by Laila Lalami
Amal gathered the sheets over her, turning to face the other side. “Don’t,” she said, her voice still hoarse from sleep. She heard the shutter click again. It felt like a tiny hammer hitting her skull. She groaned. Another click. She drew her breath and, pushing the covers off, sat up, feeling tired. She stretched her arms above her head. Behind her, she heard Fernando taking another picture of her back. “The light was too good to pass up,” he said, finally capping the lens and putting the camera on the nightstand. He came around the bed and dropped on his knees before her, slipping his arms around her waist. He was still in his boxers and a T-shirt with the logo of Amnesty International—he had interned for them two years before and had a stack of these shirts at her apartment for the times when he spent the night.
“Yeah?” She ran her hand over his shaved head. She felt the spiky growth of hair under her fingertips. “You want a picture of me looking grumpy?”
He laughed and kissed her. He tasted of coffee, and she thought how a cup might be just the thing, but before she could ask whether there was any left, he bent down to look underneath the bed. He pulled out what looked like a picture, covered with brown paper and tied with blue raffia ribbon. “This is for you,” he said.
“What’s the occasion?” she asked.
“Graduation, of course.”
“It’s not for another ten days.”
“I know,” he said. “I just wanted it to be a surprise, especially since I won’t be able to make it to the ceremony.”
Amal pulled the ribbon off and tore the paper to find a photograph of her, transformed into a Warholesque silkscreen, her hair shaded green, her eyes a light blue, her lips a dark pink. On the back of the picture was a receipt for a printmaking course she had seen advertised some weeks ago in the Santa Monica College catalog and had wanted to take. “I love it,” she said. “Thank you.” He smiled, clearly taking pleasure in her happiness.
She reached for her T-shirt and a pair of shorts from the other side of the bed. “God, I’m so tired.” The night before, they had gone dancing at a club in Los Feliz and stayed up until 3 a.m.
“Want some coffee?” he asked.
“Sure.” Amal followed him out of the bedroom. She put the silkscreen photograph on the mantelpiece in the living room, pushing aside three votive candles and a pack of cigarettes and sweeping the dust off with her hand. This class would be a nice release after work. She was doing an internship for a market research company, running polls and statistical analyses. She went to the kitchen, where she sat across from Fernando at the Formica-topped table by the window. The book he had been reading lay open, the inside facing down. He poured her a cup of coffee and pushed a plate of already-prepared toast in front of her. Then he let his chin rest on his hand as he watched her.
“How does it feel?”
“How does what feel?” she asked, looking up.
“Graduating, of course.”
“Good, I guess,” she said. “You’ve done it, too.” Since finishing school at UCLA the year before, Fernando had kept up his part-time job as a photographer and freelance music reviewer for a weekly magazine while trying to decide what he wanted to do next. He still had not figured it out; he had been talking about going to graduate school.
“Yeah,” he said, “but …” His voiced trailed off.
Outside, cars passed by on Franklin Avenue, their pace slower on this Saturday morning. A woman was pushing a cart full of recycled cans down the sidewalk. At the diner across the street, a line was already forming even though it was only a little after ten in the morning. “Do you want to go look at the apartment?” she asked.
“It’s a bit expensive.”
“We can manage it,” she said. “I’ll be working soon.”
The doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” Fernando said, getting up.
“If it’s the neighbor, tell him we don’t know who steals his newspaper, and he should stop bothering us,” she said as she carried her plate to the sink.
There were indistinct voices; the rising tone of questions, the falling one of answers. Amal walked out of the kitchen into the corridor. Her father was on her doorstep, his tall frame filling the doorway. She gasped. At once she noticed the extra strands of gray in his hair, the new wrinkles, the leaner waist, made more apparent by the black leather belt. He wore a polo shirt and beige slacks, and he jiggled his keys in his pocket—a sign, she remembered suddenly, that he was angry. A shiver went down her spine. Behind him, nearly hidden from view, stood her mother, looking at once exhausted, happy, and surprised. Malika was in a white skirt suit with a diamond brooch pinned to the lapel. Her hair was styled in a bob, her lips meticulously rouged.
“Mais qu’est-ce que vous faites içi?” Amal croaked.
“Eh bien, on est là pour ton diplôme!” Nabil replied, and then, in a heavily accented English, he added, “You did not think we would miss it!” After what seemed like an interminable pause, he pulled her to him, hugging her tightly against his chest, nearly taking the breath out of her lungs. On his shirt she smelled cigarettes and Dior Homme, reminding her of all those times she had sat next to him on the terrace of their home in Casablanca, where she would keep him company while he smoked his after-lunch Dunhill. When he let go, she stepped gingerly aside, unsure her legs could carry her. “Come in,” she said.
