by Laila Lalami
At the end of the class, Professor Hammouche passed around an assignment on family-law reforms. “You can work in groups of two or three,” she said, “so long as you turn in a full list of your arguments.” Youssef’s eye immediately fell on Alia’s back, on the cascades of soft brown hair he had wanted to run his fingers through from the first moment he saw her. He tapped her shoulder.
“We can work together,” he said, “if you like.”
Her eyes widened with surprise, but to his great relief, she smiled. “When do you want to do it?”
“How about next Friday?”
“D’accord. I’ll give you my number and my address.”
“You want me to come to your house?” Youssef asked, incredulous.
“Of course,” she said, laughing. “Where else would we meet?”
What about your parents? he wanted to ask. What would they say if you brought a man to the house? In his neighborhood, no father would allow it because, as the hadith went, whenever a man is alone with a woman, Satan joins them as the third. But Alia did not seem to worry about such things. Using a pink feather pen, she wrote her address in large, loopy letters on a scrap of paper she handed to him. He gave her a confident smile, as though being asked to visit girls like Alia was something that happened to him every day.
Waiting for Friday turned out to be excruciatingly difficult, so Youssef distracted himself by going to the Oasis. He had just sat down with Amin when Maati slid into the chair across from them. “Remember the idiot who hit me?” he asked. He set his keys and mobile phone on the table.
“The one with the thick eyebrows?” Youssef asked.
Maati nodded. “He’s causing some trouble again. Up near Iqamat Al Hanan. Drinking beer at the street corner late at night, playing music on his boom box, being a nuisance. When Hatim described him to me, I knew exactly who he was talking about.”
Youssef picked up Maati’s new phone from the table. It was sturdy and slim, with a built-in camera and a colorful keypad—a nicer model than either Amin’s or Youssef’s mobiles, which they had bought secondhand at Derb Ghallef.
“What are you going to do?” Amin asked.
“Teach him a lesson.”
“Why?” Youssef asked, setting the phone back on the table.
“What do you mean, why?” Maati said. “Don’t you remember what he did to me?” He pointed to his forehead, to the scar that had begun to fade.
“But that was six months ago.”
“And I haven’t forgotten. Have you?”
Amin asked, “How are you going to find him?”
“I know exactly where he’ll be. Hatim pointed the place out to me. Are you coming with me and Abdelmajid?”
Youssef scratched his head. “Now?”
“Yes, now,” Maati said, grabbing his keys and phone. “What else are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” Youssef replied. “You’re taking it a bit far.”
Maati gave him a wounded look. “A-khouya, are you my friend or his?”
“Calm down,” Amin said. “Of course, we’re your friends.”
Youssef and Amin followed Maati out of the café into the street, where Abdelmajid was waiting for them. They walked up the hill, crossed the tarred road, and went down the other side. At length they came to a cluster of new developments that the government had hastily built in the past few years. Eyebrows was standing by the hanout.
“Remember me?” Maati asked.
Eyebrows smiled. “One loss wasn’t enough, you want a rematch?”
Maati punched him. Eyebrows tried to hit back, but Abdelmajid kicked him. They kept at it, both of them, until Youssef pulled at Maati’s shirt. “He’s had enough, Maati, come on.” Amin, who had been keeping a lookout, said it was time to go, the boy had learned his lesson. Magnanimously Maati let Youssef pull him off, though he seemed unable to resist one last threat. “Don’t ever come around Hay An Najat again, you hear me?”
Friday came, at last. Youssef sat in the back of the bus, clutching the paper Alia had given him. On the loudspeaker an old song by Abdelhahim Hafed played, which put him in a romantic mood. Alia was unlike any other girl at school, so independent, so sophisticated. Thinking of her gave him an erection, which he covered with his notebook. As he was about to get off the bus, he heard the announcer say that “Ahibbik” had been performed by Abdou Cherif. That smooth voice could have fooled anyone, Youssef thought.
