Nekropolis

by Maureen F. Mchugh

  I buy figs for the party.

  The party is in a flat in the old part of the city, in a stone building. The woman who is having the party is Miss Aziza. She opens the door and she is wearing a long dark-red dress and has her long black hair in a braid that is hanging over her shoulder. The dress is beautiful, but it isn’t Moroccan, and she isn’t wearing a veil, so she must be very rich.

  “Miss Hariba?” she says.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Welcome!” she says, and takes my hands between hers. “Welcome to Spain , and welcome to a little bit of home!”

  I smell familiar smells-mint and cinnamon and chickpeas.

  She looks past me.

  “This is Akhmim,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says. She is startled, because he’s a harni . Miss Katrina must not have told her.

  Akhmim bows politely, as if he doesn’t notice. I thought it was all right here. He’s so plain in his white shirt and black pants. He has the figs and he hands them to me and I hold them out to Miss Aziza.

  “Oh, figs,” she says. “How sweet of you. Come in, come in!”

  There are a dozen or do people standing or sitting and talking, and none of the women are wearing veils. The room is full of rugs and chairs and pillows and drapes and it’s beautiful, more beautiful than anything at Mbarek’s. There’s a long table and it is covered with food-couscous with vegetables and bisteya and chickpeas with cumin, and little pastries. There are pistachios and almonds and cheese and fruit-grapes and dates and figs and oranges. I’m even more embarrassed.

  But it’s still a little like home.

  I drop my veil so it’s not covering my hair, just hanging over my shoulders.

  Miss Aziza turns to the room. “Everybody, this is Miss Hariba and Akhmim, just a few days from Morocco .” She introduces people, a blur of names. “Get yourselves something to eat,” she says.

  There are plates at one end of the table, and people around the room are holding plates of food. I take a plate and get some bisteya. I haven’t had it in so long and this pie has a beautiful flaky crust and smells of pigeon and lemon, ginger and almond. The wedges are dusted with cinnamon and sugar.

  Miss Aziza is smiling. “I love bisteya,” I say.

  “Let me introduce you to someone,” she says. “Professor Malik?” she says.

  Professor Malik is dressed all in white. He looks like a distinguished man, except that he looks so young. “Miss Hariba,” he says. “Welcome. And Akhmim.” These people smile at Akhmim, but I don’t think they really want him here. He’s taken some bisteya and some fruit and a piece of cheese.

  “So where are you from?” he asks.

  “Fez ,” I say.

  “Fez ,” he says. “I had a great friend in Fez . I’m from Marrakech.”

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  “Twelve years,” he says.

  I don’t know what to say. The idea makes me so homesick. “Do you miss home?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he says. “But this is my home now, and I don’t think I would live in Morocco , even if I could. It’s so easy here. Have heart, you’ll get more comfortable.”

  “What did you do in Marrakech?” I ask.

  “I was a professor of religious studies,” he says. “But some of the things I published made people unhappy. How did you come to Spain ?”

  “I came with Akhmim,” I say.

  “Ah,” he says to Akhmim. “You’re a chimera.”

  “Yes, Professor,” Akhmim says.

  “How did you meet?” he asks me.

  “I was a house manager, and Akhmim was, um, part of the household.” I don’t think I’m supposed to say “owned.” I wonder what he thinks now that he realizes that he’s talking to a housekeeper. But if he’s appalled, he hides it well.

  “It’s good to have someone new come,” he says. “We all see the same faces too much.” He leans close and whispers, “And it doesn’t hurt to see Aziza reminded about the rights of chimera.”

  “She doesn’t like chimera?” I ask.

  “Aziza is quite proud of her tolerance, but I don’t think she expected your friend for dinner. You’re quite amazing.” He says it as if I should be proud of it, as if I did it on purpose.

  “Me,” I say.

  “Oh yes,” he says. “We all talk about how dreadful conditions are in Morocco , and about how horrible institutionalized slavery is, but we never do anything about it. You have.”

  “I haven’t done anything,” I say.

  “But here you are, and here is Akhmim, who I assume you brought from Morocco .”

