The Artificial Mirage (17 page)

“Curtis, my friend,” Saleh said as he stood up to greet him with a nose kiss. Curtis was the only foreigner he knew who didn’t shun nose-kissing.

“Eight birds! The number eight is very lucky in Chinese culture,” Curtis said.

“I know. I thought you’d like it.”

“It was a delightful surprise. I am still interested in the property.”

“Everything is if you know how to look—this is what they tell me—but…the British Highlands Quarter is a slum.”

“We Chinese are always interested in value.”

“Most people aren’t seeing much value in that quarter of town.”

“They are thinking short-term. A long-term perspective is necessary in this situation. It is how real money is made.”

“So what do you need, my friend? So many buildings are vacant.”

“I want to buy your building.”

“Why?”

“I think there will be a time of resurgence in demand.”

“Resurgence? Perhaps.”

Curtis smiled intensely.

“Interesting. I see,” he said as he took a moment to examine the scratches in his silver stylus.

“Your company is anxious to sell the property, no?”

“They have been saying that since they bought the place, but Bahrainis aren’t interested in the British Highlands Quarter. Nobody is…except you.”

“I am an investor in search of value.”

“Yes, brother. I shall pass on your request. And my Hummer? You have completed it?”

“It is unlike any of the other cars. Most unusual.”

“Is it ready, brother?”

“It is not a matter of time.”

“Then what?”

“The casing material. It has been difficult to meet the specifications. I will require more time…and the property.”

“How much time?”

“Three days. The price shall remain the same.”

“Inshallah. I will speak with you then.”

22

A
fter drinking five bottles of Duvel, Charlie had given up on the idea of pursuing the larger waves that had kicked up as a result of the abnormally strong winds. The blank message from an unrecognized number had been sent three times, so he had gathered three sealed packages of hash that were released from the submarine. He had some coordinates to go by, but the packages couldn’t be marked in AR or the police would sense his activity on the grid immediately. It was difficult to systematically search a large area on a WaveRunner without looking conspicuous, so he had adopted the system Cameron had taught him of tracing the area in a long row of figure eights. A few hours later, he was just keeping up appearances. The police never suspected a drunken foreigner on a WaveRunner of anything. He continued the figure-eight pattern and moved closer and closer to shore. He had managed to collect the three packages of hash, wrapped in thick cellophane wrappers painted green. That was his required pickup, but he needed to stay out to keep up the appearances of a recreational tourist until Harold arrived.

A white Hummer got off the highway and traversed its way down to the beach. Charlie slammed the WaveRunner into a section of beach underneath the highway and rolled off. He lay on his back and caught his breath as he looked up at the reflection of the light-green sea flickering under the bridge and listened to the cars whoosh and gently clip the rubber expansion joints at varying intervals. Ever since Bahrain had decided to become “more international” by changing their weekend to Friday and Saturday, Thursdays were less crowded. The beach was empty. He was comfortable leaving the WaveRunner on the beach; it only started with his index-finger print. He threw on a T-shirt and a pair of black sandals from his waterproof bag. Walking up the white sandy embankment, he caught sight of Harold and Cameron.

“That was fast. What…did you two beam over here?”

He looked over at Harold, using the Arabic gesture to tell him to wait a moment. Charlie went back to the WaveRunner and grabbed the dripping
packages and tossed them to Harold in rapid succession. Harold grunted as he received them but said nothing. When he had them all, he got back in the white Hummer and left without a word.

“Well, there he goes…You want a beer?” Charlie said as he watched the Hummer’s trail of dust.

“What do you think?”

Charlie sloshed in his bare feet through the shallow water as he made his way to the WaveRunner and removed two of the six remaining beers. “Good. You’re wearing sandals,” he said as he tossed Cameron a Duvel.

“Why?”

“’Cause this is your tour bus, son.”

“Is that right, Dad?”

“Why’d he just leave like that?” Cameron gave Charlie a look as if he knew the answer.

“Not sure.”

Cameron looked at Charlie sideways. “The thing is…you kind of have to be a little crazy to be here.”

“I guess.”

“So are you?”

“What?”

“Crazy.”

“What about you, Cameron? Are you crazy?”

“Oh, I’m way past crazy.”

“You ever think about leaving the Gulf? I mean…having a life outside of this place?”