Outside, paved streets met at sharp angles, tracing a neighborhood that harbored none of the mystery of his side of town. Tree branches overflowed from behind garden walls—lemon and orange trees, red hibiscus, and purple bougainvillea. The street was quiet, except for the sound of water splashing in the distance and children laughing and calling out to one another to jump into the pool. When he arrived at Alia’s house, a teenage maid in a faded blue housedress opened the gate for him.
He followed her up the slate path into a high-ceilinged vestibule. On the left-hand side was a formal living room, with damask-covered divans, a handwoven rug, and heavy velvet curtains. A painting of horsemen in full regalia, their rifles in the air, hung on one wall. On another was a framed family photograph: a patriarch and a matriarch, seated; around them, four handsome couples; and then children of all ages, among whom Alia. He tried not to stare, to act as though he entered homes like this every day.
Once he heard her bounding down the staircase in her heels, he quickly returned to his spot in the vestibule. “Youssef,” she called out, and for a brief moment, standing in that room, with his name on her lips, he felt as though he had always known her, had always been a part of her life, had always belonged to her world. “Let’s sit outside,” she said, leading the way into the garden. “Do you want something to drink?” she asked. Without waiting for him to respond, she turned to call the maid. “Fatiha! Can you get me a Coca?” She turned toward Youssef to see if he wanted something.
“A Coca for me, too, please.”
“So,” she said, finally sitting down on one of the wrought-iron chairs. “The old Hammouche wants a paper on family-law reforms. Do you think she’s trying to get rid of her husband?” She let her chin rest on her palm and smiled. She had not brought any books, papers, or pens, but Youssef took his notes out of his bag. He had read all the suggested articles, including the full text of the law, and he had painstakingly written ten pages of notes. It was all to impress her, of course. She glanced at his work. “You’ve done it all already! You like school, don’t you?”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be staying in university.”
Before he could ask her what she meant, a middle-aged man in a white shirt and black pants came up the garden path toward them. “Bonjour,” he said.
“Bonjour,” Youssef replied, getting up and stretching out his hand.
“Papa, this is Youssef, a copain de classe,” Alia said by way of introduction.
“Youssef comment?”
“El Mekki.” Youssef knew well that such a name did not count in this man’s eyes: it was not a chorfa’s name; it did not have a pedigree. From the look in Mr. Alaoui’s eyes, Youssef could see that he had been sized up and found wanting.
Mr. Alaoui said he was on his way downtown and asked whether Alia needed anything. “Nothing, thank you,” she said, getting up to kiss him on the cheek. Youssef did not speak until after he heard the roar of her father’s car outside.
“Your father doesn’t mind you having me around?”
“Why?”
“Why?” he repeated, feeling foolish.
“He knows that nothing could happen between us, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. The casualness in her voice stung him. And why not? he thought.
“Besides,” she said, “I’m already engaged.”
“But how old are you?”
“Nineteen. I’ve been engaged since high school graduation,” she said, waving her hand. A diamond solitaire shone on her ring finger. He had never noticed it before, or if he had, he
hadn’t thought of its significance. “We’ll have the wedding in June, when my fiancé finishes school,” she said. “Then I’ll move to Agadir with him.”
Why are you at school? Youssef wanted to ask. Why are you bothering to take a degree? And the most important, the most pressing question of all: Why am I here? The maid brought the drinks to the table, giving Youssef a half smile. Something in her expression made him wonder whether she had recognized him for who he was. He straightened his back and drank carefully, afraid to make one false move and reveal himself. Alia took her glass and chugged. She stretched her legs on the chair next to her. He could see part of her exposed thigh, all the way up to that soft, dark place he desired. He had to fight the urge to touch her.
“It’s too hot out here,” she said after a while. “Let’s go up to my room.”
He followed her docilely, dizzy with the possibilities that filled his mind. They sat on her sofa and she turned the TV on to a music channel. They watched pop singers, European, Middle Eastern, and American, taking turns gyrating for the camera. Soon he let his arm rest on her shoulders, then on her knee.
She turned to look at him. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t want me to?”
