The Ruins of Us (28 page)

“Fascinating. Let’s not keep the prince waiting.”

AT THE DOOR,
they were greeted by the prince’s personal secretary, a young Saudi man whose goatee gleamed, framing perfectly white, straight teeth. Yes, Abdullah thought. One need only remark the changes in the average Saudi’s dental hygiene to know that times were good and getting better. The secretary, probably a cousin or nephew, led them down a hallway whose gleaming whiteness always made him feel as if he were walking inside the smooth basin of a shell. Along the ceiling, crystal chandeliers sparkled and winked, marking their pathway to the point where he could see the hallway give way to the prince’s majlis, the scarlet carpet spreading out from the marble like blood.

“Yep, this is about right,” Dan said.

They arrived at the end of the hallway and entered the majlis. Abdul Aziz was seated at the far side of the room, large and magisterial in his black winter thobe and mishlah. They embraced like brothers, but Abdullah knew better.

“Abu Turki. It has been too long. Since the Kabiri wedding?”

He spoke in English so that Dan could understand, and also because he enjoyed watching Abdul Aziz stab at the words like a poorly trained spear fisherman. He remembered a time when he, too, lacked fluency, the English words as elusive as darting fish, but he had realized that there was power in the language so he had strained his eyes in darkened library cubicles and made a fool of himself at department beer socials in order to master it. Abdul Aziz never had the same hunger, never needed to. His power was his name, so no matter how many times he approximated his thoughts in elementary sentences that he’d turned to pulp with his clumsy tongue, people listened attentively. The man whose family could send the global markets into a tailspin by whispering about raising the price per barrel need not concern himself with the dull work of infinitives.

“Ya Abdullah, keif al-hal? That’s right. Kabiri’s eldest. Who is your friend? Ahlan wa sahlan, sidiqqi.”

The room was built to hold hundreds of people, and the prince spoke loudly, as if he were addressing an entire majlis of men.

“Daniel Coleman, my oldest American friend. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought he needed to see how much better the Saudis do it. This makes the White House look quaint, doesn’t it, ya Dan?”

“Indeed. I bet Bush is on his best behavior when he comes to visit,” Dan said.

“Yes, I have had the president here. He brought me a cowboy hat. My littlest grandson loved it.”

The Prince laughed. If they’d caught him in a sour mood, Dan might have had to wait in the courtyard. But luckily the prince’s camel had won the race or his girlfriend was putting on his favorite panties or the cook had made a particularly good seleek. He was downright jovial.

“Mr. Coleman, do you play backgammon? I hope you’re better than your friend.”

“I beat him every time, hands down,” Dan said.

The prince smiled. “We’ll play a game in a little while. So, Mr. Coleman, how long have you lived in the Kingdom?”

“Oh, on and off for about twenty-five years now. Mostly on.”

“So you’ve seen the change, then. We’ve had great change in that time.”

“Yes. Yes, absolutely. The other day in the supermarket, I counted five different types of lettuce. I remember back in the early days, the only green thing you could get were raw dates.”

The prince laughed. “Perhaps Mr. Coleman would like to go on a tour of the palace with Ismail?”

“Oh, no, I think Dan would like to stay here with us,” Abdullah said. “You see, he has a special interest in international business.”

“But I’m sure your friend won’t mind if we speak in Arabic? There’s a private matter I’d like to discuss with you, Abu Faisal.”

No doubt he was referring to the percentage negotiations. Abdullah nodded almost imperceptibly at Dan.

“Forgive me, Abu Turki,” Dan interrupted. “But if you wouldn’t mind, could you conduct the meeting in English? I don’t want to miss anything.”

The prince pursed his lips. “Fine. You’re sure you don’t mind?” he asked Abdullah. “As I said, I have a private matter I’d like to discuss.”

“Oh no, I don’t mind at all. As I said, Dan is like my family.”

“As you wish. How often do you get to the mosque these days, Abu Faisal?”

“I try to go five times a day, alhamdulillah. But business is good. It’s harder and harder.”

“And your son. I hear he goes regularly.”

“Yes, Faisal is a good boy.”

“Does he make you proud?”

Abdullah glanced at Dan, who was accepting a cup of tea from the servant.

