were holding him up. He was at least eighty.

  —Which one is…? Alan began.

  —Surprise, the old one, Yousef said sullenly. I’ll introduce you.

  As they approached, the old man looked Yousef up and down. His eyes narrowed, his lips pursed. Yousef coughed into his shoulder, the word asshole disguised within. They stepped inside.

  —Salaam, Yousef said brightly. Handshakes were exchanged between father and son and employee, some words in Arabic, and after what Alan guessed was his introduction, the father glanced briefly at him. Alan extended his hand, and the man patted it, as you wo
uld the paw of a begging dog. Yousef and his father spoke for less than a minute, then the father turned and went into the back of the shop. His assistant followed.

  —Well, you met him. What a great man, Yousef said.

  Alan didn’t know what to say.

  —I told him I was heading to the mountains. He said he’d let the caretaker know. I don’t need a key, I guess. So we can go.

  They turned to leave. Yousef stopped at the doorway.

  —Wait, you want a pair of sandals? You should have one.

  —No, no.

  —Yes, Alan. What size are you?

  Sandals filled every available space, floor to ceiling. They were all made of leather, elaborately decorated and stitched. They were handmade, rough-hewn. And so they chose a pair, Yousef left some money on the counter, and they were back in the alley again.

  —So that’s dear old Dad, Yousef said, lighting a cigarette. He’s not a very friendly guy in general. And he really doesn’t like my work. And when I’m driving around Americans? Not his favorite.

  They walked back to the parking garage.

  —But you’re in school. What does he want you to do?

  —He wants me in the shop, if you can believe it. I worked there for a while but it was terrible. We lost all respect for each other. He is a horrible guy to work for. So abusive. And he thought I was lazy. So I quit. I should learn not to bring guests to the store.

  —I have to say, Alan began, and caught himself. He was about to buttress Yousef’s claims against his father, but realized he couldn’t do that. Now that he was Ruby’s defender, he had become the mediator between all children and their mystifying parents — was that it?

  Alan worried about Yousef. He worried for his life, and he worried about his father. Both seemed trivial to Yousef, because all problems, at his age, seem solvable or not worth solving.

  —I have to say, Alan started again, I respect what he’s done. Your father makes shoes and sells them. It’s clean and it’s honest.

  Yousef scoffed. —My father doesn’t make these shoes. He buys them. Other people make them. He just marks them up.

  —But still. It’s an art.

  Joe Trivole called it a dance, Alan thought.

  —I’m sure he could make them if he wanted to.

  —No, no, Yousef said. He just buys them wholesale. They’re made in Yemen. He’s never made a shoe in his life.

  A few minutes on the road and Yousef was cheerful again. He seemed to be looking forward to showing Alan this fortress, the vast compound that his father had built. He leveled the top of the mountain, he said. Alan could not remember how many times Yousef had said that. It was a central point of pride for Yousef, the fact that his father, as much as he battled him, was strong enough, powerful or wealthy or visionary enough to level a mountain.

  They were traveling south through the city as it unspooled itself from its modern center to the sprawl of sand-colored apartment buildings and Somali and Nigerian automotive shops, when Yousef got a phone call. He laughed and exchanged a few words in Arabic before doing a sudden U-turn.

  —Salem’s coming, he said, his eyebrows leaping.

  Yousef explained that Salem, one of his oldest friends, worked in marketing at an American-owned diaper factory. —But he’s a hippie, not some kind of hardcore salesman type, he said, then appeared worried he’d offended Alan. Sorry, he said, but Alan was anything but offended. There was no context in which the word salesman could offend him.

  They parked in an alleyway between a half dozen small apartment buildings. Yousef honked, and a man of about twenty-five bounded down the steps carrying an acoustic guitar case. He got into the back-seat, shook Alan’s hand, and they were off.

  Salem looked like someone who wouldn’t be out of place in Venice Beach or Amsterdam. His hair was long, streaked with grey, a salt-and-pepper goatee covering his chin, stylish eyeglasses over his large eyes. He was wearing a paisley shirt and jeans. His English was even more American than Yousef’s, though Alan had not thought that possible here.

  Salem spent the first ten minutes of the drive with his hands on the front seats, his face between Alan and Yousef, talking about the strangest experience he’d recently had — he’d encountered a slave in his apartment building.

  —Tell him about how you saw him crying there, Yousef said.

  Salem told the story of finding, a few days before, a middle-aged man sitting on the steps inside the building. Salem stepped around him, and then noticed the man was distraught, weeping inconsolably.

  —I asked what was wrong. He said that he was a slave, and that his owners had just freed him. But he didn’t know what to do with himself. Those people were his family.

  —These are people in your building?

