A Hologram for the King (30 page)

—My uncle liked to snorkel, so he made this for himself. It's cruel and indulgent, but it works. The fish are still here.

Her uncle had actually dredged the sea floor so there could be an easy way to enter the water, without having to walk on the coral.

—You go in, she said, handing him a snorkel and mask. I'll follow. I need to send the driver on an errand.

He opened the door, stepped out and made his way to the water. Here it was cooler than by King Abdullah's rising city. After the runway, the sea floor was rocky and dropped swiftly away.

Treading water, Alan fitted the equipment over his head. He pressed his face to the water and saw immediately that the sea was clear and the coral abundant. A flurry of bright orange fish drifted into view. He pushed his way out farther, following the line of coral underneath. It was gloriously alive and, though not untouched, it was thriving. Within minutes he saw a huge clownfish, swimming in circles, a pufferfish, puttering along with its undersized fins. A school of tangs, a rusty parrot fish. A roving coral grouper, with its look of perpetual dissatisfaction.

He went to the surface for air. There was too much to see, too many colors, the shapes irrational. Looking to the house for a sign of Zahra, he saw nothing. Not wanting to seem anxious, he turned from the shore, following the coral on the sea floor out, deeper, and saw the larger fish, those who traveled freely between the shallows and the deep. Ahead, the drop-off was extreme. The water below was inky, the bottom unseeable.
A shape flew before his mask. It was bright, blinding, huge. He kicked and rose from the water, trying to see it from above.

The shape rose, too. It was Zahra.

—Alan!

His heart was hammering.

—I hoped to scare you, but not that much.

He was coughing.

—I'm so sorry.

Finally he could speak. —It's okay. I shouldn't have been scared.

He looked to her. He saw her head, her hair tied up, her jawline exposed — far more delicate than he'd imagined. She was beautiful wet, her black hair gleaming, her eyes alight.

But all else was underwater.

—I have to get back under, she said. Neighbors.

She nodded to the houses that ringed the inlet.

—I have to warn you, though. I'm dressed like you. If someone sees us snorkeling, they'll think it's two men. Just two backs uncovered, wearing men's trunks. You understand?

He thought he understood, but he did not understand. Not until he put his mask into the water again. Then he knew. She was not wearing a top. Her shorts were blue striped, male. He skipped a breath. My God. He followed behind her, watching her long strong legs, her long fingers trailing, the sun touching her everywhere, flashbulbs popping.

She turned back to him, smiling wildly around her mask, as if to say, Do I surprise you? She had some idea of how good she was, how much she pleased him. Then she turned back, all business, pointing below, to the thousands of fish and anemones of every improbable color, everything alive and grabbing upward.

He was dying to be closer, to have everything. He wanted to rub against her accidentally, to twist and roll in the water with her, to scream into her mouth. He settled for following her, ignoring the fish and coral below for a look at her breasts, descending from her, glowing, swaying.

She tried to get him to swim at her side, but he hung back, hoping to limit her view of him. They swam down the shoreline and he took a chance, grabbing her ankle, pretending to want her attention, to show her an oversized clownfish below. She came to him, and took his arm in her hand, squeezed. Finally his answer. He was sure. But what to do then? There were too many stimuli, in this water, under this sky, the light a latticework shifting over her bright flesh. He had never seen anything more beautiful than her hips rising and falling, her legs kicking, her naked torso undulating. She swam out farther and paused where the floor dropped precipitously into deepest blue.

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.

D
USK 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 glass.

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.