In the Kingdom of Men (6 page)

“Dhahran,” Abdullah said, “and the Prosperity Well, where Aramco first struck oil. Like a prize she-camel, it still produces. Here, executives and engineers live. It is the capital of Aramco operations.” He held up his fingers. “Three camps: Dhahran, the stabilization plant at Abqaiq, and the port at Ras Tanura.”

Mason turned in his seat. “What do you think, doll?”

I wanted to say not what I thought but what I felt, that our car was a boat, the desert an ocean, Dhahran a small island, sand lipping its shores, but I lifted my shoulders and smiled, saw Abdullah’s eyes flick up in the rearview then back to the road. I wondered what he thought of me—that I was pretty or plain, too forward, too shy? Always as a girl I was warned to be seen and not heard, that even to be seen was too much. I had learned to fold my hands in my lap, cross my legs at the ankles, suppress whatever glee possessed me because a woman who laughed with her mouth open was inviting the demons in.

Abdullah stopped for a moment to chat with the uniformed Bedouin who stepped from the guardhouse before driving through the fenced main gate with its overhead arch that read in both English and Arabic:
TAKE SAFETY HOME
. We passed an area of industrial buildings and went into the main compound, where the sidewalks were swept clean, the hedges trimmed into uniform neatness. The few American men I saw braving the heat were dressed in crisp shirts and smart pants, the women in stylish culottes and bright floral dresses. The palm trees lining the avenues, the green lawns and modern houses—it struck me as a movie set, as though I had stepped into a postcard of Hollywood.

Abdullah dropped us at the Oil Exhibit building, where we were handed our copy of
Aramco and Its World
and joined other new employees and their wives, along with a welcoming committee of Aramcons who had lived in Arabia for years. I held close to Mason as we settled into a row of folding chairs. A large American man, flushed in his Western-cut suit and red-and-white-checked head scarf, took the microphone.

“I’m Ross Fullerton,” he said, “district manager of Abqaiq. Welcome to the Aramco family!” His Sunday-go-to-meeting cowboy boots clapped across the stage as he pumped his fist in the air like he was preaching a revival. “We are your home away from home, and you will never find a better one!”

He called several men to the front of the room and introduced them like an auctioneer lining up his stock. I focused on Burt Cane, a silver-haired man with the posture of a colonel who managed personnel and stood in stark contrast to Swede Olson, Mason’s drilling superintendent, an aging giant with a brawler’s face whose fists hung like hams at his sides, and his assistant, Tiny Doty, who stood a foot shorter and had the grin of a naughty schoolboy.

The lights dimmed for a film,
What Aramco Is All About
. The booming voice of the narrator related the story of discovery, how in the beginning, there was nothing but the sand and the promise of oil beneath it, the Bedu who journeyed for centuries through the steep
jabals
and over the carbonate Dammam Dome. And then, in the 1930s, the American engineers and geologists, the tinkerers and gadgeteers filtering in a few at a time, their women following like the pioneer wives they were. We saw old photos of King Ibn Saud, already blind with trachoma, signing the concession, footage of the Standard Oil rigs drilling down through layers of grainstone, mudstone, limestone. What they found was
exceptional porosity
, the narrator said,
exceptional
. Texas Oil joined in, and the Arabian American Oil Company was born, not a corporation, the voice reminded us, but a special friendship. The Aramco family went to work with a single-minded objective: two million barrels of oil a day.

But first, the roads, platforms, derricks, refineries, eight hundred miles of pipeline—all had to be built atop the dunes, the evaporated lakebeds and dry wadis. We watched grainy footage of the Aramco Mobile Drilling Platform No. 1 being tugged ten thousand miles from Vicksburg, Mississippi, at a steady three and a half knots to the Persian Gulf, the largest offshore oil field in the world—Safinaya, where Mason would work. Impossible tasks, the labors of Hercules, but we had won the war, the narrator reminded us, would someday land a man on the moon. What
challenges could the desert present that we could not meet? The call went out for operators to man the machinery, men to oversee the men. Roughnecks from Halliburton, Standard, and Shell. Farmers from the Philippines, Danish journeymen, an entire village of Italians from Eritrea. Laborers to build the camps and compounds where the laborers and supervisors would live. Gardeners and houseboys, drivers and cooks—a cadre of servants and servers. Aramco enticed the Bedouins from their caravans with the promise of pay and all the water their camels could drink, imported Palestinians, Syrians, Jordanians. Who could resist the promise of such prosperity? Workers from every continent and of every faith flowed in as readily as the oil flowed out. The American dream became the dream of the world.