  “Yes, Professor,” Akhmim says, “she did.”

  “How do you feel about having rights thrust upon you?” Professor Malik asks Akhmim.

  “It’s a little strange,” Akhmim says.

  “There are other chimera like you in Málaga,” Professor Malik says. “I could put you in touch with someone.”

  “I would like that very much,” Akhmim says simply.

  “You must be very lonely,” Professor Malik says.

  “Very,” Akhmim says. “But I’ve been lonely a long time.”

  “And you,” Professor Malik says to me, “you must come and have tea with me.”

  Alone? I think.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I am old enough to be your father. And my wife will be there.”

  I don’t know what to think about any of this.

  * * *

  We’re enrolled in language classes. Akhmim goes in a different class because harni learn languages differently than humans. Chimera. Spanish is difficult, mostly because of the alphabet.

  Because I was jessed, I have political asylum, which Katrina says is the best kind, because in three years I can qualify for E.C.U. citizenship. I can’t qualify for Spanish citizenship because I’d have to be born in Spain , but she says that would only matter if I wanted to be a politician.

  Akhmim has political asylum, too, because chimera are enslaved at home.

  I write my family and let them know where they can get in touch with me, and I include money for my mother and my aunt Zehra. Not very much, but some.

  I’m also enrolled in counseling to help my adjustment to Spain .

  I go to counseling at three in the afternoon, which is the same time that Akhmim has his Spanish course at the Instituto Internacional Alhambra. My counseling session is only an hour, but his class is an hour and a half, so I promise to meet him at the Instituto. I don’t like riding on the bus by myself, though. We get on together at our apartment. Akhmim can recognize the bus, but not by the bus number. I don’t know how he does it because a lot of buses run on our route, and some have our Centre Number, C2, and some have other letters and numbers but look pretty much the same. Akhmim doesn’t know how he does it, either, but he’s always right. We get on the bus together and then when we get to the Center, I stay on, but he takes the R16 out to the Instituto.

  I have learned to say the name of my stop, Parque and Cinquente-Cinco. I tell the driver. I’m afraid that the driver will forget, but he remembers and calls it out.

  I have a note from Miss Katrina saying that I don’t speak Spanish and that I have an appointment with Dr. Esteban. I show it to the young man at the desk and he smiles and calls someone. Another young man with hair dyed yellow comes and gets me. “Hola,” he says. I know that. “Hola,” I whisper and smile. I stare at my toes in the elevator.

  My doctor looks young like many of these people, but I know he isn’t. I’m getting better at telling when people aren’t really young. Something about the way their noses and ears and chins are. Something about the way their eyes are set in the hollows of their skulls.

  “Miss Hariba,” he says. He has an office with a big window, but it’s covered in a heavy red patterned curtain, a little like the patterns on rugs at home. “We have many things to discuss.” He’s Moroccan, but I don’t think he was born in Morocco . “I’m here to help you with your transition to Spanish and E.C.U
. culture. I’m here to help you with your feelings about the things that have happened to you and about your loneliness, and to help you resolve your relationship with the chimera.”

  “What do you mean, resolve my relationship?” These people talk about Akhmim in the oddest way. For all the unfairness with which people in Morocco treated harni, at least in Mbarek’s household we didn’t talk about him as if he were a problem.

  “There’s a basic inequality in your relationship with a chimera like Akhmim. Akhmim has no choice.”

  “Of course he has a choice,” I say. “I didn’t ask him to love me.”

  “That’s what we’ll talk about,” says the doctor.

  “You can’t take Akhmim away from me,” I say.

  “No, nor do I want to,” the doctor says.

  I don’t understand these people at all.

  “So,” the doctor looks at his slate. “You’re taking Spanish classes.”

  “Why do I see you and Miss Katrina?” I ask.

  “Miss Katrina is…?”

  “My facilitator.”

  “Ah,” he nods. “Good question. Miss Katrina is to get all the legal things straightened out. But I’m here to help you and your feelings.”

