A Hologram for the King

by Dave Eggers

  She rose to the surface and he followed.

  She took her mask off.

  —Take a breath, she said.

  He did. And she dropped, her hands stretched above.

  He followed her down. She pushed the water so she sank, ten, twenty feet under. He met her, and when he did, she grabbed him, and he felt her against him. She kissed him, their mouths closed, and then kissed his chest, his nipples. He dropped to her stomach, kissing her there, rising to take her nipples in his mouth, one then the other as her fingers plowed through his hair. Then she was gone. She shot to the surface and he followed.

  By the time he breathed the air and met the sun, she was off, her back to the sky, adjusting her snorkel. He followed her. They made their way slowly back to the house, again pretending to be men, friends. When they approached the ramp, she turned to him, indicating that he should stay. He hung back, watching her. She climbed up, threw a towel around herself and hurried inside.

  He swam back and forth, pretending to be snorkeling but keeping an eye for any movement within. Finally he saw a hand emerge from one of the windows, beckoning him inside. He rushed up the ramp and opened the door.

  —Over here, she said.

  He followed her voice to another room. There, she was dressed, sitting cross-legged on floor, pillows strewn about. She was wearing shorts and a tank top, both loose, both white. The momentum was lost, at least to him, as he sat across from her, smiling stupidly.

  —So, she said.

  She took his hand, threaded her fingers through his. They both looked at their hands entwined. He could not build on this, didn’t know what to do next. He found himself looking at a bowl of dates.

  —You want one? she said, joking, exasperated.

  —Yes, he said, having no idea why. He took one, chewed its flesh, feeling devastated, as always, by himself, his inability to do what he should do when he should do it.

  When he was finished, and had delicately placed the pit back on the plate, she moved herself closer to him and reclined on her side. He did the same, mirroring her shape. She was so close he could feel her breath upon his face, could smell, faintly, the salt water on her tongue.

  He smiled at her. He knew that she had intended this move as invitation, but he had not reciprocated.

  —This is good, he said, unable to conjure anything more.

  She smiled patiently. He collected himself. He knew he needed to kiss her. And then he would need to move himself atop her. He envisioned the steps, where he would set her shoulder, where he would put his hands. It had been so long. Eight years since he’d had to make decisions like this.

  He glanced outside, at the sun-soaked sky, at the sea unknowable, and in their vastness he found strength. A million dead in that water, billions living under that sun, that sun a hard white light among billions more like it, and thus all of this was not so important, and thus not so difficult. No one was watching, and no one outside of he and Zahra cared about what would happen in this room — such strength born of insignificance! — so he might as well do as he wished, which was to kiss her.

  He moved his face toward hers, toward those exuberant lips. He closed his eyes, taking the risk he would miss. She exhaled through her nostrils and the heat brushed his mouth. His lips touched hers. So soft, too soft. There was no ballast within — they were pillows upon pillows. He had to push harder to get some leverage, to press them open. She parted them, opened her mouth to him, and the taste was that of the sea, deep and cool.

  He took her head in his hand, her hair more brittle than he expected. It was not soft, no. Raking through it, he found her neck and cupped her head, bringing it closer. She sighed. Now her hand on his waist. Those long fingers, those nails. He wanted them to grasp and reach and pull.

  He moved his mouth to her neck, ran his tongue from shoulder to jaw, and then moved atop her. That smell of hot flesh — this was reward enough. She murmured approval into his ear, her breath. She was either greatly forgiving or mercifully easy to please. His worries fled.

  Her hand grasped above her, looking for a cushion. He found a throw pillow, placed it below her lifted head. For a brief moment their eyes met again, smiling, shy, astounded. Those eyes, as big as planets — he wanted them closed now, so she would not look upon him and reconsider. She would see his yellowing teeth, his fillings, his many scars, his ragged flesh, a patchwork of a life of disarray and carelessness. But maybe he was more than the sum of his broken parts. She had seen inside them, hadn’t she? She had pulled dead stuff from within him, cutting and pulling and dabbing, and still she wanted to be here.

  She pulled him down into her again and his mouth met her open mouth and now her movements took on new urgency. Her fingernails raked the hair on the back of his neck. Her other hand was grabbing the flesh on his back.

  Across the room, he saw a mirror. They were visible in it, and he saw his arms around her. He looked strong, his arms tanned, his veins taut. He was not disgusting. I don’t want to have sex that someone wouldn’t watch, Ruby had said. She assumed it would all end at thirty-five. A sudden pain shot through him, a cold bolt of regret, everything they had done to each other, the primary mistake of his life, that time wasted hurting her and being hurt by her, the terrible things that take away the little life we have. He looked at Zahra again, into her dark eyes that forgave him and brightened when they saw him smile.

  He pushed himself against her and heard himself moan.

  —Thank you for that, she said.

  He laughed into her ear and kissed his way to her clavicle.

  —Are you stalling? she asked.

  —No, no. Am I?

  —Get inside, she whispered.

  And he tried to, but found he wasn’t ready.

  —I want this so much, he said.

  —I’m glad, she said.

