Power and Passion (12 page)

Sara's favorite, however, had been the
Emirati poet who had recited one of his original works—an ode to a
hoopoe, an exotic bird commonly seen across the UAE, as it soared
through the sky, facing winds and heat and even sandstorms. These
forces of nature conspired to keep him down, but the bird kept on;
it fell at one point but kept fluttering its wings until it rose
again and continued its journey. Sara loved the message of it,
which she did not fully grasp at first; the poet spoke in Arabic, a
language she did not understand very well. However, when he was
done, a PowerPoint presentation lit up on a screen behind him, and
the poem was recited again, this time by a girl's voice in perfect
English.

"You look beautiful," Pierce told Sara once
again, drawing her out of the memory and back into the present. She
shook her head to clear her thoughts.

"Oh, thank you," she said, but by that time
he had already taken off again, chasing down another client no
doubt. Sara watched him wade into the crowd, which consisted mostly
of men, just like all the other business events she'd attended with
Pierce.

Maybe it
is
a man's world
,
but it's good to know that women are slowly making inroads,
she thought as she took the last sip of her drink then handed her
glass to a passing waitress, who took it from her with a smile.
Sara stood there by herself for a moment, wishing she were at home
curled up with a good book. She scanned the room, tapping her
pointytoed shoe to the beat of the earthy musical tones of the oud,
looking around as if she expected to see someone she knew. Or
someone she recognized. Or just another woman's face.

Anything that might make her feel a little
more comfortable in this highly focused business event.

After a few more minutes of nothing
happening and no new sighting of her fiancé, Sara tucked her clutch
between her elbow and her side and made her way to the ladies'
room; there was a lounge there, and she could use a few minutes off
her feet. She wasn't used to high heels, and they were pinching her
toes terribly. Once there she found a seat on a small purple-velvet
divan situated by a cluster of full-length mirrors. She sank down
onto it gratefully and wriggled her feet right out of her
shoes.

"Oh, much better," she said to herself as
she took a look around the lounge. It was sort of an antechamber to
the bathroom itself, full of lush seating and big mirrors, a place
a woman could touch herself up and make sure she was looking good.
Two others were doing just that—one on a bench across the room,
studying her eyeliner in a small compact, the other checking the
back of her dress for wrinkles in a three-way reflection over by
the door. Each of them glanced at Sara in turn, and she offered
them a smile back. Then they simply returned to their work.

Sara did not have much to touch up or even
check. She wore minimal makeup, barely enough to smudge, so she was
sure it was not out of place. Nonetheless she opened her compact,
powdered her nose, reapplied some light-colored lipstick, and
pursed her lips to smooth it over. She looked at the other women
again, so engrossed in themselves and their appearances. She did
not hold this against them, this sort of vanity; that was just how
some women were. Or, rather, how they were programmed to be. Sara
had seen how women of all cultures, all over the world, were
expected to live up to a certain standard of aesthetics. If they
did not conform—if they were overweight or did not wear the "right"
clothes, if they did not like makeup or chose to cut their hair as
short as a man's—they risked being excluded, looked down upon, even
shunned. She knew women who had suffered from this, often in
silence, for most if not all of their lives. It was a debilitating
emotional strain, one Sara hoped would diminish in the generations
to come.

Finally Sara's cell phone dinged, bringing
her active imagination back to earth. She heard the sound muffled
in her small purse and opened it to see what the message was. An
email from Joan. Sara smiled when she saw her new friend's name in
the "from" field. She swiped the screen with her thumb, opening the
message to see what it said.

~

Hi, Sara,

Hope you are doing well. Just came across this on
the web and thought it might be of some interest to you. Maybe we
can get him to come speak at the SO gala?

Call me when you have a minute.

Best,

Joan

~

At the bottom was a hyperlink to an article
on a regional news website. Sara clicked it and was taken there.
"Arab Runner Sets Sights on Boston," read the headline, which
immediately pulled her in. The story was about a man named Saif Al
Khalifa, twenty-four years old and already a medaled track star. He
was currently at home in Dubai training for the upcoming Boston
Marathon taking place in five months' time in the States. There was
a good chance he could win, the article said; he was rated the
fastest man in the Middle East.