  I don’t think Dr. Estaban is going to be much help. He makes me nervous. “Can you tell me what soap looks like?” I ask him. “I mean, I know what soap looks like, but in the store everything is in packages and I can’t read them.”

  He blinks. “I can do that,” he says. He opens up his screen and types a couple of things. “Here,” he says, and shows me the screen. “This is the soap that I use. I don’t know if it’s the best, but it’s the one my wife always gets. You mean soap for washing up, don’t you?”

  I look at the blue and white wave and I think it’s pretty clear. “Washing up, and washing clothes and dishes.”

  “Oh, the soap for washing clothes is different, and so is the soap for washing dishes.” He calls up the labels for those and prints them all off for me. In his very neat hand he writes WASHING UP on the blue and white one, DISHES on the bright yellow one, and LAUNDRY on the red one with the big smiling sun. I thank him. Personally, I think soap is soap. I’ll get the blue and white one.

  Sometimes these people can get too complicated.

  * * *

  I take the bus to the Instituto Internacional Alhambra, where Akhmim is having class. It’s as nerve-wracking as taking the bus to Cinquente-Cinco and Parque. The Instituto is a large place, crowded by other buildings in the city. I get very lost, looking for Akhmim’s classroom. I’m afraid if I get there too late that he’ll think I’m not coming and go home, although, I remind myself, Akhmim is very patient.

  But I find the right floor and count the classrooms until I find his. The door is half open. Inside there is a teacher sitting at a desk and three harni and they are…entwined. Not as if they are having sex, but still sitting against each other, a leg thrown across another’s lap, an arm around another’s waist. Akhmim is in the middle and on one side of him is a beautiful woman and on the other is a young man, really a boy. Akhmim is holding a screen that they are looking at.

  His face is remote and happy, terribly happy, like I have never seen it before.

  I back away from the door and stand in the hall. When he finally comes out, I pretend that I didn’t see anything.

  “How’s your class?” I ask.

  “It’s good,” he says. “I like it a lot.”

  “Have you made friends?” I ask.

  He nods. “What was the counselor like?”

  “He told me what soap to buy,” I say and show him the labels. I’m looking at his face, trying to see into it. He just looks like Akhmim, not like someone who would sit with two strangers as if they were all but the same skin.

  “Are you happy with me?” I ask.

  “I love you,” he says. “You know that.”

  I do know that. I want to ask him if he would rather be with other harni, but I’m afraid to. Akhmim has a counselor, too. I wonder if his counselor needs to talk about Akhmim’s relationship with me. I wonder if his counselor is human.

  * * *

  I get a letter from my mother. Her letter is short, of course, since she comes from the countryside and Nabil writes out what she says.

  * * *

  Dear Hariba,

  Thank you for your letter and the money. I’m glad to know that you’re safe. Your aunt and I are fine, but I’m sorry to tell you that Alem has been arrested. Ayesha and Tariam are staying with her mother. Your brother and sister are well. Please take care of yourself.

  * * *

  I call Miss Katrina. I have never used her little phone card before. She answers in Spanish, and then something must tell her who it is because she says in Moroccan, “Miss Hariba? Is that you?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Please, miss, I need your help!”

  “What’s wrong?” she says. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, it’s not me. It’s my friend, in Morocco , who got us out. His name is Alem.” Tears rise up, hot, as I say it. “My mother has written to tell me that he’s been arrested!”

  “Oh, Miss Hariba,” she says, “I’m so sorry.”

  “What can you do?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Hold on.” As she mutes the phone, I hear her saying something in Spanish. I have probably interrupted her. It’s foolish of me to feel such a sense of urgency, no doubt Alem was arrested days ago. My mother may very well have been arrested by now. And Aunt Zehra. I’m ashamed. “Miss Hariba?” she says.

  I draw a shuddering breath. “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I can request that the Spanish government and the E.C.U. enter a protest with the Moroccan government. I don’t know if they will, but the E.C.U. often does in cases like this.”

  “What will that do?” I ask.

  “Probably nothing,” she says. “It might put a little pressure on the Moroccan government, but given the North African Alliance’s refusal to have any trade or diplomatic relationships with the E.C.U. or the North and Central American Unity, I don’t see much that we can do.”

