Free The Ruins of Us by Keija Parssinen

the work routine and you could be anywhere. If it weren’t for the call to prayer, I’d think I was in Cleveland.”
    “Yeah, right,” Pat said with a grin. “I’m going to head back across the causeway before I lose the will. Take care of yourself, Coleman.”
    Pat leapt back onto the deck and cut straight through the clubhouse to the front door. The clubhouse, much like the Kingdom, relied on a strict revolving-door policy. Dan remembered the warlike drone of the military helicopters as they scouted overhead the day of the Palm Court massacre. Calmly, he and Abdullah had left the office, driven to the Diamond Mile, and proceeded to get blitzed on Black Label while Abdullah placed dozens of calls to ministers, businessmen, and friends, trying to get a feel for how the fallout would affect B-Corp. Eleanor and Joe bought phone cards and called him, frantic, and even Carolyn sent a cold, electronic probe into his state of bein—living? dead? afraid?—while Dan watched the endless coverage of the Palm Court incident on CNN and the BBC.
    About a week after the hostage incident, Abdullah had stomped into his office with a large Safeway bag filled to bursting.
    “Listen to me, stupid American. I have some things for you.”
    He took a large white ball of cloth from the bag and unfurled it.
    “Here, put this on,” he said, throwing the white robe at Dan. “Tarek!” he shouted to the Egyptian who worked at the desk outside Dan’s office.
    Tarek came in, an AK- 47 rifle slung over his muscular shoulder.
    “Tarek is going to go everywhere with you for the next few days. He will even tuck you in at night,” Abdullah said. “He trained in the Egyptian military and we don’t want to send you back to America in a bag.”
    “But Tarek’s an accountant.”
    “An accountant trained by Mubarak to put bullets into the brains of zealots. And troublesome liberals, for that matter.” Abdullah left before Dan could reply.
    Guns still scared him, and he barely knew Tarek. He could feel his quadriceps clenched tight against his leather office chair as the Egyptian stared at him, awaiting direction.
    “Tarek, you’re a good man, thank you for your concern. But I think everything will be fine. Honestly.”
    “Are you sure, Mr. Dan? Aren’t you worried?” he said.
    “Yes, I am worried, Tarek. I’m worried about what might happen if you and I are walking home one night and some shabab makes a wrong turn out of an alleyway and comes nose to nose with Big Bertha,” he said, addressing the gun, which looked sorely out of place against the backdrop of Gary Larson cartoons hanging on his file cabinet.
    “Well, if you change your mind . . .” Tarek said.
    “Thanks, Tarek.”
    “You should think about wearing the thobe, uncle.”
    Dan said he would think about it. But even in a thobe, he would still be an American, a fact no amount of white robing could disguise. His gut, his height, his clean-shaven face. Blending in was not an option.
    He closed the door behind Tarek and walked over to the window. Al Dawoun burned white beneath the midday sun, and from a few blocks away, he heard the muezzin calling the people to prayer, the words of the adhan falling on the ears of the faithful, the faithless, the fundamentalist, the questioning, the confused. Somewhere, the escaped hostage-takers were kneeling down toward Mecca to pray, their bloody hands washed clean.
    DAN HEADED BACK to the clubhouse, sinking into the high drifts of sand with each step. Once inside, the burnt-fruit smell of the shisha’s strawberry tobacco tickled his nostrils. Two of the Syrian cousins sat on a loveseat in the corner speaking in rapid Arabic, Fatima’s Gauloise voice low and steady. Her laughter reverberated off of the linoleum floor, the bare walls. It was a rich and beautiful sound, something you’d hear at a Parisian cabaret, someplace where pleasure really belonged. Abdullah was sitting on the floor and fiddling with his BlackBerry, his back up