  But they found themselves apologizing for various failures, for parts of their bodies that would not cooperate, or did so only intermittently. When he was ready, she was not, and this sent him shrinking. Still, they caressed each other desperately, clumsily, with diminishing returns. At one point, trying to move behind her, his elbow struck her forehead.

  —Ow.

  He collapsed and looked at the ceiling.

  —Zahra I’m so sorry.

  She sat up, her hands in her lap.

  —Are you distracted?

  He had not been distracted, not at all. In fact, he had been so consumed in wanting her, enjoying her flesh, her mouth and breath and voice, that no other thoughts had entered his head.

  —Maybe, he said.

  He had no choice but to lie. He told her about the things weighing on his mind, the house that would not sell, its smell of decay, the man who had drowned himself in the lake, the money he owed to so many, the money he needed to do right by his daughter, his magnificent daughter who would not get what she deserved unless something miraculous happened out here in the desert.

  —It doesn’t have to be today, she said, though it sounded to him like, It doesn’t have to be.

  —Shit, he said. Shit shit shit shit shit shit.

  —It’s okay, she said.

  —Shit shit shit.

  —Shhh, she said, and they leaned against each other, tired as prize-fighters, as they watched the sun pour into the sea.

  XXXIII.

  DUSK HAD COLORED the home’s white walls blue, its pink curtains violet. The sea outside was restless and dark.

  Alan and Zahra sat at the kitchen table drinking white wine. He had finished the dates.

  —I have to go to Paris for a few weeks, she said.

  Alan was ready for this.

  —How long do you think you’ll be in Saudi? she asked.

  He didn’t know.

  They drank a bottle and opened another. They were so in love with the world, and disappointed in every aspect of it, that drinking another bottle while they sat at the kitchen table was the most obvious way they could honor it all.

  Zahra poured him another gla
ss.

  Alan had the feeling that Zahra was waiting for him to leave. But he had gotten there with her driver so he could not leave until she sent him away.

  —Can I tell you a story? he asked.

  —Of course, she said.

  —I have a story for your son. What’s his name again?

  —Mustafa.

  —Mustafa, good. A good name.

  Alan was drunk and wanted Zahra to know it.

  —This is a good story for Mustafa.

  —I’m glad. Should I take notes?

  —No need. You’ll remember the essence.

  —I will try.

  —Okay. My father and I went camping a few times.

  —Ah, camping again.

  —This is not about camping. Please listen.

  —I’m listening.

  He refilled their glasses. He could hardly see but felt very strong.

  —I was around ten, twelve. And this one time he brought me up to New Hampshire. He drove into some national park. Just endless woods. And we parked, and got out, and walked deep into the woods. For at least four hours. We didn’t see a soul the last three hours. We were off the map, basically. This was in the early morning. We started at sunrise. We had snowshoes with us, and used them when we got into some deeper powder. The walking was incredibly tiring. We stopped every so often for water and a snack. We ate beef jerky and nuts, that kind of thing. Then we would continue up the slope. Around three in the afternoon, the sun was already falling, so we stopped. We couldn’t see any sign of civilization in any direction. I assumed we’d walk down then. It was getting cold and would get down to twenty or ten. And what we were wearing wasn’t going to help us stay warm enough.

  —What was he thinking? Did you have tents? Zahra looked aghast.

  —I asked him that. ‘Do we have a tent?’ I thought he had some kind of plan. But he acted like he’d just realized the math of it all. That we wouldn’t make it back before dark, and that the night would freeze us solid. Not to mention the prospect of wolves, bears.

  —Wolves and bears? she asked. Her look was doubting.

  —Believe it.

  —I guess I have no choice.

  —So he said to me, ‘What should we do?’ And then I realized this was some kind of test. There’s something in his eyes that’s testing me. So I thought about the Boy Scout stuff I knew and said, ‘We build a shelter.’ And that’s what he had in mind. He opens his pack and he produces an axe and some rope. He’s planning to have us make a shelter out of logs, tied like a raft.

  —Oh no.

  —‘How long do you think we have?’ he asks, meaning before the sun goes down and it drops below freezing. ‘About two hours,’ I say. ‘I reckon you’re right. Better get started,’ he says.

  —He was a tough guy, Zahra said.

  —He likes to be thought of that way. So we got started. We took turns chopping and tying. We tied together two pallets of twenty or so thin birch logs. Once we had that done, we cleared a twenty-by-twenty square in the snow, and assembled it there, a pretty respectable A-frame. We gathered fronds from the pine trees and lined the bottom with them.

  —Sounds comfortable.

  —It was surprisingly comfortable. Then we built a wall around the shelter. Three feet, all around. To keep the wind out. We put snow on the roof, too, about a foot of it for insulation.

  —And it wouldn’t leak?

  —Not when it’s ten degrees. That’s the best insulation we had.

  —Did you have sleeping bags?

  —No we did not.

  —This man was a lunatic.

  —Maybe. Then he asked, ‘Son, what do we need now?’ I knew. We needed needle and thread, or duct tape or something. So I tell him that, and he produces a roll of duct tape.

  —For what?

  —To make a sleeping bag out of our clothes.