  “Oh,” I say, because I don’t know anything else to say.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Hariba. Can you tell me his name and address and what he was arrested for?”

  I don’t know what he was arrested for, but I tell her everything else.

  “Is there anyone you know who can intercede for him?” Miss Katrina asks.

  “I’m a housekeeper,” I say. “I don’t know anyone important.”

  “Well, I’ll let you know what response I get. I’m so sorry, Miss Hariba.”

  When she cuts the connection, I try to think of what to do. Akhmim is out at his counselor. He’d know what to do to make me feel better.

  Professor Malik might know someone who could help, he was a professor in Marrakech. I call, but there’s no answer, so I leave a message.

  I walk from the main room to the bedroom and back again. We have rugs now, and some pillows. We’re saving what little money we have left, although Miss Katrina has told us we’ll get 2,000 E.C.U. units in less than a week. Everything is so expensive. For my Spanish class I had to pay over 200 E.C.U. for a slate and 62 E.C.U. more for an e-book. Soap was 4 E.C.U. units. The bus is 2 E.C.U. units every time we ride it. I sent 100 E.C.U. units to my mother and Aunt Zehra, which is more than I made in three months, but so little here.

  One of the phone cards chirps and it takes me a minute to find it. “Hello?” I say, and then remember I am supposed to say, “Hola.”

  “Miss Hariba?” It’s Professor Malik.

  “Oh, Professor, thank all that’s holy you called.”

  “Miss Hariba,” he says in his beautiful, educated voice, “what’s wrong?”

  “They have arrested my best friend’s husband for getting Akhmim and me out of Morocco , and I don’t know what to do!” Tears in my throat and in my breath.

  “Oh, my poor dear. Oh, that poor man.”

  “Miss Katrina, my facilita
tor, asked me if I knew anyone who could help in Morocco , but I’m just a housekeeper. And then I thought of you. You’re a professor, is there anyone you know?”

  I hear his indrawn breath. “Miss Hariba,” he says, “I have been gone from Marrakech many years. But don’t cry, let me think, let me think. I know some people in the opposition, but this should be done more quietly. I’ll tell you what, you and your friend, are you free for dinner tonight?”

  “Y-y-yes,” I say, trying so hard not to sob on the phone.

  “Come to my house for dinner, and let me think what I could do. I’ll send a taxi for you, all right?”

  “A taxi ?”

  “A car for hire,” he says. “It will just be dinner with my wife and me,” he says. “Nothing fancy.”

  “Thank you, Professor,” I say. “Thank you so much. I feel so bad. I feel so ashamed.”

  “It’s not you who are to blame,” he says. “It’s the government. We’ll talk it over, we’ll think of something to do, all right? Now, see you in a few hours, dear.”

  I collapse on the pillows and cry until Akhmim finally gets home and wraps his arms around me and kisses my tears away.

  Then I dress in my best blue, with a clean white veil. It’s old and the hem needs to be resewn, but it’s clean. Akhmim braids my hair in a thick single braid. I’m thinking that maybe Professor Malik’s wife wasn’t at Miss Aziza’s because she doesn’t approve. I can always take the veil off.

  I can imagine her, someone like my aunt Zehra, only kept young like all these people are, like Akhmim and I will be. (A strange thought, that Ayesha will grow old like my mother and I will stay young-someday I will look like her daughter, like Tariam. Another betrayal.)

  A little red bubble car pulls up while we are waiting outside, Akhmim and me, and the driver says, “Miss Hariba, Mr. Akhmim?” Professor Malik lives out east of the city, and we drive down almost to the sea before turning and heading east. I catch glimpses of the water sometimes, bright in the early evening sun. He doesn’t live on the water, his house is a couple of streets back, but it’s a little house crowded in with other little houses, not a flat. The bubble car pulls into a kind of courtyard with bricks for a floor and planters with olive and lemon trees and flowers spilling over them. Professor Malik comes out, dressed in unbleached linen that looks very elegant. I feel shabby.