Dubai

All this by way of prelude. Ram has heard about them, picking off troublemaking foreigners and journalists, instigating pro-Mo rallies and events, stirring nationalist fervor among students at the University in Al-’Ayn, gleaning information useful to the ruling Al-Maktoum family at all sorts of harmless festivals and celebrations, but he’s never known for sure when he’s been in the presence of one of them. They wear dark glasses, carry symbolic walkie-talkies, drive black Mercedes, and are supposed to have a tad more arrogance than the most inebriated of Emiratis. Not that these are precise identifiers. So he’s finally in the jurisdiction of one! In other Arab countries there is a name for their type — in Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Syria, Egypt: mukhabarat, informers. Officially, Dubai doesn’t have spies of any kind. Officially, sometimes even the police and the military don’t exist. Dubai’s only business is business. Everyone’s at bottom either a businessman, or an enforcer of business norms.

“Does this stuff taste good?” the Emirati asks. “I’ve never tried it.”

Ram immediately offers the untouched plate of plantains meant for his roommate. The Emirati makes a great show of enjoying the South Asian snack, licking the grease off his thick fingers. “Delicious. It tastes just like — bananas. But I guess that’s what it is. Very filling.” In quick order, he finishes the whole plate, barely taking time to properly chew and swallow. At the end, he licks off all of his fingers snappingly. Then he places Ram’s finished paper plate over his own, and walks the few feet to the nearest trash receptacle, which happens to have on it a colorful depiction of Dubailand, Dubai’s own Disney World. Returning, he says, “Well now, suppose you tell me how you’ve been keeping yourself busy this week? Name’s Muhammad, by the way.” His thick hand doesn’t shake, only grips hard, and Ram feels as if he’s offering his thinner hand in ba’ya, the traditional oath of allegiance.

“Ram,” he says, as if there were any need. Ram wishes the Emirati wouldn’t waste time with the useless small talk. There’s no need for it. His heart should be thumping with anxiety, his pulse throbbing with fear — instead, he mostly feels curiosity. In his own drama, can it really be said he’s been a full participant ever since he came to this land of madcap building up and tearing down? He raises his palm quietly, as if signaling the end of preliminaries.

“Not that we don’t know. First, the one-way ticket to India. That always triggers an investigation, you know. Just to make sure everything’s on the up-and-up. The travel agents are very cooperative. They have to be. I mean, even if a prince in the Al-Maktoum family took out a one-way ticket to Paris — cleanest city in the world, by the way, I love visiting it — we would make sure the Prince’s state of mind was unobjectionable. Then your visits to your friends — and what a diverse group they are, if I may say so. Remarkable. For someone who got his start in the construction industry, to know shopkeepers, budding entrepreneurs, people who have a legitimate shot at investing in the free trade zones — remarkable!”

“I haven’t worked in hard labor since my first years here…”

“And that’s the other thing, the transition to clerical work, when you came here as a laborer. Almost unheard of — even if there’s been little promotion. I asked my colleagues to come up with comparable examples, and there don’t seem to be any, for non-Arabs. Remarkable.”

Despite himself, Ram smiles. “Perhaps I’ve just been lucky. In the right place at the right time.”

“No, my friend, it’s more than luck. More than sheer resourcefulness, ingenuity, ability. Pretty nearly all your compatriots are blessed with these qualities. And they work hard, all of them work off their butts, but most stay in the same kinds of labor camps they were assigned to begin with — until the day comes to leave, which is nearly always involuntary. But you, my friend, are leaving voluntarily. Remarkable!”

“Is it a crime to leave Dubai?”

“Crime? Well now, now that you mention crimes — I wonder…”

“What is it you’re trying to say?”

The Emirati looks away. His heavy cell phone tinkles, and he presses the mute button, not checking to see who’s calling. He taps his right foot on the ground, his heavy leather sandal loose enough to almost fall off. “It seems they’re taking three hours now for Friday prayers… Simplicity is better in all things. The simple recourse, the simple explanation, is usually the most elegant. But this principle is always in opposition to the momentum of complexity. Things assume momentum sometimes for the most curious reasons, the most fragile circumstances — coincidences. Yet the momentum for anything has a time limit. People’s patrons — for instance — meet their maker. They die. Their time comes and goes. Then what happens to those they patronize? They’re on their own. Simplicity, you see, returns to its rightful place, and harmony reigns. Beautiful!” Then he abruptly turns to Ram, his face turning a harsher hue. “On the afternoon of September 4, 1974, were you mixing concrete at the construction site of Zaytoonah Mall? For an Indian contractor named Suleiman Shah? Were you on the road to the desert for more than an hour at the time of the ’asr prayer?”