Sara thought about Joan's suggestion to get
Saif to come and speak at their so-far nonexistent gala. His name
alone would be a draw; the chance to see him in person would
attract guests, many who would be able to make large donations. And
his image would be important as well. The more athletes of all
shapes, sizes, and abilities showed support for the Special
Olympics, the more people would be encouraged to do so too. Maybe
having Saif onboard would even get some other famous sports figures
to sign up.

Switching back over to her email, Sara hit
"reply" on Joan's message. "Sounds great," she typed, her
thumbnails clicking against the keyboard on the small screen. "At
an event with Pierce right now. I will call you tomorrow to
discuss. Thanks!"

Really she wanted to call Joan at that very
moment but didn't think the ladies' lounge was the perfect place to
hold any sort of business conversation. Besides, Sara was
tired—she'd put in a long day at work, another couple hours on the
gala project, and then came there with Pierce. It was getting late,
and all she could think about was going home, taking off those
shoes for good, and falling into bed.

"No rest for the businessman's wife," she
told herself then slipped on her shoes and stood up quickly from
the divan. The other two women paused once again in their
examinations of self to look at her. Sara let out a nervous laugh.
"Or at least his wife-to-be," she added, holding up her left hand,
showing them the engagement ring on her slender finger. The diamond
glinted a bit, catching the lounge's low light at just the right
angle, which only embarrassed her more.

"Congratulations! It's stunning," one of the
ladies commented.

The ring was absolutely gorgeous but much
larger than Sara ever would have chosen for herself. She had told
Pierce not to go overboard, but of course he'd wanted to give her,
as he'd said, a rock as big as their love itself. As long as it
wasn't a conflict diamond, she had insisted, and he had listened to
that at least. In fact Pierce had then been very diligent about
buying a gem that was conflict free, which matched with a
certificate of authenticity, ensuring it was not a blood
diamond.

"I'm just gonna go find him now," Sara said
then excused herself and walked out of the room.

Back in the great hall, the peaceful notes
of an acoustic guitar filled the air as the soloist plucked its
strings on a stage at the front. On the edge of the crowd, Sara
stood on her toes to try to find Pierce. The din in the place was
just incredible, a thousand low conversations all going on at once.
She hadn't noticed it until she had gone away and come back.

Finally she laid eyes on him, toward the
back, holding a drink in one hand and a business card in the other,
undoubtedly exchanging with a man who was hopefully a potential
client. Finding new prospects always made Pierce almost unbearably
happy.

He certainly does love his work
, Sara
thought as she made her way through the throng, hoping she would
reach Pierce before he went on the move again.
But then again so
do I
. Why then did Pierce's dedication to his job make her feel
so ill at ease? He had just as much right as she did to be
passionate about his career. Was it because his wasn't in pursuit
of such a noble cause? Undoubtedly his main goal was making money.
Why was that so bad?

Well, it wasn't, she decided as she finally
stopped at Pierce's side. Capitalism had its place in the world, of
course, and in their relationship as well. Once they were married
and living together, they would need both their incomes to get by;
certainly hers alone wouldn't support them, and she couldn't let
him pay for everything. A marriage had to be balanced, perhaps
fifty-fifty. That was what Sara had always thought. Where she left
off, he began and vice versa.

Except for now, of course, when he was doing
business.

Then it was almost as if she didn't
exist.

Sara cleared her throat once then again, and
finally Pierce looked at her.

"Oh. Oh, Sara," he said, as if just
remembering that she was with him. "This is my fiancé, Sara," he
said to the man standing in front of them. He was young, no more
than thirty, and wore traditional Emirati dress: the long, white
kandura, commonly known as dishdash, a long-sleeved robe covering
all parts of the body except the face and hands, and a plain white
guthra on his head secured by an egal, the black rope that held the
scarf in place. Sara had always found these garments so lovely, a
real reflection of the desert culture in which they lived—and which
was so easy for someone who lived in the heart of the city to
forget. "Sara," Pierce went on, "I'd like you to meet Ibrahim. He
owns that restaurant down on Beach Road, the Al Sultan.

