by Laila Lalami
She took him on a tour of the premises before giving him his assignments for the day, speaking in a tone of careful indifference. He had to prepare signage for the annual meeting of the Moroccan Association of Dentists, check that Meeting Room C had been restocked with bottled water and soda, set up the projector for the African Photographers’ Conference, and call the florist to order white roses for next Saturday. And when all that was done, he had to alphabetize her client files. Could he handle this by lunchtime?
During the first few weeks, Youssef worked diligently, taking every opportunity to show Amina Benjelloun that although he had gotten this job through connections, he was smart and capable. How could she resent him for being connected? Wasn’t that how most jobs were meted out in this country? Even when she made him redo all the name cards for a meeting between French investors and Moroccan ministers, just because she did not like the typeface, Youssef did not complain. “You’re right,” he said with feigned enthusiasm. “It looks much better like this.”
The Grand Hotel hosted a nearly uninterrupted series of such meetings. Foreigners were buying up utility companies, sugar plants, textile firms, banks and hotels, telecommunications start-ups, and even fertilizer factories. Local supermarkets were becoming outposts of international chains. Three-hundred-year-old riads in the medina were being converted into bed-and-breakfasts. Gated communities were being built for European retirees. At every turn, Youssef watched his compatriots sing the praises of the most beautiful country in the world and then sell it to the highest bidder.
Toward the end of the fall, when the weather had begun to cool, a film crew stayed at the hotel for fourteen days to shoot scenes for a thriller set in New York, Tehran, and Peshawar. Morocco was substituting for Iran; or maybe for Pakistan, Youssef was not sure. He dared not come near the male lead because Ahmed Mezzari had warned that anyone bothering the international actors would be fired. Then Youssef saw Mohamed Majd having coffee with the film’s director in the patio café. Majd was probably playing the wise older man; he was too old for a terrorist part. Youssef could not resist asking for an autograph, which Majd granted with an amused smile. Somehow Amina Benjelloun found out and lectured him. “You are an employee here,” she told him, “not a client. Behave accordingly.”
Once, while he was having tea at the hotel café, he spotted a woman who looked familiar. It took him a few minutes to place her in his memory: she had sat behind him in Spanish class during his first year at university. A history major. What was her name? Loubna fulan, a sweet girl who loved to repeat the sentences the professor wrote on the board. Me llamo Loubna y tengo diecinueve años. Youssef was about to get up and surprise her with a hello, when he saw a middle-aged man with white hair that fell weakly on either side of his balding head slide his expansive body onto the divan next to her. The man called out to the waiter to bring a bottle of wine. He had a Gulf accent—Kuwait or the Emirates. Youssef’s national pride was stung; this was a rare emotion, usually reserved for that day, every four years, when Morocco’s football team was defeated at the World Cup. What was Loubna doing sleeping with this old man? It wasn’t as if she didn’t have admirers at school. These girls, he thought bitterly, they act all shy with us and then they do it with rich foreigners. He shot her a reproachful look as he walked past her table to leave. His disapproval did not last, though, because there were too many women like Loubna orbiting around the hotel. Soon they just became part of the decor, like the silver samovar and tea set displayed in a corner of the foyer or the Berber rugs hanging on the walls of the salon.
Payday arrived. Youssef lined up with the other employees at the cashier’s window. He took his time counting the money, snapping the bills between his thumb and forefinger the way he had seen it done so often at the market. The sum was much less than what his father routinely gave him, but there was a special pleasure in receiving it. For the rest of the day, he attended to his duties at the office with a smile on his face and a lightness to his step. After his shift, he went straight to the hospital to see his mother. He was told she was working upstairs. “Some tea, my son?” one of the receptionists asked.
“No, thank you, Auntie. Don’t trouble yourself.”
“No trouble at all.” She took him to a back office and went to get the tea.
Youssef had barely taken a sip when he heard his mother’s familiar step, a bit heavier on one foot than the other. He rose in preparation to greet her. When she appeared, he noticed at once that her brow was furrowed. They normally met on Tuesdays, not Fridays, so perhaps she feared he had come here with bad news.
“Mother,” he said, bending slightly to hug her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “You don’t have class?”
“I came to see you. No, I don’t have class. Dr. Akharfi is away at a conference.”
“Really?”
He reached in his pocket for his wallet. “Yes. I wanted to give you this.”
“I don’t need money,” she said, biting her lip.
“Here,” he said quickly. “It’s my money. It’s not from him.” He knew she would not have taken Nabil Amrani’s money if he had offered it, but now that he was working and earning his own living, surely she would let him take care of a few things at home. Maybe she could buy a decent stove, or repaint the house, or install proper lighting.
“It’s not his money?”
“I have a job now.”
Her eyes opened wide. “A job? Where?”
“I work at the Grand Hotel.”
