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 shemight 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
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 shemight 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
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