She blinked.
He took this to mean yes, and before he knew it, his lips were on hers. He tasted her, the sweetness of the Coca-Cola still lingering on her tongue. Blood rushed to his head and his groin, leaving him nearly breathless. He put his hand on her waist; she drew him closer. He tried to ignore the pain in his chest, but it was too much.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I fell,” he lied, “and my chest hurts.”
“Oh,” she said. “Lie down, then.”
At that moment, everything around him receded into the background. The only sound he could hear was that of his own heart, beating in his ears. Fingers trembling, he unbuttoned her shirt and slipped it off her shoulders. When she reached for his pants, he felt he had been dropped right into one of the movies he had watched over the years, playing the part of the hero, the one who gets the popular girl. He slid into her, the warmth of her enveloping him so completely he had to take deep, long breaths in order to hold on. Over and over, he ran his hands on her hips and thighs, her breasts and her waist, wondering whether the moment was real. As he reached his climax, he felt like a warrior who had, at long last, conquered the country he coveted.
Afterward, as he lay on her bed, dreamily realizing what had happened, she gathered her shirt and skirt and went to her bathroom. He heard her wash herself, the water running for a long time. When she came back into the room, she was dressed again, a cigarette in her hand. She looked at her watch.
Reluctantly, he started to put his clothes back on. “When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll have to wait and see.”
Seeing him out, Alia spent nearly ten minutes at the door, talking about school. It was all a good show for the help, but Youssef knew that the maid would not say anything. Why would she?
He walked slowly up the street toward the bus station, wondering what it would be like to live here, in Anfa, with people like the Alaouis, the Filalis, the El Fassis—and the Amranis. He could be one of them. At home, he would sit and have breakfast with his father, listen to the back-and-forth between his young brothers, smile at their altercations. At school, he would casually mention that he had to tutor his sister in math or chauffeur his little brother to school. He would have Alia for a girlfriend.
He was so lost in his dreams that he missed his stop and had to sneak back on the returning bus. He found Amin at his usual spot in the Oasis, smoking a cigarette. Youssef could not resist bragging about Alia.
“Forget about her,” Amin said yet again. “She’s not for you.”
“She’s crazy about me,” Youssef said.
“She’s not from your world, man,” Amin said. “You’re wasting your time.”
“What do you know about girls, anyway?”
“I know about rich people. My father spent his life working for them.”
Youssef fell silent. The mention of anyone’s father usually had that effect on him.
At school the next day, Youssef stood by the main doors with his friends, but his eyes scoured the crowd for Alia. When she failed to appear at the first class, he began to worry. Was she in trouble? He walked out of class and spent the next two hours waiting outside the main entrance, calling her mobile phone, and watching for her car. It was almost eleven when he saw her pull into the parking lot. He ran to meet her as she climbed out of the car in a green shirt and a worn-out pair of jeans. Her eyes were puffy.
“Alia,” Youssef said, reaching for her arm. “I was worried.” When his fingers touched her skin, he felt an electric jolt of recognition, and the memory of their afternoon together flooded his mind. He could still feel the weight of her breasts in his hands, the shape of her hip, the way she moved when he thrust himself into her. He wanted her again, and he felt himself harden.
“What’s going on?” she said, frowning.
“You weren’t in literature class. I thought something was wrong.”
She groaned. “Nothing is wrong. I just overslept.”
“Ah.” He put his arm around her shoulders.
She set herself free from his arm. “What are you doing?” She turned to look around her, worried that someone might have noticed the gesture.
“Nothing, I was just walking you inside.”
“I don’t need to be walked inside. Listen, just because we had a good time yesterday doesn’t mean you’re my boyfriend.”
“I just …” Youssef stumbled.
Alia shook her head in disbelief, or maybe it was irritation; Youssef didn’t know. She turned around and went to find her friends. He had made some mistake, but he didn’t know what it was or how to fix it. For the rest of the day, he stayed away from her, even though he could not help watching her from the corner of his eye. She certainly didn’t seem to act any differently: she stood with her friends, bought coffee from the espresso machine, giggled in class. Meanwhile, he couldn’t concentrate on anything.
