by Laila Lalami
But it was difficult once September came and school started. He watched from his bed as his mother opened the armoire to pull out a button-down shirt for him to wear with his blue jeans. “Here,” she said cheerfully. “I ironed it for you.”
“Thank you,” he said, looking away, unable to summon the same excitement. When he still believed he was the son of a respectable schoolteacher, he had modest but clear ambitions—to become a teacher himself or perhaps a civil servant. But now that he knew he was the illegitimate son of a community organizer, he felt somehow diminished, as though he were already marked for an unfavorable future.
They sat down to eat breakfast together. News on the radio was the usual: the king had met some foreign dignitaries; there was bloodshed in Palestine and Israel, in Iraq and the Congo; a French delegation had toured Moroccan companies and praised them, saying they were on “the right track”; a festival of music was set to open in Agadir; the Widad was on a losing streak. The bulletins compounded the sense of futility that had been growing inside him.
“It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
He did not answer.
“Are you ready for registration?”
He nodded.
“Do you have a copy of your baccalauréat?”
He patted the bag next to him.
“And the photographs for your ID card?”
“Yes.”
“May God open all doors for you,” she said.
She looked as if she were about to give him a hug; he dodged it by grabbing his bag and slinging the strap across his shoulders. He stuffed the hundred-dirham bill she gave him for his registration fee in his jeans pocket and left.
Just three weeks into the school year, Youssef could already see clusters of students huddling together in distinct cliques. There was the Mercedes-and-Marlboro group, half a dozen spoiled kids who, for one reason or another, had not gone to college abroad like the rest of their friends. They spoke French, wore designer clothes and carried patent leather satchels, spent their time smoking expensive cigarettes and talking about holidays in Paris or weekends in the bars of Marrakech.
There was the headscarf-and-beard faction—girls who looked at once virtuous and threatening, and boys who had the same determined expressions as the Partisans. They organized strictly along gender lines, with the girls sitting on the stairs outside the building, chatting about which hadith recommended which manner of eating or drinking or sneezing, while the boys carried on their own quiet conversation, occasionally passing out leaflets that urged students to join their group, the Islamic Union of Students.
The Marx-and-Lenin group met at the other end of the main hall, right under the windows. There were only five or six of them, and they spent most of their time complaining about the condition of the classrooms, the cafeteria, and the library, or reading the newspaper while sharing a cigarette. They had formed the Democratic Union of Students, though they had not yet printed any leaflets; they were still arguing over which background color to use.
Then there was the Berber Student Alliance, which usually met outside the doors of the amphitheater. They had organized several successful conferences on Amazigh history and culture. Now they wanted to have a department of their own. The university already had departments of Arabic, French, English, Spanish, and German, so why, the Berber Student Alliance demanded, did it not have one for Tamazight? This was discrimination, they argued, part of a long-standing pattern in this country. After a sociology professor gave a lecture in which he said that the vast majority of Moroccans were racially mixed, the Berber pride students began to wear T-shirts emblazoned with Tifinagh characters.
The Saharawi students often gathered by the coffee machines. They had put up a banner in support of the independence of the Saharan territories, but other students savagely tore it down, called them “traitors to the national cause,” and told them that if they did not like Morocco, they should go study at one of the Polisario Front’s camps. The fights got physical; the police were called in. But they stood by while the students fought. Now the Saharawi students were talking about organizing a sit-in outside the administration building.
Then there were the three undercover cops, whom Youssef had mentally nicknamed the Three Basris. They often chatted with the uniformed police guards outside the lecture halls and had therefore blown their cover, but they did not appear to care. Perhaps that was the point: they wanted people to know they were there because it was easier to intimidate people this way. One of them was on his second bachelor’s degree—he already had one in history—but the other two were much younger.
Every time Youssef tried to penetrate one of these cliques, he felt he was lacking some background, some essential element that would make it easier to know what to say, when to say it, and how to say it. He went inside the classroom and sat alone by the window.
DR. SABRI WALKED into class fifteen minutes late. He was young, in his late twenties maybe, and he casually leaned against the side of his desk when he spoke. “I’m sorry I’m late, guys,” he said. He took his copy of The Great Gatsby out of his briefcase and, in an accent that, to Youssef’s ears, sounded perfectly American, asked, “I assume you’ve all read the book, as I’ve requested?”
A few people nodded, while others looked studiously down at their notebooks, avoiding his gaze.
“Very well, then.” He opened the book to the first page and read, his voice a deep baritone. “In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. ‘Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,’ he told me, ‘just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.’ ” He looked up and smiled. “Ah, good old Nick!” Dr. Sabri spoke this way throughout the lecture, referring not just to the characters, but to the author as well, by their first names, as though he knew them.
Majoring in English had its advantages—homework consisted of reading novels (imagine that!)—so Youssef was pleased with the choice he had made. And The Great Gatsby afforded him a special treat: imagining himself in Robert Redford’s role. He had seen the film adaptation at the Star Cinema, and when he had read the novel before class, he had found it impossible to picture a face for Jay Gatsby other than the one he already had in mind.
