by Laila Lalami
“She’s fine,” Youssef said. Thinking about it for a moment, he added, “She’s not very happy with me.”
“And why is that?” Nabil spoke with benevolent concern, when in truth he was terrified of what the existence of Youssef meant, for him as well as for his family. Yet from the moment he had cast his eyes on this younger version of himself, he had been unable to look away.
Youssef shrugged. “She has certain ambitions for me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Nabil said, somewhat defensively.
“She wants me to be … like her dreams of me,” Youssef said. There was a calm conviction in his voice, and it made Nabil feel sorry for Youssef’s mother, for what she must be going through with her boy.
Their orders arrived. Youssef picked up his fork. On the back of his right wrist was a large scar in the shape of a paper clip—a testament to events Nabil knew nothing about.
“So who do you want to be?” Nabil asked.
“Myself.”
Nabil wanted to ask, And who are you? But he knew the answer would take years to unfold. And all this time, he had been living across town, going about his life, working at his business, watching his nephews grow, lamenting the lack of a male heir—unaware that he had had one all along, someone he could have groomed, someone with whom he could have shared what only fathers and sons can share, someone he could have cherished alongside Amal.
Youssef cut a small piece of crayfish and examined it carefully before placing it in his mouth.
“Do you like seafood?”
“I’m not sure,” Youssef said, looking up, his eyebrows knitted in a quizzical frown.
Nabil’s thoughts wandered helplessly to Amal. She adored seafood. When they went to the south of France on vacation, she ate moules frites every night until she got sick. She had spent one evening bent over the toilet bowl in their hotel room, Nabil holding her forehead as she threw up. And the next day she had ordered something else from the seafood menu. How much had he missed about this boy’s life? The things that a father knows about his son—the kind of food he likes, the soccer team he cheers for, the girl whose photo he keeps tucked in a book—all this he had missed.
“It’s an acquired taste,” Nabil conceded, lifting his fork and spearing a piece of sole meunière. “It takes some getting used to.” He had many questions for Youssef, but each one he had posed so far had been met with a broad reply. He tried something else. “You said your mother didn’t know you were coming to visit me.”
Youssef nodded.
“Are you going to tell her when you get back home?”
“Probably.”
“You’re not sure?”
“What do you think? Should I tell her I found you?” His tone was halfway between calm authority and veiled threat.
Nabil was not used to being addressed this way by anyone, much less by someone of Youssef’s age or station, and yet instead of being annoyed, he was completely helpless. It was as though the boy could see through him, could see how much he had always wanted to have a son. “I don’t think you should yet,” he said, his voice throaty.
“Then I won’t.”
Nabil took another sip of scotch.
“What about you?” Youssef asked, chin raised. “Will you tell your wife?”
“No.” Nabil was too embarrassed to explain that he could not face his wife if such a revelation were to come out.
“What about your daughter?”
Nabil sat up. “How do you know I have a daughter?”
“The photo on your desk.”
“I see. What about her?”
“Will you tell her?”
Youssef stared so intently that Nabil felt forced to explain, “We’re not speaking right now.”
The waiter came to clear their plates. Nabil noticed Youssef looking at his watch, but he ordered a cup of espresso anyway. “What does your mother do?” he asked. “Does she work?”
Youssef blinked. For the first time, his self-assured manner seemed to vanish. “Of course she works,” he said. “She’s a clerk at the hospital.” A pause, and then that defiance returned. “What else could she have done after what happened to her?”
Nabil tilted his head, not knowing whether he should agree or disagree with the boy. In reality he did not feel a sense of responsibility over what had happened because he was still engulfed in the feeling of surprise—he had not known. Suddenly he wondered what he would have done had Rachida not disappeared. He would probably have found her a job somewhere after the abortion, given her some money to get started again. He could not have imagined, back then, that he would spend his life yearning for a son. He finished his espresso and paid the bill.
THEY WALKED OUT of the restaurant. Nabil offered Youssef a ride, but he declined, saying he would just walk his lunch off, and he turned around and walked away. Nabil felt a pinch in his heart, a disappointment that their time together had already come to an end. He ran after Youssef. “Wait. Where do you live?” he asked, realizing that he had not thought of asking this most basic question during the meal.
“Hay An Najat.”
Good Lord. In a slum. Nabil was revolted at the thought that his offspring, his flesh and blood, an Amrani whose ancestors had fought battles and won wars, conquered land and ruled clans, been part of the power structure of this country for as long as anyone could remember, lived in a place like Hay An Najat. It made his blood rise to his cheeks. “That’s very far from here,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as he could manage. “Are you sure you don’t need a ride?”
“I’m sure. Thanks.” He smiled and, with a little wave of the hand, turned around and walked off.
Nabil stood, keys in hand, watching Youssef walk away, gripped with a sudden fear that this son who had magically appeared in his life would just as magically disappear from it; that he would do what Amal had done and turn his back on his father. It was not coincidence that had brought him. What happened today was a sign. Nabil had been given another chance, and he resolved then not to make the mistake of letting his son slip through his hands the way he had his daughter.