Remember?"

Sara raised her eyebrows and looked at the
man. "Oh, of course! We love it there. I'd say we go, what, once a
month?" She looked back at Pierce, and he nodded.

"Sure, sure, at least that often. Your
kebabs are the best I've had. Really delicious."

The man bowed his head slightly then looked
back up and gave them both a wide smile, acknowledging the sincere
compliments. "Thank you so much. It's great to know that people
enjoy our food as much as we enjoy creating it." "Oh, we definitely
do," agreed Sara. "As I'm sure many others do as well. It's always
so busy there. Have you considered opening a second restaurant? I'm
sure it would work out well for you."

"Yes, actually, that's what I have been
talking to your fiancé about," Ibrahim answered, gesturing to
Pierce. "I have been thinking it's time to expand."

"And I just happen to know of a building in
a
perfect
location that might be opening up in a month or
two," Pierce replied. Sara couldn't help but smile at him. He
really was in his element at events like this. A natural-born
schmoozer he was—though she meant it, of course, in a good way.

"So may I ask what kind of work you are in?"
Ibrahim asked, looking once again at Sara.

"Oh, I'm an events planner for the Special
Olympics, the Middle East-North Africa division. I mainly organize
our local and regional competitions leading up to the World Games
held every four years."

"Well, that sounds like wonderful work,"
Ibrahim said with another gentle smile.

"And she's being modest," Pierce piped in.
"Sara really is amazing. The heart and soul of that organization,
if you ask me."

Sara, blushing a little, put a hand on his
arm. "Pierce, everyone who works there is important. We all have
our roles to fulfill."

He put his hand on top of hers and laughed.
"Sometimes I forget she works in a much less cutthroat business
than I do. So tell me, Ibrahim, do you…"

Pierce continued to talk, something about
renting versus buying and square footage, things in which Sara did
not have much interest. She kept a smile on her face but let her
mind drift for a moment, looking out across the room and thinking
about her gala plans. She still had so much to finish that
week—phone calls to make, venues to scout… She had given her
interns a mountain of work to get done for her but still wondered
how they would get it finished.

"Sara? Is that really you?"

A woman's voice drew her back to the
present, and she blinked her eyes as she looked around. Pierce was
still beside her. Ibrahim stood across from them, the two men in
conversation now about how to get a good braise on meat. And next
to him was a woman in black from head to toe in a stylish abaya
with an embroidered design. A matching shayla loosely covered her
head, but her entire face was exposed; contrary to popular Western
belief, not all women there in the Middle East wore burqas. And
there was something familiar about the woman's face—

"Maryam?" Sara replied, her eyes opening up
wide. "What are you doing here?"

The two women went at each other with arms
outstretched and locked one another in a tight embrace. Then they
pulled back and looked at one another, obviously overjoyed at
seeing each other again after such a long time.

"How long has it been?" Sara asked, taking
in her old friend's face. The two had gone to university together
back in Canada; they had earned their master's degrees together,
Sara's in business management and Maryam's in education. In fact
they had been roommates for a while and kept up after graduation as
best they could. Then Maryam had moved back to Dubai, where she was
from, and started a family, and Sara had all her nonprofit work to
keep her busy. They had been such good friends, but as the years
went by they had gradually lost touch with each other.

"Oh, at least three years," Maryam replied,
smiling so widely it almost made her eyes tear.

"And every one of them has been good to
you," Sara replied. And it was certainly the truth. Maryam looked
as young as ever. Her face was quite beautifully made up as always,
with a natural rosy glow in her cheeks. Though her petite frame was
mostly hidden by her abaya, it was clear she had kept her slim
build from their younger years.