“You don’t answer,” the prince said. “I hope the boy doesn’t bring you shame.”

“As I said, he is a good boy. He is very faithful.”

Abdul Aziz lowered his voice and began to speak in Arabic. “Have you heard him speak about a man named Ibrahim?”

Under the prince’s scrutinizing gaze, Abdullah was embarrassed to reveal the thinness of his knowledge.

“No. No I haven’t, Abu Turki. But I’m sure there are many things that sons don’t tell their fathers. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, but it is the things that they hide from us that we must be most vigilant about. For instance, I discovered that Turki was losing thirty thousand a month on the horses.”

A cold smile spread across Abdul Aziz’s face.

“But family secrets don’t concern me too much,” he continued. “I’m more interested in the secrets my people try to keep from me. They usually have greater consequences. Assassination secrets, for instance, or bombing secrets. My uncle got three bullets in the face for ignoring something that was both a political and a family secret. So now we have a whole police division dedicated to these secrets. I wonder why people are still so foolish as to try to keep them from me.”

Dan made a subtle gesture with his hand, the palm upturned as if to say,
What the hell?
Abdullah shook his head curtly. He was suddenly grateful that Dan didn’t speak Arabic and would be excluded from whatever humiliation the prince had in store for him.

“Forgive me, but I’m confused,” he said.

“Your son. He’s been keeping secrets from his father and his king.”

“What has Faisal done?”

“Sheikh Ibrahim, as I mentioned to you, he’s in our custody now, and a man gave us your son’s name as being part of this sheikh’s group. Apparently he has been studying with Ibrahim for many months. This is serious, Abu Faisal. Your boy seems to believe the worst of the Saud family, and you know that we can’t have that kind of blasphemy here in the Kingdom. It is nothing more than fitna. My brother is the Keeper of the Two Holy Mosques. We do not take criticism of our God-given role lightly.”

Abdullah did not know whether he should be surprised, angry, or ashamed. “With all respect, Abu Turki, I’m sure he meant nothing by it. He’s only a boy.”

“He’s a young man. And young men carry out the bulk of killing in this world, don’t they? Never mind the jihadis. Look at the armies of any country. Young men, all of them.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Yes, but I would. The members of my family must wake up every morning and think about who is trying to kill us, who is trying to harm the people of Saudi Arabia. We cannot afford to exempt men for being too young. We will take action against anyone old enough to pull a trigger.”

It was laughable, this talk of his son as some sort of criminal. The only violence in which Faisal seemed to have any interest took place in his video games. He never watched when they slaughtered the sheep for Eid, always making sure to stand on the far perimeter of the circle of men gathered around to see the first spurt of bright blood. He absented himself from falconing on winter mornings, as if the dead and dying desert rodents were too precious to see clutched in talons. Instead, Faisal seemed always to be folded up on his bed, reading the Koran. Abdullah was indignant, but he hid his feelings from the prince.

“What do you suggest that we do to help Faisal get back on the right path?”

“The problem is his anger,” Abdul Aziz said. “In a boy, mafi moshkela, but it’s no good in a young man. A Saudi man must learn to respect his leaders, isn’t that right? Violence against my family is akin to violence against God. Send your boy away to school in England or America. Keep him out of the country for a few years, until he learns self-control. Until he learns to appreciate his homeland.”

“Yes.” It was all Abdullah could bring himself to say, and he mumbled it, teeth clenched. Even in the best meetings, he was never allowed to forget that he was the subordinate, and it disturbed him that Faisal had given the prince reason to talk to him in such a condescending manner. Abdullah could feel a tingling in his stomach. He wished that he lived a hundred years ago so he could go after his son with a camel whip and remind him that his stupidity had repercussions for his entire family. Perhaps the prince was right about one thing—that modern sons lacked an understanding of tribe and moved with the arrogance and ignorance of the unattached. What did Faisal gain from Sheikh Ibrahim besides false brothers who would turn him in to the authorities?

“Shukran, Abu Turki. I appreciate the warning. You have my word that I will take care of this situation as you have asked.”

Deliberately, in an attempt to shock him out of his smugness, Abdullah reached for the prince’s hand with his prosthesis, but Abdul Aziz was unfazed and drew him into a tight embrace. The prince was being generous in his victory.