She sat down. “But what about your studies?” she asked. “You didn’t give up school, did you?”
“No,” he said. “It’s a part-time job. I’m still going to school.”
“But how will you keep up?” She stared at him with such concern and worry that Youssef grew uncomfortable.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, handing her a wad of bills.
“I can’t take this.”
“Why not?”
“You need it more than I do. Just focus on your studies. Don’t get distracted by your job.”
“Will you please stop worrying about me?” he asked, his voice at a higher pitch than he intended. Already he was getting irritated, even though he had spent no more than a few minutes with her. He softened his voice to ask, “Will you please let me help you?”
“But I don’t need the money.”
“Of course you do. Why don’t you take it and buy something nice for yourself?”
“I can’t.”
“Please,” he said. Now, on his third try, she took the money and slipped it in the pocket of her lab coat.
With this out of the way, Youssef had nothing else to say. For so long he had wanted to prove to her that she had been wrong about him, that he could find his way with his father. Now that he had a job, he derived no pleasure from having been right. Instead, he wished he could rekindle their memories of happier times, before his father’s existence had opened this abyss between them.
One Friday night, Youssef was catching up on episodes of one of his favorite TV shows when he heard the key turn in the lock. He jumped to his feet and went to the front door. It was his father. “What are you doing here?” Youssef asked. His father always came to the apartment at lunchtime, never in the evening.
Nabil sighed. “Don’t you want to start with a “good evening’?”
“Good evening,” he said, irked at having been so impolite.
His father took off his jacket and sat down on the sofa. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. What are you doing here?” Youssef asked.
Nabil shrugged. “Benaboud wanted to meet in a quiet place.”
“What about?”
“He wants some advice. The police have been bothering him lately.”
“You have friends in the police?”
“No one is friends with the police,” Nabil said wearily.
“So why does he want to talk to you?”
“We’ll find out.” He loosened hi
s tie and went to the liquor cabinet.
Nearly an hour went by before Benaboud buzzed the apartment to be let in. Dark circles underscored his deep-set eyes, and he seemed to have lost weight. Nabil poured a drink for Benaboud, who started to talk, without preamble and at a quick pace. “Did you hear about the blind item we ran two weeks ago? Two hundred words. Amusing. Anodyne. Dull, even. I mean, we run these guessing games from time to time, and we’ve never had any trouble. Anyway, in this case, it was about a government minister who was seen at a casino in the north, gambling five thousand dirhams at a time. And we said it must pay well to work for the state, just ask employees at his ministry. That’s it. We didn’t say his name or which ministry he oversees, and we didn’t pass judgment on his gambling habit. But now he’s come forward to say he’s been libeled, his reputation has suffered a blow, et cetera. What I don’t understand is why they choose to give us trouble over something so silly. Last month we did a story on the ridiculous bonuses and tax breaks government ministers get; six weeks ago we had something on prostitution; before that we had an interview with an imprisoned Salafist. I would never have thought they’d come after us for a blind item like this one. It’s so arbitrary.” He looked at Nabil expectantly.
“Yes,” Nabil said. “I didn’t read the item, but I heard about the scandal from my brother. It’s terrible.”
There was a pause in the conversation. To fill up the silence, Youssef went to the kitchen to look for something to serve with the wine. When he returned with a tray of cheese and crackers, he found Benaboud sitting at the very edge of the sofa, leaning forward. “The dossier is already with the prosecutor,” he said, “and one of my contacts is telling me they’ll ask for five hundred thousand dirhams in fines. I can’t pay, obviously. I’m going to have to shut down the magazine.”
“Unbelievable.”
“My coeditor suggested we put together an open letter to the government, and that we have our supporters—academics, intellectuals, human rights activists—sign it.”
Nabil sat back. He looked like a man who had bitten into a date only to find it infested with pest. “Farid, you’re asking for too much,” he said, looking away toward the bay windows.
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important, Si Nabil. Crucial, even. If we can pull off having important names like yours on our petition, it will send a strong message.”
Nabil took out a cigarette, tapped it against his pack, and lit it. “I can help pay for legal costs.”
“It’s not a question of money. We can always ask for donations, we’ve done that in the past, and they’ve served their purpose. What we’re trying to do now is different. We’re trying to show that the elite of this country, our academics, our activists, our business leaders, support freedom of expression and that they stand with us.”
“I can’t put my name on this petition, Farid.”
Benaboud wiped his palms on his pants. “Journalists in my generation, we all grew up looking up to people like Nabil Amrani, like Rafael Levy, like Fatima Bourqia, like Hamid Senhaji—all those who dared to speak up during the Years of Lead. You wrote so many articles for opposition newspapers when you were my age. And to have your support now would make all the difference.”
“Look,” Nabil said quickly, “you have to understand. I have thousands of employees who depend on me. I can’t afford to do politics.”