  —In the apartment below.

  Salem had been living there for a year, and had seen this family of five come and go, and had occasionally seen the middle-aged man, too. But not until then did he realize that the man was not some friend or uncle, but a slave brought with them from Malawi.

  —I have to find a new place, Salem said.

  —That makes two of us, Yousef said. They discussed moving in together, in some other part of town, or some other country. Salem was finished with the KSA for the moment. It had nothing left to offer him.

  —The boredom is infinite, Salem said.

  Alan was recovering from the slave story when Yousef and Salem began talking about depression and suicide in the Kingdom.

  —It’s probably not as bad as it is where you are, Salem said to Alan. But you’d be surprised. Half the women are on Prozac. And the men, like us, the energy leaks out in dangerous places.

  He talked about a certain recklessness in the face of a grinding lack of opportunity, about how death was not much feared. About the drag races held deep in the desert, where young wealthy men raced their BMWs and Ferraris and frequently some of them would be hurt or killed and none of it would be widely reported or known. Yousef and Salem began speaking quickly in Arabic, debating, Alan soon learned, whether or not they could bring him to see a race.

  —Maybe on the way back, we’ll take you, Salem said.

  —Maybe a concert, too, he added.

  These, too, were held in the desert. Salem was a musician, and a filmmaker, and a poet, but mostly a singer-songwriter, though he couldn’t practice his music in the open, couldn’t play live unless at underground concerts or in the desert. It was far worse in Riyadh, but even in Jeddah the life of a music-maker was a constant struggle. That life, which had originally held some romantic appeal, had lost its luster. Salem was now thinking of moving to some Caribbean island to play in a bar band.

  They left the city behind and soon the road was cutting through desert, flat and red, the occasional rest stop or rock outcropping. The highway was wide and fast, the sun hanging lifeless above, and Alan was tired. He dozed off, his head cradled by the seat belt, the chatter of Yousef and Salem, in Arabic and very earnest, lulling him off and away.

  He woke to the sound of a door thumping closed. The car was stopped. They were in a vast parking lot ringed by stores and restaurants. Yousef was gone, and Salem was fiddling with his phone. Alan squinted, seeing Yousef jogging into a grocery store.

  Alan sat up and wiped the drool from his cheek.

  —How long was I out? he asked.

  Salem didn’t look up from his phone. —Maybe an hour. You were snoring. Very cute.

  A girl of about seven, wearing a burqa, came to Salem’s window. Immediately he pushed a button to lock the doors. She stayed before his window, tapping it, rubbing her fingers together.

  Now Alan noticed there were dozens of women and children, mostly female, all in black burqas, floating from car to car, approaching windows, floating away.

  Alan began rolling down his window. Seeing a more sympathetic face, the girl hurried to his side, her hands outstretched.

  —Don’t, don’t! Salem said. Roll it up.

  Alan obeyed, and the rising glass
almost caught the girl’s tiny fingers. Now she tapped on the glass with increased urgency, her head tilted in inquiry, her mouth moving feverishly. Alan smiled and showed his empty palms. She didn’t seem to understand or care. She kept tapping.

  Salem got her attention and pointed upward. Like that, she turned and left. It was like some kind of magic trick.

  —What does that mean, Alan asked, when you point upward like that? He mimicked the gesture.

  Salem’s attention had returned to his phone.

  —It means God will provide.

  —And that works?

  —It ends the discussion.

  When the next child approached their window, her eyes glazed and yellow, Alan pointed to the sky. She disappeared.

  —Don’t feel bad, Salem said. They do fine.

  Alan looked around the parking lot, finally seeing what should have been obvious: that there were an unusually large number of disparate peoples all driving in the same direction at the same time. And now he saw it clearly. A man in the Mercedes just ahead, wearing only a few white sheets and sandals. Families together, stocking up for the trip.

  —Is this the pilgrimage? Alan asked.

  Salem was scrolling through his phone again, the sound like the clicks of a Geiger counter.

  —Not the official Hajj. That’s in November this year. This is the Umrah, like the lesser pilgrimage, for people who can’t come during the big one.

  Yousef emerged from the market pushing a cart full of provisions. Salem unlocked the doors and Yousef loaded the trunk. In seconds they were on the road again, and Alan was again dozing off. The black highway, so smooth, and the sun so small, it lulled him to sleep. He was woken by a heated discussion between Yousef and Salem.

  —What’s going on? Alan asked.

  Yousef turned to him and pointed to a sign over the road up ahead. The highway was about to split, the main three lanes open to Muslims only. A sign in red marked the exit leading to the detour around Mecca, for non-Muslims passing through. Yousef was entertaining the idea of trying to drive Alan through the main route.