“There were some naysayers,” Ross said as the lights were raised, “but never tell an American there’s something he can’t do.” He pulled down maps from their rollers: the region, the area, the three districts. A discussion of the dollar versus the riyal, the market in al-Khobar, the food in the commissary, health clinic hours, Dhahran’s state-of-the-art hospital. A phone directory of services and emergency numbers. How to get mail, the weekly
Sun and Flare
tabloid newsletter, and
Aramco World
, the slick bimonthly magazine—all read and censored by the Saudis. He popped open a large black briefcase, passed around various forms, told us that the company would hold our passports and where we should go for our photo IDs. A quick slide show of customs and traditions. The woman’s
abaya
, the head covering and face veil called
hijab
, the man’s
thobe
, and the scarf called a
ghutra
. Ross unwrapped his own to demonstrate its construction, revealing a thin skullcap that masked his balding pate. He flapped the scarf into an open square, folded it into a triangle, spread it evenly atop his head, and secured it with a black leather
agal
. He told us about the Five Pillars of Islam, including the
hajj
to Mecca and the five daily calls to prayer. Muslim bus drivers, drillers, soldiers, sheikhs, even the king—all were obligated to stop whatever they were doing and kneel facing
Mecca. We would get used to the singsong calls of the muezzin broadcast from the mosques’ minarets, Ross said, if we would just think of it as radio.

“It’s a heck of a good life, but never forget that we’re guests in this country. They overlook a lot when it comes to us gringos, but you got to be respectful.” Ross had worked himself into a rolling sweat and mopped at his brow with the hem of his scarf. “The Arabs are known for their hospitality, but they are particular about their watering holes. Out in the desert, the wells are hard to spot, just old mounds of camel dung, but they belong to specific tribes. Stealing a Bedouin’s water is like stealing a man’s horse. He’ll shoot you for it.” He picked up his glass and took a long swallow, sopped his mouth. “Now, as you all know, there are some things that are okay
inside
the compound but verboten
outside
. The Arabs call these things
haram
—forbidden by the laws of
shariah
.”

I listened to the familiar list of sins: dancing, gambling, drinking. Ross loudly whispered into the microphone that a bootleg instruction booklet,
The Blue Flame
, was available on how to build your own kitchen still. He winked. “Or you might just ask your neighbor if he’s finished with his cooker.”

“Never!” a big man shouted, and everyone laughed.

Pork was illegal, its handling and consumption
haram
, but sometimes rations could be found in the commissary’s pork room. “Chops, roasts, bacon. What’s Easter without a ham?” Ross paced the platform, became more solemn. “Men, as you know, the local women don’t show themselves. If you happen to see one, don’t talk, don’t touch. Don’t even look at them. We’ve got the best lawyers money can buy, but this isn’t the U. S. of A. The Saudis are serious about this stuff, and you’d better be too. We’re talking jail time, deportation, and that’s if you’re lucky.” He looked around the room to make sure he’d made his point, snapped his briefcase closed, pushed it aside, and settled one ample hip on the table. “Now,” he said, “let’s go over the rules for the gals.”

It is forbidden for any woman to drive outside the compounds. No women allowed on the crew launches. No women allowed on the rigs. No women in the men’s section of cafés and coffeehouses. No women in the men’s
suqs.
No women outside the gates alone
.

“But”—Ross lifted his finger—“the Ladies’ Limo runs from Abqaiq to Dhahran and right into al-Khobar. You want to shop, get the girlfriends and hop on. Just don’t go wandering off or we might never find you.”

Women who leave the compounds should dress in modest attire
.

“Leave the golf skirts at home, girls. These Arab boys aren’t used to seeing bare skin, and they might not be able to control themselves. They’d like you to wear the
abaya
, but we negotiated special dispensation. Best to look like you’re going to church. Back inside the compound, you can put on those swimsuits, dive into that pool!”

The big man gave a loud wolf whistle, eliciting a chorus of snickers.

“It’s the job of the
mutaween
,” Ross went on, “the Committee for the Propagation of Virtue and the Prevention of Vice, to enforce the laws of
shariah
. You won’t often see them, but they do carry canes. They leave us Aramcons alone, but no need to spur them.” Ross straightened and hoisted his trousers, which had worked their way below his belly. “Questions?”