“No. At my age, there is no outside.”

“I’m starting to feel that way myself.”

“Don’t. You don’t want to get old here. There’s more to life than money. Get out while you still can.”

“And leave my new boat behind?”

“Yeah. Leave everything—leave all of it behind.”

“I’ll leave when I get what I came for.”

“If you think that’s what’s right. Well, we better get going before it gets dark,” Cameron said after a long pause.

Charlie tied off at the faux-wood dock. The door to the Dock Bar was made of real wood, and it had a distinctly different feel to it as he pushed it
open. The dark wooden décor disguised the fact that it was Bahrain and just beyond, there was bright sunlight and sand and homogenous white concrete buildings anointed with LED Arabic script. The Filipina waitresses smiled flirtatiously. There was a sign at the entrance that said photography was banned. Beyond that, the wooden floors and paneling absorbed and diffused the rumble of British chatter and Filipina giggles. There was a cricket match playing on some old LCD monitors hanging haphazardly from the ceiling and mounted on the walls. Pakistan was winning.

“So how many pickups have you made?” Cameron said as he eased himself into a corner booth.

“I don’t know. I stopped counting after twenty.”

“Harold’s getting you a new visa, right?”

“For Saudi? Yeah. I’m getting a little sick of hopping the train to Doha, though. What’s with all the questions?”

“I don’t know why…but I had a good feeling about you.”

“How so?”

“You’re lucky?”

Charlie laughed. “Oh yeah? I think you might have me mixed up with someone else.”

“No. Trust me. You’re a lot luckier than you give yourself credit for.”

“If you say so.”

“Harold’s getting your visa as a security consultant for SSOC—it’s short-term. But Saleh can get you an employment visa for a company here.”

“Doing what?”

“Same thing you’ve been doing…working for Saleh. That’s what Harold does.”

“Harold works SSOC security.”

“And he works for Saleh. It pays more.”

“I don’t know if I want to take on that risk.”

“Life is a risk. And there’s a new salvaged boat at the marina. Saleh wants you to have it.”

“Why?”

“For not fucking up.”

“Thanks. That’s quite a gesture.”

“It sure is. But don’t thank me—it’s all Saleh.”

The next morning Charlie awoke to the call to prayer rattling the windows, which Cameron assured him he wouldn’t hear down at the marina. The eight hours of AC in his room account expired just as he left.

He clicked on Cameron as soon as he arrived at the marina. It was strange not having any visual representation of him—just his flashing phone number.

“Meet you on the main dock,” Cameron said.

Beyond the white boats, Charlie could see a mangled and burnt mess of a boat listing to one side. Cameron emerged from it and climbed down a small ladder at the stern into a small inflatable boat with a silent solar engine. He tied off at the pylon next to Charlie with the familiarity of pressing an elevator button.

“So.”

“Is that it?” Charlie asked. “Yup…another sad story. Brand-new American boat with European electronics. Thing burned before it even left the dock.”

“Sounds fishy.”

“Yeah. You’d be surprised how fishy the boat-salvaging industry can get.”

“Nice dingy,” Charlie said, looking down at the silver inflatable raft. “Is it new?”

“No, it’s old. You’re welcome to use it. That’s my dingy,” Cameron said as he pointed to an outboard motorboat with twin outboard ninety-horsepower engines.

“Looks like it can handle the job. I thought that was Saleh’s.”

“It is—technically.”

“OK.”

“It’s cheaper if you dock outside of the harbor. It can get a little choppy on some days, but it’s just the wind. The Gulf is more of a lake than a sea. It’s like any other piece of real estate—location determines price.”

“So it’s cheaper out there?”

“Even cheaper if you don’t use the marina facilities. I can get you a solar sail later if one becomes available. That gives you enough power to cruise around the island if you want.”

“What about now?”

“We painted it with solar gloss…that’ll run your AC.”

“That’s enough?”

“Oh, most definitely. It’s a small cabin in there.”

23

U
pon awakening, Charlie could not relate the rocking of the boat with the AR pine forest obscuring the walls and ceiling. Instinctively, he brought up the charts of the major world indices, the last remnant of his compulsive addiction to the rhythm of the markets. He had no money to trade, but the display was free. He took the glasses out of his sockets and emerged from the chilled cabin just in time to see the sun setting. The sky over the Arabian Gulf was white with orange clouds, and the air was hot and thick with the enveloping reassurance of a vast womb. The water was calm—like a sheet of evaporating glass—and the fog erased the horizon and made the freighters look like they were floating on air.