“But it’s not a question of politics,” Benaboud said, “it’s a question of principles.”
“I can’t take the risk.”
An awkward minute passed. “Well, thank you all the same,” Benaboud said as he got up. He walked, slouching toward the front door with Nabil by his side.
THE SPRING SEMESTER STARTED, but Youssef did not attend the first week of classes. He was in his final semester now, but, he reasoned, little happened in the first few days, anyway; people were still returning from vacation, still buying the books they needed. When he next went to visit his mother at the hospital, the first question she asked was, “How is school?”
Of course there was only one answer that would keep her happy. “It’s great,” he said. “I have Dr. Hammouche again this year. You know how much I like her. And Haddad is teaching fiction. Everyone says he’s fantastic.”
His mother smiled, sitting down across from him.
“You’re still working for your … at the Grand Hotel?”
“Only a couple of afternoons a week and on Saturdays.” It was so easy to lie; all he had to do was divine her thoughts, and speak them.
“And you—how are you?” Youssef asked.
“Fine, by the grace of God.”
“Here,” he said, handing her some money.
She took the bills and slipped them into the pocket of her lab coat. “I will save this for you.”
“No, no, don’t save it. Use it for yourself.”
“We shall see.”
Somewhere in the hospital, someone howled in pain. Youssef stood up, startled. A shuffle of footsteps down the hallway, and the howling stopped. “How is Amin?” he asked, sitting down again.
“I saw him a few days ago. I wonder if that boy does anything but stand at street corners. He asked me again about you, and I told him that you had gone to Marrakech, to stay with one of my cousins.”
“But you don’t have any cousins.”
“How would he know? Did you tell him?” She had taught Youssef never to speak of her being an orphan. She was ashamed of her own birth.
“No, no.”
“I’ve never liked him, you know.”
“He’s a good man,” Youssef said. “What about Maati?”
“I don’t know. He’s still working for the Party. I never see him. Maybe you could come to the house and visit me. That way you can see Maati for yourself.”
“I can’t. I have to finish reading a novel for Dr. Hammouche’s class.”
“You said it was Haddad who was teaching fiction.” Youssef’s mother’s face was impassive, her voice level.
“I did? I meant it the other way around.”
“You’re lying to me,” she said with a sigh. “You’re still not in school. You have given up on college.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll go back next week. I’ve just been having a good time at work, and really, the beginning of the semester is always so slow.” His chair squeaked as he got up. “I should get going.” He kissed the back of her hand. “I’ll go back next week,” he repeated, but from the look in her eyes he knew he had no more convinced her than he had convinced himself.
Bottom line, business outcomes, event marketing, event legacy—Youssef began to imitate the terminology that Benjelloun frequently used. The words filled his mouth, satiating any need he may have had for an education. One afternoon, when he should have been preparing for his finals, he sat with his laptop in the living room, trying to learn how to use a project-planning software. His father came home, looking weary.
“What’s wrong?” Youssef asked.
“It’s nothing,” Nabil said. He kept jiggling his keys in his pocket.
“I was about to have a cigarette,” Youssef said. “Do you want one?”
They stepped out onto the dining room balcony. Even after all this time, Youssef had not tired of the view from his tenth-floor apartment. Nabil took a long pull from his cigarette. “I’m traveling to the U.S. in a couple of days.”
“Ah bon? To see Amal?”
A quick nod.
“You never told me you were getting ready for the trip.”
“Something came up. An emergency. It’s very last-minute.”
His father would not say anything more, Youssef knew. “Is she coming back?”
“Yes. I think so.”
“So will I finally get to meet her?”
“We’ll see,” he said, head tilted.
Youssef could not decide whether it would be better to press his father now, or if he should be patient for just a little while longer, since everything else seemed to u
nfold exactly as Nabil had promised it would.
“When do you get back?”
“In three weeks.”
“Bon voyage, alors.”
Youssef’s father gave him a hug. And then he was gone.
PART III
Perhaps home is not a place but simply
an irrevocable condition.
JAMES BALDWIN, Giovanni’s Room
10
AN END, A BEGINNING
AMAL AWOKE TO THE SOUND of a camera clicking; Fernando was sitting at the edge of the bed, taking pictures. He was an early riser, always cheerful in the morning, whereas she loved to sleep late and was irritable for a while after waking. When she spent the night at his apartment, he listened to music on his headphones, edited his work, or lifted weights while he waited for her to get up. When he spent the night at hers, he usually rummaged through her books for something to read. Sometimes, if she stirred and seemed about to wake, he would slide in next to her, the coolness of his skin against hers giving her goose bumps. He would brush her hair away from her face and cajole her into getting up. They would talk endlessly about nothing and everything. Or they would read the Los Angeles Times, Fernando commenting sarcastically on the headlines. Or they would make love.