A Hologram for the King (23 page)

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.

—We can put you in a thobe. You'd pass.

—It's not worth it, Salem said. He wasn't happy. The detour around is only twenty minutes longer. Please.

Yousef turned back to Alan. —You want to get smuggled?

Alan did not. He did not want to break any such rule. But they were still in the leftmost lane, and the exit for non-Muslims, three lanes to the right, was fast approaching.

A stream of Arabic from Salem. Yousef didn't respond. Suddenly all was chaos. Salem's torso was in the front seat, and he was lunging for the wheel. Alan was pushed against the door. Yousef batted Salem's hands away and slapped him in the face. Hearing the sound, a loud whap, he laughed with delight. Salem retreated to his seat, deflated.

Then, in one fluid motion, Yousef slid laterally across the expressway and was soon on the highway for non-Muslims.

Through the rearview mirror, Yousef leveled a disappointed look at Salem. —Dude. I was kidding.
Kidding
. Relax.

Salem was still seething. —
You
relax.

Yousef grinned. —No,
you
relax.

The night dropped quickly as they rose through the mountains.

—The Sarawat range, Salem explained. Wait till we get to the top. You'll see the baboons. You like baboons?

And then there they were. At the top of the range, Yousef pulled over along a lookout, about five thousand feet up, the desert visible below for a hundred miles. And everywhere in that lookout parking lot, baboons sat, ate, walked around, tame as house cats.

They flew through Taif, a mountaintop city of bright colors and cool winds, and then dropped into the rough terrain beyond. The road grew more desolate as they got closer to the village of Yousef's birth, and by the time they arrived, Salem was sound asleep and Alan was nodding off.

Yousef stopped the car suddenly. —Wake up, useless people!

Salem moaned and punched the back of Yousef's seat.

Ahead, a sawtoothed ridge ringed a small cluster of lights tucked into a small valley. The settlement couldn't have been more than a few dozen buildings, a few hundred people.

—That's the whole town, Yousef said. We'll see it tomorrow.

They turned into a driveway and climbed up the mountainside a few hundred feet, doubling back twice, until they arrived at an enormous structure. It looked nothing like a house.

—This is it? Alan asked.

—Yes, Yousef said. The house that sandals built.

It looked more like a hotel, some kind of municipal building. It was a three-story structure of adobe and glass. They had parked in a vast lot, big enough to accommodate twenty vehicles. There was even a small mosque on the property, just down the slope.

—I didn't realize… Salem said. He hadn't been there, either.

As he and Alan were marveling at it all, a man came out of the house and rushed toward them. He was short, smaller than Yousef and more portly. His face was round, his smile wide and toothless. He took Yousef's hand and pumped it. He was introduced to Salem and shook his hand, too. When Alan extended his hand, though, it was as if the man had to relearn the gesture. He took it and shook it, and then retrieved his hand, slowly, as if from the mouth of an animal he did not want to provoke.

—This is Hamza. The caretaker, Yousef explained. He's been working for my father for twenty years. But I didn't tell my dad you were coming.

—Why not? Alan asked.

—No offense, but this is my father's pride. He wouldn't want it sullied by, you know, you. Just kidding.

But he was not kidding.

Hamza turned, led them to the door and opened it.

Yousef stepped in and turned around in the doorway.

—Ready? This is it, Yousef said, his posture quickly changing from that of scorned teenager to proud son.

Inside, the house looked very much like a series of empty, carpeted
ballrooms, each big enough to fit a hundred people or more. In each room, a few enormous chandeliers illuminated vast spaces without any furniture but the benches along the walls. The whole house, it seemed, was meant for entertaining only.

—The entire village fits in here. He made sure of it. Every wedding in the village happens here. I have to bring you to one of them, he said to Alan. You'd love it. You could wear one of the outfits, get a special knife, everything.

Alan tried to square the builder of this home with the brusque and bitter man he'd met. It seemed impossible that
that
man had built
this
. This was an act of great vision and generosity, and Yousef's father had seemed to possess neither. They walked to the third floor. The stairs, of poured concrete, were uneven, as if the mason hadn't been quite paying attention this far up.