As the first hour drew to a close, Dr. Sabri asked, “And what of Daisy?” He looked around the room, waiting for opinions. The class was silent, united in its refusal to meet his eye. “Okay, so who is she?” he asked.
“A woman from the upper class,” said a blond, curly-haired boy in the front row, his intonation rising, waiting for approval.
“Clearly, she is. But what else?” asked Dr. Sabri.
“Daisy is a lost woman,” one of the bearded boys shot back.
“Hmm. I suppose it depends what you mean by ‘lost.’ What do you mean?”
“She spends time with another man, even though she is married.”
“I hope you’re not serious, man. If that were the definition of ‘lost,’ then half the women in this country would qualify.”
The young man leaned forward on his desk, dropped his chin in his hand, and stared defiantly. “That’s the problem.”
Dr. Sabri looked away uncomfortably. “Okay, anyone else?”
Youssef raised his hand, and the professor looked at him encouragingly. “She is the dream—Gatsby’s dream.” A girl in the front row laughed out loud at his answer and turned to stare mockingly at him. Her skin was fair, her eyes playful, and her features delicate, like those of a miniature painting.
“That’s a lovely answer, actually,” Dr. Sabri said, looking appreciatively at him. “Let’s see if we can figure out whether the book bears it out.”
The girl pouted and turned around to face the blackboard.
AFTER THE LECTURE, Youssef came out into the corridor to find her waiting for him. She wore a green top that matched her jade earrings, and carried her mobile phone in her hand. “Je suis désolée,” she
said. “I didn’t think that Dr. Sabri was looking for that answer.” She laughed easily, touching Youssef on the arm as she did so.
“Not a problem,” he replied. He felt a surge of gratitude to his mother, because without her tutoring, his diction in French would not have been flawless. To listen to him, one would never have known he lived in Hay An Najat. The girl ran her fingers through her hair in a consciously flirtatious way. He was encouraged. “What’s your name?”
“Alia,” she said. “And you?”
“Youssef.”
“Salut,” she said, flashing a smile that displayed perfectly aligned teeth.
“Have you seen the movie, the one based on the book?”
“Of course.” She winked at him. “I haven’t read the novel.”
“Really?”
“What for? It’s no different than the movie.”
One of the Mercedes-and-Marlboros called her, and so, waving good-bye, she turned on her heel and walked away, leaving a trail of perfume behind her. Even though she had been rude, her apology made him feel he had judged her too quickly. He watched her as she caught up with the other Mercedes-and-Marlboros, all the while wondering if he would ever be able to be part of her group.
The truth came out, Youssef would later recall, as a result of a simple football game. The Partisans had cleared a dirt lot of the trash that was regularly dumped in it, planted white poles and goal nets, and turned it into a football field for the young men of Hay An Najat. One Saturday afternoon, Maati bought a new ball at Derb Ghallef, and he, Youssef, and Amin went to try it out. When they arrived at the field, they found a group of boys already playing, using a torn ball stuffed with fabric. No one knew or recognized them.
“Should we come back later?” Youssef asked, looking around to his friends. Mounir, Rachid, and Simo had come along to play, too.
Without answering, Maati walked onto the lot, interrupting the game. “This is our football field,” he said.
One of the intruders, a tall boy with a dirty white shirt and frighteningly thick eyebrows, walked up to Maati. “I don’t see your father’s name anywhere on it,” he said. His teammates laughed, their ha-has overlapping. They came to stand behind their friend, arms akimbo.
Youssef spoke up. “We play here on Saturdays and Sundays, and we’ve never seen you before.”
“So what?” Eyebrows opened his right palm, as though he were waiting for a better explanation. He seemed to be the leader.
“Let’s all just play together,” Amin said. “All of us against all of you.”
Maati shook his head. “There are six of us and only five of them. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“What’s the matter?” Eyebrows said. “You’re afraid to lose?”
“Lose?” Youssef said, chuckling. “Who do you think you are? Mustapha Hadji? You’re just a regular kid.”
“Don’t worry about the numbers, then. We can take you on.”
Maati twirled his soccer ball on his finger.
“So what are you boys going to do?” Eyebrows continued. “Play? Or stand around here whining, like a bunch of little girls?”
“Let’s play,” said Youssef. He was not nearly as good a player as Maati, but he felt a sudden, compelling urge to win. The two of them were on offense along with Amin, while Mounir and Rachid played defense. Simo was the goalkeeper. After only a few minutes of play, one of the intruders, a skinny boy who was playing barefoot, shot the ball into the right-hand corner of the goal posts. Simo dived for it but could not catch it. The intruders celebrated by giving one another high fives and big slaps on the back.
Maati immediately took the ball to resume the game, fighting heatedly with the other kids over every suspicious-looking move. Youssef goaded him; the idea that these boys would come play on this territory and score, even though they were outnumbered, was unbearable. Finally Maati managed to fool the intruders’ defense and cross the midfield. He was on his way to the goal perimeter when Eyebrows caught up with him and kicked him. Maati pushed him to the ground.
