by Laila Lalami
Instead, the first question that tumbled out of Youssef’s mouth was, “Do you like hamburgers?”
“I’m not very hungry,” Nabil said. “I just thought you might like this restaurant. It’s popular with young people,” he said. “But yes, I do like hamburgers.” He tapped one line on the menu with his finger. “Try this one,” he said. “My daughter always orders it when we go there for lunch.”
“Amal?”
Nabil’s eyes looked darker, as though a cloud had moved in to block the light. “Yes.”
“Does she go to school around here?”
“No. She studies business in the U.S.” Here, Nabil seemed unable to suppress a smile. “At UCLA.”
All morning, as he had sat alone in the apartment, thinking about his father, Youssef had told himself that he should try not to look back on the past and should focus on the future instead. Yet already he could not help feeling a touch of envy upon hearing about his sister’s studies at UCLA. This was what people like the Amranis did: they studied in private schools, went to university in France or Canada or the United States, and then came back to run the country, while the rest of the people got by on fifteen hundred dirhams a month. Youssef had heard a rumor that one of the government ministers smoked Cuban cigars that each cost that much—and he was never seen on TV without one.
“You said you were not speaking to her?” he asked.
“It’s a long story,” Nabil said. He cleared his throat. Then, in a low voice, he explained, “She disrespected me.”
What exactly did this mean? Youssef could guess, though, that it had something to do with a boyfriend. What a foolish girl, he thought. Why had she not been more discreet? Suddenly he felt a surge of affection for her, for the outcast she had turned out to be. “Is she coming home this summer?” he asked.
“No.”
The expression on Nabil’s face made it clear that Youssef would not have gotten to meet her even if she was. Give it time, Youssef told himself, give it time. If she did not come to Casablanca for this summer vacation, she would be here for the New Year, and he would ask to meet her then.
“Shall we order?” Nabil asked, picking up the phone.
Youssef chose the hamburger his father had suggested.
When the food arrived, they sat across from each other in the dining room. Youssef bit into the hamburger and discovered that it was smothered in blue cheese. The mere sight of the mold disgusted him. Still, he forced himself to eat it.
“How does your mother feel about your moving into the apartment?” Nabil asked.
Youssef told him what had happened.
Nabil let his chin rest on his hand and then drew a long breath. “I have to tell you, I’m not surprised. Your mother does things her own way.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s just … one of a kind.”
In his wallet, Youssef had a silver khamsa his mother had made him carry for years, hoping, in an uncharacteristically superstitious way, that the talisman would protect him from the evil eye. It was the only memento he had of her.
“You need to be patient,” Nabil continued. “Your mother will come around eventually.”
Youssef could not imagine what it would take for his mother to accept that he wanted to be with his father and with her. She was so sure she was right. Time alone would not be enough to make her see she was wrong.
Nabil got up to leave, saying he would be back tomorrow at lunchtime and maybe then they could spend the afternoon together. He handed Youssef some money and told him he would make all the arrangements. Youssef was not sure what arrangements were meant, but he was afraid to ask. He closed the door behind his father, feeling nauseous. By the time he walked back to his bedroom, he had to rush to the bathroom to throw up.
In the Introduction to Linguistics class, Dr. Rafik was explaining the difference between phonemes and allophones (“think of allophones as speech sounds that belong, together, to a single phoneme”), but all Youssef could think of was his father. He felt trapped inside the classroom, while life—as unpredictable and frightening as it was—was happening outside, in the city. In his African literature class, he would normally have participated in the discussion of Season of Migration to the North, but he couldn’t help checking his watch. At last it was time for a break. He stepped out to smoke a cigarette and found Amin waiting for him in the inner courtyard.
“How are you, my friend?” Amin asked, getting up to shake hands. “I stopped by the house twice, but you weren’t there.”
“I was at my father’s apartment.”
Amin whistled. “Really? What’s it like?”
They sat down together on a bench, under competing banners, one promoting an upcoming conference about the work of Mohamed Choukri (OUR NATIONAL TREASURE), and the other calling for a boycott (AL KHUBZ AL HAFI HAS NO PLACE IN OUR MUSLIM SOCIETY). On the ground were strips of eucalyptus bark and shriveled hibiscus flowers. Youssef drew his breath, wondering whether he should describe the more obvious comforts of the place or the details that made it seem like a personal refuge for his father—the antique cigar cabinet, the dog-eared copies of Souffles, the collection of commedia dell’arte masks that lined the hallway. “It’s very nice,” he said, opening his hands. “I don’t know.”
“Are we going to see it sometime?”
He picked up a strip of bark and twirled it in his hand. “Of course. We can go there now, if you like.”
THE MAID, A MIDDLE-AGED woman who quickly averted her eyes whenever Youssef looked at her, was sorting through several bags of groceries when they walked in. “What would you like me to cook, Sidi Youssef?” she asked. Just like that. Not “Youssef,” not “son,” not “you,” but “Sidi Youssef.” No one had ever spoken to him this way before; he was not sure what to say. He glanced at Amin and then shrugged and said she could make whatever she preferred.
