A Hologram for the King (31 page)

—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.

T
HE
K
ING 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 no 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.

—Then maybe I'll stay, Alan said.

He wasn't being sent away, after all, and he couldn't go home yet, not empty handed like this. So he would stay. He had to. Otherwise who would be here when the King came again?

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Always and most of all, VV.

Vast thanks to the staff at McSweeney's for their work on all aspects of this book. Thank you Adam Krefman, Laura Howard, Chris Ying, Brian McMullen, Sunra Thompson, Chelsea Hogue, Andi Mudd, Juliet Litman, Sam Riley, Meagan Day, Russell Quinn, Rachel Khong, Malcolm Pullinger, Brent Hoff, Sheila Heti, Ross Simonini, Heidi Julavits, Alyson Sinclair, Scott Cohen, Eli Horowitz, Walter Green, and Chris Monks. Em-J Staples and Daniel Gumbiner helped tremendously with myriad tasks, far-flung research and the difficult home stretch. Their enthusiasm kept me strong. Extra thanks to McSweeney's editors Ethan Nosowsky, Jordan Bass, Andrew Leland, and Michelle Quint, who had to read this book many times, and whose edits were surgical and brilliant.

This book grew out of a conversation I had back in 2008 with my brother-in-law, Scott Neumann, who traveled to the King Abdullah Economic City that year with a multinational corporation. Though this novel bears little resemblance to Scott's time at KAEC, I was helped enormously by his great generosity in sharing his insights. Vanessa and Inger, thank you, too, for friendship and family.

There are many friends in Saudi Arabia I would like to thank, first and foremost Mamdouh Al-Harthy, guide and friend, expert and philosopher king. His hospitality can never be repaid. Thanks also go to Hasan Hatrash, poet, troublemaker and friend, and to Faiza Ambah, courageous journalist and screenwriter. She read early and later versions of this book, and offered key comments and encouragement.

For their crucial reads of the book in various forms, profound thanks go to Noor Elashi, Wajahat Ali, Lawrence Weschler, Nick Hornby, Tish Scola, Alia Malek, Roddy Doyle, Brett O'Hara, Stephen Elliott, and my brothers Bill and Toph. Heroic and repeated readings were done by the phenomenal novelist-editors Peter Ferry, Tom Barbash, and Peter Orner.

For their friendship, and expertise in matters of sales, manufacturing and consulting, vast thanks go to Paul Vida, Thomas O'Mara, Eric Vratimos, Grant Hyland, Scott Neumann, Paul Scola, and Peter Wisner.

For their guidance and advocacy over many years now, profound thanks to Andrew Wylie, Sally Willcox, Debby Klein, Lindsay Williams, Jenny Jackson, Kimberly Jaime, Luke Ingram, Sarah Chalfant, Oscar van Gelderen, Simon Prosser, Helge Malchow, Kerstin Gleba, Christine Jordis, Aurélien Masson, Brian Gray, and the many other editors, publishers and translators who have brought books like this to new audiences.

At Thomson-Shore printers in Dexter, Michigan, thanks to the entire staff: Kevin Spall, Angie Fugate, Josh Mosher, Heather Shultes, Kandy Tobias, Sue Lube, Jenny Taylor, Mike Shubel, Rich McDonald, Andrea Koerte, Rick Goss, Christina Ballard, Frankie Hall, Bill Stiffler, Mike Warren, Anthony Roberts, Tim King, Tonya Hollister, Deb Rowley, John Bennett, Paul Werstein, Jennifer Love, Alonda Young, Sandy Dean, Matt Marsh, Renee Gray, Adnan Abul-Huda, Sue Schray, Jenny Black, Debbie Duible, Steve Landers, Connie Adams, Pat Murphy, Rob Myers, Al Phillips, John Harrell, John Kepler, Darleen Van Loon, Shannon Oliver, Diane Therrian, Mary McCormick, Dave Mingus, Sandy Castle, Sherry Jones, Steve Mullins, Bill Dulisch, Ryan Yoakam, Doris Zink, Ed Stewart, Robert Parker, Terri Barlow, Thoe Tantipitham, Cody Dulish, Dave Meacham, and Vanessa Van De Car. Thanks, also, to everyone at PGW/Perseus.

Note: This book includes some of the history of Schwinn, an actual bicycle-manufacturing company based, for many decades, in Chicago. The basic dates and arc of the company represented herein are faithful to the historical record, though this is a novel, and a man named Alan Clay did not in fact work for Schwinn, and his experiences there are fictional. To read a fantastically well-reported and well-written nonfiction book on the subject of Schwinn, look for
No Hands: The Rise and Fall of the Schwinn Bicycle Company, An American Institution
, by Judith Crown and Glenn Coleman, published in 1996 by Henry Holt. My novel benefited greatly from that excellent book.

BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR

FICTION

A Hologram for the King

What Is the What

How We Are Hungry

You Shall Know Our Velocity

NONFICTION

Zeitoun

FOR ALL AGES

The Wild Things

MEMOIR

A Heartbreaking Work
of Staggering Genius

ABOUT THE AUTHOR