  —You’re kidding.

  —I’m not. We cut our jackets up, and taped them together to make a big wide sleeping bag. And then we slept there in our long underwear.

  —You shared the sleeping bag.

  —Yes we did. And I have to say, when we were all settled in there, it was very warm.

  —You didn’t have a fire.

  —No fire. Just each other.

  —And in the morning?

  —We taped the jackets back together, went home.

  —So you saved yourselves by building something. I get it. But he almost killed you both in the process.

  —I guess, Alan said, and laughed.

  —I’m allowed to laugh, right? Zahra said.

  —You are.

  —Good. Because I find just about all of it, she said — and swept her hand around the room, encompassing the house, the sea outside, all of the Kingdom, all of the world and sky —very, very sad.

  XXXIV.

  THE KING DID VISIT the King Abdullah Economic City, eleven days later. His visit was announced at nine o’clock that morning and his motorcade arrived just after noon. He toured the city’s empty roads for twenty minutes, spent fifteen in the welcome center, then he and the entourage made their way to the presentation tent.

  Alan and the young people were ready. The King sat down on a throne-like chair, brought that day, and his group sat on the white couches. Brad and Rachel and Cayley began the presentation, which went off flawlessly. Brad, wearing a sleek business suit, welcomed the audience, explained the technology, and then introduced another man, who was in London but then, aha, he was striding from the wings of the stage, wearing a thobe and gutra. He appeared to be in the tent, on the stage, walking and talking in both English and Arabic. He and Brad interacted for a while, emphasizing that this kind of technology was only one aspect of Reliant’s vast capabilities, that they looked forward to much success together at KAEC. Then the man in London thanked everyone and left, and Brad thanked everyone, stepping off the stage and mouthing to Alan and the other young people his assessment of the performance: Amazing!

  When it was over, King Abdullah clapped gently but said nothing. There were no follow-up questions. Neither he nor anyone from his entourage spoke to anyone from Reliant, though Alan positioned himself near the door in case anyone wanted to discuss the proposal. No one did. Alan had no opportunity to mention the King’s nephew; there were four layers of men between him and the King, who left in minutes, along with all those who attended him.

  Alan watched as they drove up the road, but not far. They disappeared into the garage below the Black Box. Outside the building, Alan saw three white vans parked in a tidy row. There had never been any vehicles like that parked outside the building in all the time he’d been there, so he went to get a closer look. On each van, there were two rows of type on the side, the first in Arabic, the second in Chinese. Alan couldn’t read either.

  He waited outside the building, trying not to attract notice, for almost two hours, until the King emerged with his men and a contingent of Chinese men in business attire. They all shook hands, smiling warmly. The King returned to the Black Box, and a few minutes later his motorcade emerged from the garage and left the city. The Chinese businessmen got in their vans and departed, too, leaving a wall of dust that took hours to settle.

  When they were gone, Alan rushed up to the Black Box and found Maha at her reception desk.

  —Hello Alan, she said.

  —What were those men here for? he asked.

  Money. Romance. Self-Preservation. Recognition.

  —A presentation for the King, she said. Same as you.

  —You mean IT?

  —I believe so.

  —And they were in here? Inside the building?

  Maha smiled. —Where else would they be?

  —And how did they know the King would be here today? he asked.

  Maha looked at Alan for a long while and then said —I guess they were just lucky.

  That afternoon, the young people of Reliant dismantled and packed the equipment, then loaded all of it and themselves into the shuttle. They saw n
o point in staying, so they left Saudi Arabia the next day.

  Alan remained. He returned to the tent each of the next three days, hoping to get a meeting with Karim al-Ahmad. Mr. Al-Ahmad had gotten very busy after the day of the presentations, Maha told Alan.

  Finally, one day, as Alan sat alone in the tent on a white plastic chair, there was a knock on the door. Alan answered it. It was Karim al-Ahmad, who informed him, regretfully, that the contract to provide IT to the new city had gone to another firm that, he said, could deliver the IT far quicker and at less than half the cost.

  —A Chinese firm? Alan asked.

  —A Chinese firm? I’m not sure, al-Ahmad said.

  —You’re not sure?

  Al-Ahmad feigned the searching of his mind.

  —You know, I believe they might have been Chinese. Yes, I believe they were. Does that make a difference to you, Alan?

  —No, Alan said.

  It didn’t really make any difference at all.

  —Did he like the hologram at least? Alan asked.

  —Who?

  —The King.

  —Oh he did, he did, al-Ahmad said, his voice full of feeling, something like compassion. He thought it was very, very nice.

  Alan looked through the plastic window, at the blue water, the setting sun. —You think there’s any reason for me to stay? he asked.

  —Stay at KAEC?

  —Yes. There are some other services I think Reliant might be able to help you with. And if not, I work with some other companies who could be very useful in getting this city off the ground.

  Al-Ahmad stood for a moment, his finger to his lips.

  —Well, let me spend a few days thinking about that, Alan. I certainly would like to help you.

  —You would?

  —Sure, why wouldn’t I?

  Alan could think of so many reasons. But he had to presume goodwill. He had to hope for amnesia.