At night he called her mobile phone, hoping to apologize for whatever it was he had said that had upset her and to finally get an explanation for her strange behavior, but she sighed audibly when she heard his voice. “Don’t be such a bore,” she said. “We had fun. But now it’s time to move on.”
He hung up and lay on his bed, listening to pigeons walking on the tin roof of the house. He had been nothing but a distraction for her. If he had been a Filali, though, would she have dismissed him so casually? Always, and especially on days like this, he thought of what could have been. If he had grown up in a normal family, with a father, would he and his mother be struggling so much? This question usually made him feel melancholy, but now that he knew his father had been alive all along, he felt angry and bitter instead. Why should he and his mother be struggling so much? Perhaps that was why his mother had lied to him all these years: she had traded the anger of what should have been and given him instead the sadness of what could have been. She had tried to be patient, to be good, to be wise. But Youssef was not so willing to make the same bargain.
He took out a pen and, in the margin of his notebook, wrote down his real name, the name he had been denied. The ‘alif in the middle of his new last name added balance and majesty. It stood like a guard, ready to defend itself; like a witness, ready to speak up. There was a heft to the syllables when they were spoken. They left his lips without pause or hesitation, making him feel that they had always belonged together. On the left-hand page he wrote his name in Latin characters: Youssef Amrani. The first letter of his last name looked like a house in which his first name might finally find a home, and the dot on the last letter had the finality of a judge’s hammer.
He stared at the name for a long while, wondering what kind of a person Youssef Amrani was. His existence until that moment had been nothing more than a role�
�he had played the part of Youssef El Mekki, lived in his house, eaten his food, slept in his bed, and gone out with his friends, but all along he had been Youssef Amrani. That was who he really was. If he could be Youssef Amrani, he would not have to play any part at all. He could be, at long last, himself.
PART II
5
LOST AND FOUND
AT THE PRECISE MOMENT Nabil Amrani picked up the phone to call his wife, his secretary buzzed him. All morning he had been undecided about whether to return Malika’s call, because he knew their conversation would inevitably end in a bitter argument. This was how it had been since they had returned home from their trip to Paris two weeks earlier. It was supposed to be their first vacation alone, as a couple, since Amal had left home to study at UCLA, and for days they talked about how a return to the city where they had spent their honeymoon was the best twentieth-anniversary gift they could give themselves. It was all ruined, though, by a single phone call.
They had been walking in the Luxembourg Gardens when Malika pointed out the little children sailing their boats on the pond. “Do you remember,” she asked as she linked arms with him, “when Amal insisted on having a red sailboat? The rental man said he only had blue ones left, but she said no, and she waited for an hour until a red one was returned. She was five, I think.”
Nabil smiled and pressed his hand upon his wife’s. How the years go by in a blink, he thought. “She was a stubborn child. Always sure of what she wanted.”
“Let’s call her right now,” Malika said, stopping.
“But it will be late in Los Angeles,” Nabil protested. Looking at his watch, he said, “It’s one in the morning over there.”
Ah, if only she had listened to him. They would still be blissfully ignorant, and happy. But as usual, Malika had not listened. She dialed the number on her mobile phone. The line rang for a while but Amal did not pick up.
“She’s sleeping,” Nabil said, leading Malika by the arm. He smiled again when he saw a little boy trying to pick a daisy from one of the flower beds; his mother caught him in time. In the distance, a violinist was playing a sonata by Bach. A cool May breeze blew; Nabil buttoned his jacket. Malika kept dialing the number until finally someone picked up. It was not Amal—it was her roommate Lindsay. Malika did not speak English well enough, so she immediately placed the mobile phone to his ear, forcing him to take over. Thus it fell upon Nabil to ask to speak to his daughter, only to be told that Amal was in San Francisco for the weekend with her boyfriend. “What boyfriend?” he asked, stopping.