“You’ve grown too comfortable, Abu Faisal. Times are good for you and for B-Corp. You’ve got a new wife. But power requires vigilance. Don’t forget that. The police won’t act against your son, for now. But you should get him out of the country as quickly as you can.”

Abdul Aziz kissed him twice on each cheek. Abdullah seethed, stepping out of the embrace and running hastily through the litany of farewells. He motioned Dan to follow him, and they made their way back out through the maze of marble hallways without speaking, Dan’s rubber soles squeaking. They pushed through the doors of the main entrance and into the sunlight.

“What was that about?” Dan asked.

“It’s the sheikh that Faisal studied with. They’ve arrested him.”

“Is there anything that I can do?”

“No.”

“What about the sheikh? What’s going to happen to him?”

“The police have carte blanche. Usually there’s some sort of reeducation process. You’ll forgive me if I’m not overly concerned with the sheikh right now.”

“Right. Your son.”

“That little shit.”

He had no idea how he would convince his son to leave his home, his friends, his religious community. He didn’t want to spook the boy. What did he know about the man his boy was becoming? Was he the type to disappear into the desert, the mountains, all for his beliefs? In twenty years, would Faisal be one of the bearded men known by a historically significant nom du guerre, speaking to his loyal men by electronic address, a leader within the vast and mythic network of extremists Abdullah only read about in the newspaper? In the last two years, just who had his son become? Faisal was at an age when some children left home and never came back; so much depended on this moment.

“Isra’s pregnant,” he blurted.

“Wow. When is she due?”

“June.”

“Christ.”

“No. Noor. And she’ll need a brother who’s not a fool.”

“What are you going to do?”

Abdullah just shook his head. As always when he did not know quite what to do, he would ask Rosalie. They would talk together as concerned parents, with the familiarity of people who have spent half a lifetime together.

AFTER HE DROPPED
Dan off at Prairie Vista, Abdullah drove to the big house. The day was dying, the sun reluctantly ceding its place in the sky. The pale pink stucco of the house blended with the colors of the sunset, and Abdullah thought of Portofino, where they’d gone to get inspiration before building, where Rosalie hadn’t washed her hair for days, letting the salt and wind wick the oils away until the strands resembled the waves of the sea.

He would break the news to her in the courtyard. It would be hard for her to be angry if he could only get her out by the fountain, with its thousands of blue glazed tiles as calm and shining as the Riviera. He wanted to talk to her about their son. This time, she could not spurn him, for it wasn’t just about them anymore. He had seen Dan’s hand on his wife’s at the barbershop, and he knew with certainty that it had not been nothing. His friend, his unlucky but handsome friend, desired his wife, and the idea quietly thrilled him.

Once inside, he called out into the quiet of the house. He glanced upstairs toward the door of the master bedroom. “Habibti?” he said, louder this time, climbing the stairs two at a time, his stump pumping to give him balance as he huffed his way to the top. He threw open the door and Rosalie startled awake. The room was dark, save the purple light coming in around the closed blinds. He approached the bed.

“Oh.” He paused. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but we need to talk about Faisal.”

He pulled up the blind and a moody twilight filled the room. Out the window, he saw the yellow lights of Isra’s house but he did not feel her pull. Here, now, it was only Rosalie. Seeing her face soft with sleep, he could practically feel the softness of her breasts beneath his hand. He took a seat on the Kuwaiti chest next to the window.

“You had your meeting with the prince?” she said slowly, still trying to process the information.

“Yes.” He was impatient. “He told me that Faisal’s sheikh has been arrested. He suggests that we send Faisal away to school for a few years. An order, really.”

She sat up in bed, pulling the comforter up and holding it to her chest.

“What? That makes no sense. The sheikh is just a teacher.”

“No one scares al-Saud more than the men who know their Koran too well. What should we do? You’ve wanted to send him away to university for a while now. I know this isn’t what you had in mind, but it gives us a good reason to force the issue. Abdul Aziz strongly suggests that he leave within the next few weeks.”

“Abdi, you can’t be serious,” she said. When he didn’t answer, she swallowed and looked down at the floor. “Is Faisal in danger?”