“Faggot,” Eyebrows said between his teeth. He shot to his feet and struck Maati in the face.
Maati seemed surprised by the attack; he was so rarely challenged on his own turf. He punched Eyebrows back. The fistfight was almost comical: the tall, muscular Maati against the skeletal boy from no one knew where. Youssef and Amin rushed in to restrain Maati before he could do any harm. “You’re an animal, you,” he said, wiping his bloody forehead. “You can’t play fair.”
Eyebrows sent spit shooting out of the side of his mouth. “You outnumber us, and you complain about playing fair? That’s a good one.”
Maati raised his fist again, but Youssef stopped him. “We’re done,” he said, dragging him away. “Let’s go, my friend.” Blood dripped from Maati’s forehead onto his white T-shirt. He touched the cut with his fingers, feeling for its depth. Someone suggested the Party’s infirmary.
THE INFIRMARY TURNED OUT to be a small room with a cot along one wall and a glass-paneled medicine cabinet against another. A bearded man in a white lab coat sat at a desk reading a book. Youssef had heard from Maati that the nurse was a Senegalese man who had been a classmate of Hatim’s in Egypt many years ago. They had moved back to Morocco together, and founded the Party with a group of friends. He stood up now.
“As-salaam, Moussa,” Maati said.
“Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam wa rahmatu llahi ta’ala wa barakatuh. What happened to you, my brother?” he asked.
“We were playing soccer and—”
“Sit, sit,” Moussa said softly, pointing to the cot. “Let me take a look at you.” He retrieved a first-aid kit from the cabinet. “In the name of God,” he whispered before starting. He disinfected the cut. “You’re going to need one or two stitches.”
“It’s just a cut,” Maati said.
“It’s too deep. Don’t move,” Moussa said. He sprayed an anesthetic and started to sew, working efficiently and in silence. Maati winced but didn’t complain. “There,” Moussa said. “It’s done, my brother.”
Hatim came in. “As-salamu ‘alaykum,” he said, a big smile on his face.
“Wa ‘alaykum as-salaam,” the three of them said mechanically.
“Wa rahmatu llahi ta’ala wa barakatuh,” Moussa added.
It annoyed Youssef that the Partisans always used the unabbreviated, properly Islamic greeting, never once using any of the colloquial ones. He picked up the soccer ball from the floor and looked to the door.
“How are you boys?” Hatim asked.
“Praise be to God,” Amin answered.
“What happened?”
“Just a little cut,” Maati said. He stood up and dusted himself off.
“Take it easy, my son,” Hatim said, smiling. “Have you kids started school?”
“Last month.”
“And what are you studying?” he asked, his eyes full of sudden interest.
“Law,” said Amin.
“English,” Youssef said.
Maati looked around the room as though he wanted to be somewhere else.
“How wonderful. How wonderful. We could certainly use talented young men like you around here.” He smiled again. “I was just coming here to show Brother Moussa this article in Casablanca Magazine.” He held out a glossy magazine folded in half. “This journalist—Farid Benaboud—he’ll print any trash he can find, so long as it serves his puppet masters.”
Youssef and the others stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“Oh, you don’t know Benaboud?” Hatim asked. “It’s just as well, really. He’s a disgrace. In this piece he praises one of the wines produced in Meknès. Can you believe the insolence? Qalt el-hya hadi! We are a Muslim country. We have no business having wineries here in the first place.” Hatim had not raised his voice, but when he stopped speaking the room fell quiet, his words having drowned out the sound of everything else. “Take a look,” he said, holding out the magazine.
Neither Amin nor Maati reached for it, so Youssef
felt obliged to scan the article. He unfolded the magazine. On the opposite page was a color picture of a middle-aged man, under the headline NABIL AMRANI: “OUR BUSINESSES ARE TREATED UNFAIRLY.’ Youssef stared at the man in the picture, at his blue eyes and aquiline nose, his dark hair and wide forehead. The recognition was like a knife in the stomach—a kind of death. Yet instead of taking away life, it offered a new one, resurrected. Could this be his father? It was impossible. It was a mere coincidence, he told himself, a mere coincidence.
“You can keep the magazine, if you like,” Hatim said. “You should read Benaboud’s article in full to see what we’re up against.”
Youssef nodded, folded the magazine, and slipped it under his arm.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Hatim said. “Good luck with the new school year.” He held the door open, and the three of them filed out.
ONCE IN THE CORRIDOR, Amin turned to Maati. “I could have done without the lecture,” he said angrily. “Next time, just go home and put Betadine on your cut, and save us all the talk.”
Maati touched the dressing on his forehead. “But Moussa did such a good job.”
They continued bickering, but all Youssef could think of was the photograph. He was afraid to open the magazine and draw attention to it. Taking deep breaths, he tried to quiet the beating of his heart in his chest. Amin and Maati stopped in the lobby to look at the list of programs pinned to the notice board. “Great. Another documentary on wild animals,” Amin said. “And a Qur’an study class. Fantastic.”
“What’s wrong with a Qur’an class?” Maati said.
“I’m leaving,” Youssef said. “Take care.”