to him, and shook his hand. He comes intomy dadâs shop, Yousef explained. He buys a lot of sandals.
Alan got in the car while Yousef searched under the hood. After a minute Alan got out again and came around to help.
âWhat are we looking for? Red sticks of dynamite?
âIâm not sure, Yousef said. Maybe some unusual wires?
Alan had been kidding. âYou really donât know? he asked.
âHow would I know? I watch the same TV shows as you.
Together the two men, neither of them having ever seen a bomb, looked at Yousefâs engine to detect whether or not it contained one.
âI donât see anything, Alan said.
âI donât either.
They got in the car. Yousef put the key in the ignition.
âReady?
âDonât make it more dramatic.
Yousef turned the key. The engine roared. Alanâs heart was popping.
They drove away from the hotel, again passing the same Saudi soldier atop the Humvee, his face in the shadow of the beach umbrella above, his feet soaking in the baby pool.
âSo your dad has a shop?
âIn the old city. He sells sandals.
âWait. Your dad sells shoes?
âYup.
âMy dad, too. Thatâs incredible.
Alan looked over to Yousef, half expecting this to be a joke of somekind. The coincidence was too much.
âYou donât believe me? Yousef said. Iâll show you the shop while youâre here. Thatâs where I worked growing up. We all had to, my brothers and me. But my dadâs a dictator. He wonât listen to us. Especially me. I could help that place a lot, modernize it. But heâs old now. He doesnât want to hear anything new.
Yousefâs brothers had all gone into other professions. One brother was a doctor in Jordan. Another was an imam in Riyadh. The last one was in college in Bahrain.
They were on the highway now.
âLetâs have a joke, Yousef said. For good luck.
âThat a Saudi custom?
âI donât know. I never know about our customs. Or what people think our customs are. Iâm not sure we have customs.
âI donât have any jokes today, Alan said.
But then one occurred to him.
âOkay. A husband and wife are getting ready for bed. The wife is standing in front of a full-length mirror taking a hard look at herself. âYou know, dear,â she says, âI look in the mirror, and I see an old woman. My face is all wrinkled, my hair is grey, my shoulders are hunched over, Iâve got fat legs, and my arms are all flabby.â She turns to her husband and says, âTell me something positive to make me feel better about myself.â He studies her hard for a moment, thinking about it, and then says in a soft, thoughtful voice, âWell, thereâs nothing wrong with your eyesight.â
Yousef laughed out loud. Too loud.
âPlease be quiet.
âYour head hurts that much? Must have been some bad siddiqi .
âWhatâs siddiqi ?
âIt means my friend . Thatâs what youâve been drinking.
âI deny it.
âAlan, Iâm not the muttawa. And youâre not the first businessman Iâve driven around. Wait a second.
Ahead there was a checkpoint. A pair of young soldiers stood in the median, stopping cars. On the side of the road, three more uniformed men sat in a police car. Yousef rolled down his window. The soldier mumbled a question to Yousef, Yousef answered, and the soldier waved him through. And that was that. Yousef drove on.
âThatâs it? He didnât want to actually see anything?
âSometimes they do.
âThey looking for someone in particular?
âMaybe. Itâs all for show. No one wants to be a soldier here. Theyâd give the jobs to foreign workers if they could.
They left the city and were soon on the same desolate highway. A truck carrying palm trees passed them, spraying dust.
âYou hungry or not? Yousef asked.
âIâm not sure.
âBetter to be very late than just
Alan got in the car while Yousef searched under the hood. After a minute Alan got out again and came around to help.
âWhat are we looking for? Red sticks of dynamite?
âIâm not sure, Yousef said. Maybe some unusual wires?
Alan had been kidding. âYou really donât know? he asked.
âHow would I know? I watch the same TV shows as you.
Together the two men, neither of them having ever seen a bomb, looked at Yousefâs engine to detect whether or not it contained one.
âI donât see anything, Alan said.
âI donât either.
They got in the car. Yousef put the key in the ignition.
âReady?
âDonât make it more dramatic.
Yousef turned the key. The engine roared. Alanâs heart was popping.
They drove away from the hotel, again passing the same Saudi soldier atop the Humvee, his face in the shadow of the beach umbrella above, his feet soaking in the baby pool.
âSo your dad has a shop?
âIn the old city. He sells sandals.
âWait. Your dad sells shoes?
âYup.
âMy dad, too. Thatâs incredible.
Alan looked over to Yousef, half expecting this to be a joke of somekind. The coincidence was too much.
âYou donât believe me? Yousef said. Iâll show you the shop while youâre here. Thatâs where I worked growing up. We all had to, my brothers and me. But my dadâs a dictator. He wonât listen to us. Especially me. I could help that place a lot, modernize it. But heâs old now. He doesnât want to hear anything new.
Yousefâs brothers had all gone into other professions. One brother was a doctor in Jordan. Another was an imam in Riyadh. The last one was in college in Bahrain.
They were on the highway now.
âLetâs have a joke, Yousef said. For good luck.
âThat a Saudi custom?
âI donât know. I never know about our customs. Or what people think our customs are. Iâm not sure we have customs.
âI donât have any jokes today, Alan said.
But then one occurred to him.
âOkay. A husband and wife are getting ready for bed. The wife is standing in front of a full-length mirror taking a hard look at herself. âYou know, dear,â she says, âI look in the mirror, and I see an old woman. My face is all wrinkled, my hair is grey, my shoulders are hunched over, Iâve got fat legs, and my arms are all flabby.â She turns to her husband and says, âTell me something positive to make me feel better about myself.â He studies her hard for a moment, thinking about it, and then says in a soft, thoughtful voice, âWell, thereâs nothing wrong with your eyesight.â
Yousef laughed out loud. Too loud.
âPlease be quiet.
âYour head hurts that much? Must have been some bad siddiqi .
âWhatâs siddiqi ?
âIt means my friend . Thatâs what youâve been drinking.
âI deny it.
âAlan, Iâm not the muttawa. And youâre not the first businessman Iâve driven around. Wait a second.
Ahead there was a checkpoint. A pair of young soldiers stood in the median, stopping cars. On the side of the road, three more uniformed men sat in a police car. Yousef rolled down his window. The soldier mumbled a question to Yousef, Yousef answered, and the soldier waved him through. And that was that. Yousef drove on.
âThatâs it? He didnât want to actually see anything?
âSometimes they do.
âThey looking for someone in particular?
âMaybe. Itâs all for show. No one wants to be a soldier here. Theyâd give the jobs to foreign workers if they could.
They left the city and were soon on the same desolate highway. A truck carrying palm trees passed them, spraying dust.
âYou hungry or not? Yousef asked.
âIâm not sure.
âBetter to be very late than just
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