—They finished this floor a bit quicker, Yousef said, smiling. But the view is worth it.

They stepped onto a wide balcony. The air was clear and cool, the view magnificent. Alan and Yousef and Salem and Hamza stood, looking out over the valley.

—Oh, I have to show you. Yousef said, bounding down the stairs.

He led Alan and Salem into a smaller room, empty but for a giant safe on one wall, and a stack of thin mattresses on the other.

—Somewhere in here, he said, grabbing at the mattresses, dropping them to the floor. Alan had the feeling he'd had when his friends' kids brought him to their rooms, to show him every toy they owned, growing more passionate with every word of awe he uttered. Yousef toppled seven or eight before he found what he was looking for: a cache of rifles. There
were at least a dozen, some new, some old and handmade, with wooden handles and carefully carved details.

—This one was my grandfather's, he said, holding an ancient-looking rifle in two hands. He handed it to Alan as if he were handing over a newborn. It was heavy, made of solid hardwood.

—This one's newer. Yousef took the first rifle away, handing it to Salem. He replaced it with the new model, which looked like a standard Winchester .44. Alan checked and it was just that. Salem politely admired the rifles, but his disinterest was hard to mask. Alan, though, was fascinated. He'd been a decent marksman in his youth, and maintained an affection for old rifles like this. He wanted badly to aim one, to shoot one, but wasn't sure of the protocol. He settled for praising them all, and when Yousef began packing them back into the mattresses, he assumed he wouldn't see them again.

He half hoped Yousef was serious about needing them to repel those aligned with his ex-wife's husband. The idea of them coming here, and staging a raid on this fortress, was preposterous, but at the same time it gave Alan a surge of hope, of possibility. He pictured himself perched on the balcony, sighting invaders. He wanted to do something dramatic to protect his friend.

—What are the chances those guys will actually come here? Alan asked.

—What guys?

—The husband, his men?

—You're serious? They have no idea this place exists. You think they'd drive four hours through the desert to follow me here?

Alan shook his head, tossing the notion away, but something passed
between them. Yousef got his meaning: that Alan, far from being scared of their attack, was open to it, was welcoming of it. He put his hand on Alan's shoulder, turned him, gently pushed him out of the rifle room and turned out the light.

They settled on the second-floor deck. Hamza brought rugs and cushions out and arranged them in clean lines. He hurried inside and returned with a full tea set, which he served with great solemnity.

Alan drank his tea, sweet and minty, as Salem did some perfunctory tuning of his guitar. Alan didn't know what to expect, but when Salem started strumming, slapping the wood for percussion, it sounded like a Western pop song, something you'd hear while shopping.

The night cooled, and a gentle wind came up the valley and swept through the fortress. As if carried by the breeze, a light appeared below. Then two more. It was a motorcycle, followed by a small truck, both making their way up the driveway.

Yousef nodded at the guitar and Salem took the cue. He packed it up, quickly retreated inside, and came back without it.

Soon three young men appeared on the deck. All were wearing white They were somewhere between thirteen and sixteen and all built like Yousef, short and full in the middle. All were wearing white thobes, red gutras — miniature businessmen with wide bright smiles. They rushed up to Yousef and hugged him.

—These are my cousins, Yousef said to Alan. Two of them, anyway. This third one is their friend.

Alan shook their hands, and Yousef and the cousins spoke for a time
in Arabic. Salem stayed on the balcony, as if knowing that these village men were a different species. Yousef was the bridge between the urbanity of Salem, of Alan, and these young men, who Alan guessed were being raised more conservatively, far from things like pop music and American guests. The night wore on, and more tea was served, and there seemed to be a lot of catching up to do, stories being told, and Alan felt in the way. When Salem went inside, citing exhaustion, Alan took it as his cue, too. Yousef bid good night to them both, and instructed Hamza to see them to their accommodations.