A Hologram for the King Read Online Free PDF

allow him to let the whole thing fail. Alan made all these assertions to Yousef, trying to convince himself, too.
    â€”But what if he dies? Yousef asked. He’s eighty-five. What then?
    Alan had no answer. He wanted to believe that this kind of thing, a city rising from dust, could happen. The architectural renderings he’d seen were magnificent. Gleaming towers, tree-lined public spaces and promenades, a series of canals allowing commuters to get almost anywhere by boat. The city was futuristic and romantic, but also practical. It could be made with extant technology and a lot of money, but money Abdullah certainly had. Why he didn’t just put the money up himself, without Emaar, was a mystery. The man had enough money to raise the city overnight — so why didn’t he? Sometimes a king had to be a king.
    The exit ahead said King Abdullah Economic City. Yousef turned to Alan, raised his eyebrows in mock drama.
    â€”Here we go. Full steam ahead!
    They exited the highway and drove toward the sea.
    â€”You sure this is the right way? Alan asked.
    â€”This is where you wanted to go, Yousef said.
    Alan saw no sign of a city-to-be.
    â€”Whatever it is, it’s there, Yousef said, pointing in front of them. The road was new, but it cut through absolutely nothing. They drove a mile before they arrived at a modest gate, a pair of stone arches over the road, a great dome atop it all. It was as if someone had built a road through unrepentant desert, and then erected a gate somewhere in the middle, to imply the end of one thing and the beginning of another. It was hopeful but unconvincing.
    Yousef stopped and rolled down his window. A pair of guards in blue fatigues, rifles draped loosely over their shoulders, approached cautiously and circled the car. They seemed surprised to see anyone, let alone two men in a thirty-year-old Chevy.
    Yousef spoke to them, mentioning his passenger with a rightward nod of his chin. The guards leaned down to see the American in the passenger seat. Alan smiled professionally. One of the guards said something to Yousef, and Yousef turned to Alan.
    â€”Your ID.
    Alan handed him his passport. The guard disappeared into his office. He returned and handed the passport back to Yousef and waved them through.
    Beyond the checkpoint, the road split into two lanes. The median was covered in grass, burnt and struggling, kept alive by a pair of men in red jumpsuits who were watering it with a hose.
    â€”I’m guessing these aren’t union men, Alan said.
    Yousef smiled grimly. —I heard a guy in my dad’s shop the other day. He said, ‘We don’t have unions here. We have Filipinos.’
    They drove on. A row of palm trees began in the median grass, all of them newly planted, some still wrapped in burlap. Interspersed every ten trees or so were banners attached to lampposts, bearing images of what the city would look like once finished. One featured a man in a thobe getting off a yacht, briefcase in hand, being greeted by two men in black suits and sunglasses. In another, a man was swinging a golf club at dawn, a caddy next to him — another South Asian, presumably. There was an airbrushed rendering of a fabulous new stadium. An aerial rendering of a beachfront lined with resorts. A photo of a woman helping her son use a laptop computer. She was wearing a hijab, but was otherwise dressed in Western clothing, everything lavender.
    â€”Why would they advertise those kinds of freedoms if they weren’t sincere? Alan asked. The risk Abdullah’s taking in pissing off the conservatives is pretty big.
    Yousef shrugged.
    â€”Who knows? It impresses guys like you, so maybe it’s working.
    The road straightened out and again cut through desert without feature or form. Streetlights were placed every twenty feet or so, but otherwise there was nothing at all, the whole thing like a recentlyabandoned development on the moon.
    They drove another mile toward the