Mason looked at me, but I was remembering my grandfather, how he’d switched me for cutting the sleeves from my dress. August in Oklahoma, and I thought I’d die of the heat. No neighbors for miles, and still my bare shoulders were an insult to the Lord.

When Ross directed us to the refreshment table, Mason was stopped by Burt Cane, and I saw them fall into easy conversation. I moved into line, but before I could get my coffee, a woman minced up to me, her feet swollen in the clench of high heels. A fall of blond hair framed her heart-shaped face. I’d thought she
might be my age until I saw the heavy makeup caking the corners of her mouth.

“Hi,” she said in a chirpy Texas drawl. “I’m Candy Fullerton, Ross’s wife. Welcome to the Aramco family!” She held out her hand, sharp as a hatchet.

“Gin McPhee,” I said, and shook the fingertips she offered.

“Are you all liking your new house?” Her eyes canvassed the room behind me.

“It’s wonderful,” I said.

“Give it a year, and you won’t be so easy to please.” She looked at me from the corners of her eyes. “Buck and Betsy Bodeen lived there until three days ago, you know. He was the head of Materials Supply. I’m sure you’ll want to redecorate. Those marble floors are so gauche.” I stole a glance to locate Mason, saw that Burt Cane had his full attention, but Candy ignored my distraction. “As soon as Ross gets promoted to general manager, we’re moving to Dhahran,” she said. “Abqaiq is in the middle of nowhere.” She pursed her lips. “Watch out for the houseboys. They always try to take advantage of newcomers.”

“Yash seems fine,” I said.

“He’s uppity.” The corners of her mouth winced, then lifted as her eyes took on new focus. “Carlo is here,” she said.

I followed her gaze to where a compact man with a camera crouched on his heels. Green silk scarf tied across his high forehead, dark beard sharpening his chin, gold hoop earrings, bloused white shirt undone and exposing a thatched chest, buccaneer’s boots to his knees—how I could have missed him, I wasn’t sure.

“He’s Italian,” Candy said. “Isn’t he cute?” She toggled her fingers his way, but when he didn’t seem to notice, she turned back to me. “Listen,” she said, “how about a round of golf tomorrow?”

“I don’t—”

“You can learn.” She glanced behind me and touched my wrist. “I’ll send you a personal invitation to the club.”

I watched her hone in on Mason, her voice rising as she extended her hand and smiled brightly, edging in until her breasts brushed his arm. I was glad when he looked up, saw me watching, and shifted away. I turned to the coffee and was adding powdered creamer when I felt someone touch my back.

“Hi,” the woman said. “I’m Ruthie Doucet.” She spread her arms wide. “Welcome to the Aramco family!” She rolled her dark eyes to where Candy Fullerton was laughing openmouthed at something Mason had said. “Did she ask you to join the Ladies’ Golf Club?”

“Yes, but—”

“Don’t,” Ruthie said. “There’s better company to keep.” She hooked my arm. “Come on. I’m dying for a cigarette.”

We sat at a table decorated with little flags stabbed into half-moons of Styrofoam: the Stars and Stripes, the green Arabic script and sword, Aramco’s rust-colored circled double A, bold as a cattle brand. Ruthie crossed her legs as she scouted the crowd. Brunette bouffant, blue eye shadow, pearly lipstick, a tartan skirt and cap-sleeved pullover—she was nearing forty, I guessed, but had the electric air of a teenager.

“How long?” she asked.

“We flew in yesterday.”

She offered me a cigarette. I hadn’t smoked since that first seductive puff in Mason’s car, but I figured I could fake it. She loosened one high heel and rubbed the arch of her foot. “From?”

“Houston. Oklahoma before that.” I held the smoke in my cheeks, let it out in a puff.

“I met Lucky in Beirut,” she said, “We moved here from the States after he got out of the air force, fifteen years now. Any kids?” When I hesitated, she dipped her hand as though in understanding and went on. “We’ve got one son, Joey. He’s in boarding school at Hargrave.” She pointed her cigarette to where a man nearly twice her size was filling his mouth with cookies, and I
recognized him as the one who had shouted his answers at Ross. “Lucky!” she called. “Lucky Doucet! Come and meet Gin.”