6
THE OTHER SIDE
THE FIRST TIME YOUSSEF walked into the lobby of the AmraCo building and asked to see Nabil Amrani, he was told that Monsieur le Directeur was in Paris. The second time, Monsieur le Directeur was at the bus depot in Aïn Sebaa. The third and fourth times, he was taking part in a business conference downtown. The fifth time, he was in a meeting whose duration could not be predicted; it was not until 6 p.m., when the night watchman arrived, that Youssef had gone home, only to return early the next day. His persistence annoyed Mr. Amrani’s assistant: he could hear her screaming as the front-desk clerk held the receiver away from his ear. He was nearly depleted of courage and energy when, on the seventh day, he was told he could have five minutes with Mr. Amrani.
He took the elevator up to the eighth floor. With barely a glance in his direction, Nabil Amrani’s assistant pointed to a leather sofa across from her desk. He sat down quietly. On the wall to his right was a poster of a pristine beach, with a handsome European couple frolicking in the surf. A large caption read: MOROCCO: DISCOVER THE MAGIC. Keeping her eyes on her computer screen, the assistant typed without pause. He waited for more than half an hour, alternately shifting his gaze from the sandy beach to the assistant. Suddenly, Nabil Amrani spoke through the loudspeaker on her desk. “Send him in, Fadila.”
Youssef didn’t move. A part of him wanted to run in; the other, to run out.
“Are you deaf?” Fadila asked irritably. “Go in now. He’s ready to see you.” She walked to the inner door and opened it wide.
The moment had come. To stand in front of the father he had never known, hear the timbre of his voice for the first time, watch his face for signs of resemblance—all this made it difficult to speak. Nabil had the same complexion, blue eyes, and wavy hair as Youssef, but he also had the yellow teeth and purple lips of a heavy smoker, a potbelly that indicated a lo
ve of beer or food, or both, and a disorderly appearance, as if he had been interrupted in the middle of a private moment. Along with the inevitable disappointment that results when reality collides with dreams, Youssef noticed something unexpected: the complete despair in his father’s eyes. It made Youssef want to reach out and touch him. But as he took a few steps inside the room, his father’s expression of despair gradually changed, replaced by barely contained impatience. He felt so out of place in this well-appointed office, and so disconcerted by that look, that he couldn’t help being distant. As he extended his hand, he gazed at his father coolly.
“How are you?” Nabil said mechanically.
“Je vais très bien, merci.”
A fleeting expression of surprise passed on his father’s face. This was exactly what he had feared—his father had already judged him without knowing anything about him.
“What can I do for you?”
“I am not here to ask for a favor.” On the desk between them were several silver-framed photographs. One showed a middle-aged woman, presumably Nabil’s wife, wearing a burgundy caftan and a wide gold belt, but all the others showed a girl at various ages: as a young child in a blue gingham dress, smiling widely to display missing milk teeth; as a teenager, looking moodily at the camera, over a book she was reading; as a young woman, wearing a black dress and holding her father by the arm at a reception. It surprised Youssef how pleased he was that the girl (his sister? Yes, of course, it had to be his sister) looked more like her mother, while he resembled his father.
“Then what are you here for?” Nabil said, his voice barely above a whisper.
A sudden sense of propriety descended on Youssef. He was too embarrassed to explain who he was: the forgotten bastard child. The words refused to come out. “I think you know,” he said at last. That did not seem to help. Nabil raised quizzical eyebrows but did not speak. Youssef whispered, “I am your son.”
Nabil’s face lit with genuine surprise.
He doesn’t know? Youssef thought. That was impossible. How could he not know?
“I think we should talk about this outside.”
Even in his disappointment, Youssef could not help noticing how similar his father’s reaction was to his mother’s, and to his own. She had kept the secret of his birth for almost his entire life. He himself had disguised the truth once he had learned it. Now that the time had come for his father to confront it, his first reaction was to get out of the office, to take Youssef away from the eyes of others.
The sight of Nabil before him, so comfortable, so confident, so clearly used to having the world go his way, unlocked something deep in Youssef, and when it opened, it demanded that he do something—anything. So when his father turned around to get his suit jacket, Youssef grabbed a star-shaped silver paperweight from the desk and slipped it into his pocket. He had never stolen anything, and immediately regretted it. He would have to put it back, but his father now looked directly at him, gesturing toward the door. The paperweight felt heavy in Youssef’s pocket, weighing him down as he went with his father down the hallway, down the elevator, down the street.
Youssef was used to the neighborhood stalls where young men like him gathered to eat fried sardines or roasted chickpeas, and to the cafés where they drank tea and played cards, but he had never been inside a place where the waiters’ jackets were not threadbare, where the food trays were not cracked, and where music did not blare out of the loudspeakers. At La Mouette, even the air was different. This could have been my life, he thought. This should have been my life. As soon as they were seated, his father leaned in and asked, “How did you find me?”