He remembered he still had a boat to finish washing. The solar panel on his inflatable dingy was broken, so he had to paddle to the marina. He passed a deep-blue catamaran sailboat anchored amid a flotilla of much larger white motor yachts. Emerging from below the deck was Stephanie in a purple plaid skirt, black PVC plastic thigh-high boots, and a reflective gold T-shirt. She waved her arms for him to approach. He started paddling toward her.

“Throw me your bow line!” she said just before his dingy bounced off of the right pontoon of her boat. Charlie tossed her the line, bemused by his own recent understanding of nautical terms. She began walking slowly and adeptly around the periphery of her boat while pulling him. Charlie marveled at the skillful way in which she managed to walk on the curved surface of the pontoons without losing her grip.

“I didn’t know you lived here. You live on your boat alone?”

“Aren’t you the curious one? I’m sure every girl in Bahrain is anxious to get you alone in that bobbing burnt kebab you call home. Why, I suppose they’re swimming over from Saudi to wait their turn.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“No, it isn’t.” She smiled mischievously as she stopped pulling the bow line and gave him a critical look from head to toe.

“How long have you been docked here?” Charlie asked.

“Why? You want to wash my boat, darling?”

“Not really.”

“You’re going to meet Harold at Seppuku.”

“How did you know that?”

“You’ll like it. I’ll buy you a drink. Besides…you don’t know who else you’ll meet there.”

“Like who?”

“Just don’t be late.” She spun around and went back into her cabin.

As he paddled to the main dock, the sunset prayer echoed softly through the marina. The solar-charged LEDs on the boats and the edges of the docks came on all at once. He began washing the white salt from the white fiberglass frame of the boat as the last traces of the sun flickered out. He looked down at the plastic gray dock. Cameron was displaying a broadcast from Doha of a camel race in AR. The translucent camels were as big as some of the larger yachts in the marina.

“Do you ever wonder why they don’t have Indians or Filipinos washing the boats here?” Cameron said.

“Never,” Charlie said. “You have a bet on that race?”

“A little. But nothing serious.”

“What happens if one of those robot jockeys falls off?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s ever happened before. I guess they’d do the same as when one of those Pakistani kids fell off before they had robots.”

“What did they do then?”

“Got a new one.”

“Yeah. That seems to be their answer for everything.” Charlie squeezed out his sponge overboard.

“Just about.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I need to get out of here. Are you going to Seppuku?”

“No…not really my style.”

“Harold asked me to meet him there.”

“He likes those kinds of places. It’s a bad habit to develop.”

“What is?”

“Wasting your money in this place. It’s not worth it. Go somewhere real.”

“Like where?”

“Anywhere. Anywhere but here.”

The harshness of spring had already eradicated the traces of emerging microbial life coaxed into existence from the rainy days of winter. Charlie made it to the CBD just in time to witness the departure of swarms of Indian and Filipino office workers from the polished oval glass hives. They managed to avoid a group of four Bahrainis standing in front of the building with shiny green Dragonflies the size of Hawks hovering above them, projecting some statistical information that they were swapping among their screens. Some of the office workers smirked at the antiquated technology as they passed before getting lost in their own AR. AR Lauren walked ahead of Charlie briskly, and the Arabic script with an adjacent English translation seemed archaic and quaint as it wisped its way through her. There were only occasional advertisements, and they weren’t overwhelmingly intrusive. The ads came sliding in from the periphery with colorful video slice-of-life depictions of Arabic family life. A young Arabic woman’s gleaming bleached-white oval face peered through her abaya as she examined some laundry and seemed to smile right at him. It was liberating not having a marketing profile. Commercial spots were flung at him randomly. He had no profile, so there were no marketing parameters targeting him. Freedom. And boredom. A clear connection in a sea of useless bandwidth. Lauren bounded forward in a scarlet dress shredded into tatters as she served as his directional beacon. She flipped herself forward and backward like a gymnast. He noted the display above her head, which indicated there were exactly 2.3 kilometers to be covered at the current optimal route.