“You have a maid?” Amin asked, once they were in the living room.
“I didn’t know she’d be here.” Youssef heard her opening and closing drawers as she prepared the meal. He did not even know her name.
“So he gave this to you?”
“He gave me a key.”
“Is your mother going to move in?”
“No.”
Amin didn’t seem to have heard the answer. He was rummaging through the DVD collection. “There’s at least five thousand Dirhams’ worth here,” he said. “Maybe more.”
“Do you want to watch something?” Youssef offered.
They sat on the sofa, feet tucked under them, and watched an action film together. The maid brought a tea tray without Youssef’s having asked for it. Amin drank three glasses in a row, making loud sipping noises. “You know,” he said, “I could bring Soraya here.”
“She’s letting you …?”
Amin nodded.
Youssef whistled. “Just be careful,” he said, unable to explain why he worried about the girl, about what would happen to her if she were to get pregnant. Surely, Amin was smart enough to use protection.
Sometime after noon, the key turned in the lock, and Nabil came in. Youssef gave his father a quick hug and turned to introduce Amin.
“Amin comment?” Nabil asked as they shook hands.
“Chebana.”
“Are you in the same class as Youssef?”
“No. I’m majoring in law.”
“Oh. What year?”
“Douzième,” Amin said, when of course he meant deuxième; he spoke in a thick accent.
Nabil put his briefcase on the table. Slowly, almost deliberately, he took off his jacket, then began to roll up his sleeves.
Amin got up. “Iwa, I leave you in peace.”
“You can’t leave now—it’s past twelve,” Youssef said. “Stay for lunch.”
“No, I have to get going. Take care of yourself.”
AFTER YOUSSEF WALKED Amin out, he found Nabil on the balcony. He pulled out a cigarette from his pack of Favorites, while his father patted his pocket for h
is Dunhills.
“Did you have a good morning?” Nabil asked.
Youssef shrugged. They were quiet for a while, watching the city, its rooftops dotted with satellite dishes. The maid had already cleared the tea tray and was setting the lunch table. “Messaouda,” Nabil called out. (Ah, so that was her name!) “Bring a bottle of red wine.”
“Yes, sir.”
Nabil slid open the glass door and entered the dining room from the balcony. “You don’t seem to like school very much,” he said. “We’ll have to think of something for you to do. A degree in English isn’t going to lead anywhere.”
Youssef wanted to say something in his own defense, but he could not think what.
Nabil quickly added, “It’s not your fault. It’s the university’s. It churns out graduates who have no marketable skills. And with the new reforms, they’re even awarding degrees in three years instead of four. But we’ll think of something.” He uncorked the bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. “And we should also go get you some clothes,” he added, glancing at Youssef’s shirt.
They sat down across from each other at the dining table. Youssef stared at the tablecloth, black stripes on a white background. “How was your morning?” he asked.
“Very busy. But in the next few weeks, I’m going to focus on our hotel business and let my brother handle the transportation company. That should help ease things up a bit for me.”
Youssef was suddenly reminded of the strike at school. “Why did your company raise bus fares?”
Nabil looked up in surprise. “Why?” he repeated, as though he could not believe that someone would ask such a simple question. “For the same reason the other companies did. Because of profit margins,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “The government raised the price of fuel, which decreased our profits. And we wanted to expand our fleet, so we needed higher revenues. All the other companies did it, too.”
His matter-of-factness sent a chill down Youssef’s spine. At the university, the students had demonstrated, endured the punches and batons, but they had never stood a chance. This was about business, about making as much money as possible; it had nothing to do with what was fair, much less what was right. From outside the front door came the sound of a barking dog. Back home, he thought, no one owned dogs. They roamed about in the street, looking for food. Sometimes people would put out a bit of bread or some milk, and other times little children would chase them down alleys. “Do you have a dog?”
“We used to, but he passed away a few years ago.” He seemed on the verge of saying something else, but thought better of it.
His mobile phone rang, and when he saw the incoming number, he looked annoyed; he let it ring until it went to voice mail. Within minutes, though, it rang again. “Hello,” Nabil said. “No, I didn’t hear it the first time … Why? … I don’t think she can do it, Malika … Well, maybe she can, so at least she will have learned something … It’s too late, anyway … Oh, good … Around eight … No, the blue tie … Okay, ’bye.”
“Your wife?” Youssef asked.
“Yes.”
“Was she wondering why you’re not home for lunch?”
“I rarely go home for lunch. I usually have meetings, or sometimes I just come here. It’s too long of a drive, especially with all the traffic these days.” He put his fork and knife side by side on his plate. “This friend of yours, do you see him a lot?”
“Every day. Well, almost every day. He’s on a different campus and we’re on different schedules.”
“Well, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Better to make a clean break. Start fresh. Don’t you think?”
Youssef stared at his father in disbelief. He did not want to make a “clean break” from his friends at all; they were a part of his life, part of who he was. Yet he was tempted by the promise inherent in his father’s words: a new beginning with his father, a chance to rewrite his life. Perhaps he could see Amin at school or in a café and avoid bringing him to the apartment.
