Free The Artificial Mirage by T. Warwick Page B

genuinely apologetic. “Ali, you are a gentleman. Don’t worry about it, sir.” As he entered the living room, Ali’s teammates and some other men he had met before whose names he’d forgotten were sitting on the floor around a disposable translucent white plastic tablecloth. The host, an Egyptian man who seemed to be in his late thirties—though it was difficult to tell the way different people aged—was passing food around haphazardly. It was all men.
    “Oh, good. Another new man. Please, sit down.” He motioned with both arms at an empty space on the floor.
    “Well, I’m not exactly new,” Cameron said.
    “Oh, it does not matter. I am Mohammed. Please eat as much as you like,” he said as he slapped down two lamb kofta kebabs on the plastic next to him like a bag of potato chips. “My wife is cooking in the next room. Ithink we need more food.” He called his wife in the adjacent room using his phone as an intercom, speaking loudly in Arabic and smiling mischievously. There would be no female company for the duration of the evening. Cameron sat down Indian style with the others, all of whom seemed to be Arabs but not Saudis, and introduced himself. On top of the large thin sheet of translucent plastic, there was a large aluminum plate the size of a large pizza pie in the middle. There was a dwindling quantity of meat in the center as everyone seemed to be fervently focused on eating. Cameron grabbed one of the few remaining pieces of pita bread, and Mohammed hastily got on the intercom to his wife to order more.
    After a few minutes of silent mastication, Mohammed looked around as if he were looking for something. “So, what brings you to Saudi Arabia, Cameron?”
    “I was here ten years ago, so I guess they had me listed somewhere.”
    “You are a contractor?”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    “So are we.”
    “I think everyone is these days.”
    “No, not everyone.”
    “Who’s not?”
    “Saudis.”
    Everyone laughed.
    “Do you know how long they will keep us?”
    “I don’t know. I know after the last accident, they don’t want to be too careful.”
    The others started mumbling in Arabic, and some seemed to be carrying on conversations completely unrelated. “How many children do you have?” one of them asked abruptly.
    “Oh, none right now.”
    “But you are married?”
    “No, I haven’t burned that bridge yet.”
    There was a gasp of astonishment and some chuckles. “Why aren’t you married?” Mohammed asked, seeming genuinely concerned. “Some of us here have three wives and many children.”
    “I was…for a time.”
    “And now?”
    “I don’t know, Mohammed. I just haven’t gotten around to it. I mean…” Cameron stopped himself before he was forced to explain the difference between a girlfriend and a prostitute.
    “OK. I mean…there is a time to stop playing at some point in your life.”
    “Oh, sure. Well, I sure didn’t come here to play.”
    Raucous laughter erupted from everyone, and the man sitting to Cameron’s left slapped him on the back. Silence followed, and then there were comments in English and Arabic, which continued for some time.
    Cameron had wanted to say “divorce is the new form of polygamy in the West,” but he knew it would just add to the confusion. He reached for the nearest pitcher and poured himself some blood-orange juice.
    “Excellent choice,” Ali said. “From Lebanon. It’s in season.”
    “That’s the best time,” Charlie said.
    “Yes.”
    Cameron looked around as everyone except he and Ali began lighting up cigarettes. “I think I’ll have that tea at your place after all, Ali.”
    “That is good, my friend. Good night, gentlemen. Masalam.”
    Outside, Cameron moved his car as close as possible to the entrance to Ali’s apartment. Ali looked around to make sure no one was looking before he picked up the case of vodka and carried it back up to his apartment. “Good night, my friend,” he said to Cameron.
    “Night, Ali.” Cameron