Youssef peered at him over his menu, unsurprised that this was the first question on Nabil Amrani’s mind. His father knew all about him; his earlier expression of surprise had been nothing more than an act. “The phone book,” he said. He went back to reading the seafood specials. Those prices—did people really pay this much for a meal?
The waiter came to take their orders, bending obsequiously as he wrote down what Nabil Amrani wanted. He kept saying “N’am a-sidi” every time he had a chance. When his turn came, Youssef ordered the most expensive item on the menu. Because Nabil asked him how old he was, Youssef felt it appropriate to ask a few questions of his own. “How old are you?”
“Forty-nine.”
His father had been thirty when he had gotten his mother pregnant. Could he not have acted like the grown man he was and taken responsibility for his actions?
“The picture on your desk—that’s your daughter?”
Nabil nodded. “Amal.”
“And how old is she?”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty?” he repeated, incredulously. His mother had told him that she and his father had planned on getting married; she had never mentioned that he was already married—or that he had a child.
“And a half. She turned twenty in January.”
They were only six months apart in age. Her mother had been pregnant with her when his own mother had gotten pregnant. Why had his mother not told him this? Hers was not some youthful, careless love affair; it was an affair tout court. Did her lies ever end? What else was she hiding?
His father drummed his fingers on the table. “I thought your mother had an abortion. I didn’t know she hadn’t.”
Youssef felt the hair on the back of his neck stand. Could it really be true? Did his father not know, or had he not bothered finding out? How could he have been so careless? Youssef was trying to think of what to say, but he came up with nothing. When his plate of crayfish arrived, he stared at it, unsure where to start. He managed to slice off an edible piece; he made a mess of it.
“Do you like seafood?” Nabil asked.
Perhaps I cut the crayfish the wrong way, Youssef thought. He felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment. “I’m not sure,” he said, frowning.
“Does your mother know you’ve come to visit me?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell her when you get back home?” Nabil asked.
“I don’t know,” Youssef said. Was he worried she might go tell his wife? “Should I?”
“I don’t think you should,” Nabil said, looking down.
“Then I won’t,” Youssef promised. At least not for now. We haven’t put anything yet in the tagine, so it can’t burn, he told himself to justify his silence.
Nabil was pensive for a while. When he spoke again, his voice was warmer, tinged with a kindness that had not been there before. He asked Youssef about his life, where he went to school, what he wanted to do after graduation, listening intently to the answers. His father’s curiosity pleased Youssef, though he also felt a sudden desire to protect his privacy, to keep Nabil from finding out everything about him at once.
Youssef made a great show of looking at his watch, but Nabil insisted on finishing his cigarette. It was nearly two o’clock when they left the restaurant. Outside, the sun shone in a cloudless sky. Lunchtime traffic had subsided, and the parking lot itself was empty. Nabil offered Youssef a ride in his black BMW, but Youssef turned him down. What was the point? Besides, he did not want his father to know where he lived, in case his father decided to pay his mother a visit unannounced. Youssef needed some time to think about what had just happened. He waved Nabil off and told him he had to go someplace else first.
By the time Youssef returned to Hay An Najat, some of the stores were closed and would not reopen until midafternoon, after the ‘asr prayer. But Amin was at the street corner with Maati. He was complaining that Soraya, whom he now called his girlfriend, was being harassed.
“Not me,” Maati said, his hands raised in defense.
“But it’s those Party goons,” Amin countered. “They tell her to cover herself or to wear different clothes.”
“Can’t you tell them to leave her alone?” Youssef offered. “You work with these people.”
“It’s not me,” Maati said. “But I can talk to them.”
“Hmm,�
�� Amin said, sounding doubtful.
Maati looked at his watch and said it was time for him to go back on duty, to his watch post.
“More like a doghouse,” Amin quipped, but only after Maati was safely out of earshot.
They were alone at last. Breathlessly, Youssef recounted the meeting with his father, whispering in such a low voice that Amin had to lean in to be able to hear. The longer Youssef spoke, the more incredulous Amin looked. He asked Youssef to repeat the part about how Nabil stood up from his desk and took him to lunch as soon as he had heard the truth.
“Let me see it,” Amin said.
Youssef surrendered the paperweight, and Amin held it up to the light to get a better look. “How much do you think we can get for it?” he asked.
Youssef shrugged.
“Fifty, I think,” Amin said.
Youssef sucked his teeth. He did not want to sell the paperweight, and he regretted now having mentioned it to Amin at all, but there was no taking it back.
Amin turned the paperweight around and around in his hand. “What is it for, anyway?”
“For keeping thick files closed. But I think it’s mostly just for decoration.”
“Get up, my brother. Let’s see if Tarek wants it. I’m dying for a cigarette.”
“Okay,” Youssef said reluctantly.
“Are you going to tell Maati?”
“No.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him.”
At Tarek’s bric-a-brac store, Amin made up a story about how one of his relatives had given him the paperweight as a gift but he didn’t have any use for it. Tarek looked skeptical but said nothing; half his store was filled with stolen merchandise. “Thirty,” he said.
Amin shrieked, “What? Who do you think you’re talking to? Give it here.”