Youssef went to see his mother at work because the chance of her making a scene there was slim. Men and women, some carrying baskets of food or bags of linens, were waiting outside the hospital for visiting hours, but the guard waved him inside the compound. A nurse in a white uniform sat on a bench smoking a cigarette, next to two cats sleeping in a patch of sunlight. Youssef saw his mother as soon as he entered the lobby, and once again he was impressed by her self-control. She stood up calmly, greeting him as though nothing had happened, and took him through the ether-smelling corridors to the back office.
“How are you?” he asked even before she had closed the door.
“Fine, by the grace of God.”
“You look a bit tired.”
“It’s nothing. How about you?”
“I am fine, by the grace of God.”
He wanted desperately to say something that would make the choice he had made more bearable, for both of them. She adjusted the shirt of her uniform and ran her fingers over her forehead. “Amin came to ask about you,” she said.
“Yes, I know.”
“He asked why you haven’t called him.”
“Wait, when did he come by?”
“Just yesterday.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that you must have lost your mobile phone, or that it was stolen.”
“Did he believe you?”
“I don’t know.”
Youssef was too embarrassed to tell her that he hadn’t called Amin since his visit to the apartment a week ago. He wanted to bring Soraya, but Youssef didn’t have a good excuse for telling him he couldn’t.
“In any case, you shouldn’t worry about Amin,” his mother said.
“Why not?”
“Because the only thing that should be on your mind right now is your studies. Amin is not a good influence. I always see him at the street corner. He’s going to flunk his exams.”
“He’ll pass, insha’llah,” Youssef said, rather optimistically, since Amin had never been a good student.
“Have you been preparing for your exams?”
“Yes, I have. We sit for them next week.”
“May God grant you success.”
“Amen.”
“How is your father?” she asked, and then her face flushed pink.
“He’s fine,” Youssef said, smiling. He was not sure how much more she wanted to hear.
“Have you met his daughter?”
“Not yet,” he said. “She’s out of the country.”
She pursed her lips, but he detected some relief in the loosening of her shoulders, as though she were pleased to hear he had had no contact with Nabil’s family. Turning to look at the door, she said she had to go. She stood on her toes and kissed his cheeks.
For weeks and weeks, Youssef watched his father. Nabil used his knife to cut his meat, but switched the fork back to his right hand before placing it in his mouth. He held his glass of Bordeaux by the stem and swirled the wine inside before taking a sip. He never took a nap after lunch. The cigarettes he smoked were red Dunhills. Whenever he commented on an article in the newspaper, which was often, he used words like déontologiquement. He loved the films of Martin Scorsese, a name he pronounced Scor-say-zee, which was news to Youssef—he had been saying Scor-sayz, the way it was spelled. Nabil spoke to his driver and to the maid in brief, utilitarian sentences, and he never said please or thank you. Sometimes government ministers would call to ask him for advice or favors; he always said yes. He always stared at beautiful women, even college girls he would have been far too old to pursue, but maybe he did that for a reason. He loved listening to Umm Kulthum, and when he didn’t know he was being watched, he would sing along with her, rolling the words of Ahmed Rami in his mouth as he looked out the window of his car. He couldn’t stand men with long hair, or girls who smoked, but he hated the Ikhwan with long beards and the women with headscarves even more. He never went to mosque, but he let Messaouda take a long break on Fridays so she coul
d go to prayers. He gave her so much alms money to distribute among the beggars that Youssef began to wonder if his father had a guilty conscience. Nabil drank far too much—or at least Youssef, who was not used to alcohol, thought it was too much. Nabil never talked about Amal. He never talked about his wife. He never talked about his brothers. He was worried about gaining weight and always asked Messaouda to cook with less fat. When he saw a band of children selling single sticks of chewing gum on the Corniche, he complained that they were ruining the neighborhood. At the store where they had gone to buy some clothes for Youssef, he offered expert advice: If you get this Lacoste shirt, it will go well with your pair of dark-rinse jeans; don’t buy this wide-lapelled shirt, it’s out of style; and what are you thinking? You can’t wear yellow with that complexion. His French was exquisite, of course, but his English was so good that he was able to answer an American reporter’s questions. He complained about the African migrants who had started to appear all over town—don’t we have enough problems finding jobs for our own people? He called them all ‘azziyin, and he said they should all be sent home. In traffic he yelled at other cars even though he did not drive. He never went anywhere without his two mobile phones. Once, as they were smoking cigarettes on the balcony, he quoted a verse from Laabi (Ô comme les pays se ressemblent / Et se ressemblent les exils)—Youssef did not know it was Laabi; it was Nabil who had said so. He cracked his knuckles. He was allergic to avocado. On two separate occasions, he showed up at the apartment without his wedding ring. He stubbornly insisted that England had a written constitution, until Youssef pulled out one of the encyclopedias that lined the bookshelf in the hallway and showed him he was wrong. He loved to tell stories, and often he would start to laugh before the punch line of a joke had been delivered. Youssef watched his father. And he learned.