It was her mother’s turn to embrace her. Had it been two years already? Amal remembered a time when she, too, would wear Givenchy or carry Hermès because she wanted so much to look like her mother. She already had the same long hair, the same brown eyes, the light complexion, but she had wanted the elegance, too, the soft touch, and, above all, the strength. Where would Amal be if not for her mother? The words from Malika’s first letter after the argument were still imprinted in her memory: You will find this out soon enough on your own, dear child, but a man’s honor is easily bruised. What you might not know is that he’ll be the last one to admit it to other men. So when I pointed out to your father that your sudden return home in the middle of the term would surely make his brothers ask questions, that they’d want to know what had happened, he suddenly wasn’t so eager to go and get you. Now Amal noticed that Malika looked shorter, or perhaps it was Amal who had grown taller since the last time they had seen each other. “Qu’est ce que tu as grandi!” Malika said.
“It’s only been a couple of years, Maman.”
“Still, you look so different,” Malika said, scrutinizing her daughter’s face. “And your hair is so much longer.” She stroked the ends of it on Amal’s shoulders.
A stunned Fernando was still standing by the door. Realizing this, Amal opened her hands wide and, switching back to English, said, “Fernando Stewart, this is my father, Nabil Amrani.”
“We have already met,” Nabil said, looking up and down at Fernando, who stood barefoot, hand extended. The print on his boxers—red cherries on a blue background—seemed suddenly ridiculous and out of place. Amal wished he had taken the trouble to put his jeans on before opening the door. Nabil continued staring but did not offer his hand.
“Yes,” Fernando said, regaining his composure. A familiar twinkle of defiance lit up his eyes. “Yes, we did. Please come in,” he said, stepping aside.
“And this is my mother,” Amal added.
“How do you do?” Malika said, extending her hand and smiling stiffly.
Everyone walked in. For the first time since she had moved in, Amal felt ashamed of the faded curtains, the coffee table with two pens stuck under one leg to keep it steady, the dusty miniature TV in the corner. There were no crystal vases, no silver-framed portraits, no souvenirs from faraway vacation places, none of the things that might have been there had her father still been a part of her life, had he still made all the decisions—had he still paid for everything. (He had helped her move into her first apartment in Westwood and had decorated it himself. Amal had sold most of those knickknacks at a garage sale to pay her utility bills.) Now, instead, there was a Berber
rug she had not been willing to part with, stacks of books by the window, running shoes under the coffee table. There was also that silkscreen on the mantelpiece, which her father examined closely before sitting down.
Amal headed back into the bedroom, Fernando following her. He picked up his jeans from the floor. “What is he doing here?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I think they’re here for graduation.” She slipped on a black top and a pair of jeans, checking her reflection in the closet mirror. The color had gone from her face, and her brown eyes seemed bigger against her pale skin. She stood, staring at herself, then quickly rummaged through her drawer for a pair of earrings to wear. She went back to the living room.
“Mr. and Mrs. Amrani, would you like some coffee?” Fernando asked evenly.
“Yes, thank you,” Nabil said, barely glancing at him. “Aji tgelsi,” he told Amal, patting the space on the sofa between him and Malika. Ordinarily, Amal’s parents spoke French to each other and to her, using Darija Arabic only with the maid or the driver. (“Sounds like Russia in 1916,” Fernando had joked when Amal had told him about the language use.) But it was clear now that they did not want to risk being understood, in case Fernando spoke some French. Instead of sitting next to her father, she dropped into the armchair to the right, her arms hugging her knees.
“I know your mother’s been paying for your school,” Nabil began.
Malika crossed her long legs and shot him an angry look. “It’s my money, I can do with it whatever I want.”
Amal raised a surprised eyebrow at her mother’s tone.
“What I mean is,” Nabil said conciliatorily, “I knew Amal wouldn’t have lasted two years on her own if you hadn’t paid her tuition.”
The comment was directed at her mother, but it stung Amal more than she expected. “Is this why you’re here? To talk about money?”
Fernando walked in with the coffee tray. Malika did not touch her cup, but Nabil took a sip from his. “Hmm, this is very good,” he said in English, sounding surprised. “What kind of coffee is it?”
“Brazilian,” Fernando replied, sitting down on the second armchair, across from Amal.
“Oh,” Nabil said, staring at Fernando for a while, as though he had just realized some important fact. Again he spoke in Arabic. “And this is your … friend,” he said. “He is very dark.”
Amal knew a remark like this would come sooner or later, and yet she did not know what to say in response.
Malika jumped in. “His mother is from Brazil.”
“I thought you said he was American,” Nabil said to his wife.
“He is,” Amal replied. She glanced at Fernando. His eyes questioned her, wanting to know what was going on, but she could not begin to translate for him. What was there to report?
Nabil stared at his wife for a few seconds and then turned his attention back to Amal. “Anyway, look, I’m not here to talk about money or about him. I just meant that I know a lot more than you think. You think you can fool your father, but you can’t.”
“I’ve never pretended to fool you,” Amal said. “You’re the one who stopped talking to me.”
“We’re not here for this,” Malika said impatiently. “Lli ‘ta llah ‘tah.”
“You’re right,” Nabil said. “The past is dead. We’re here about the future.”
“My graduation is the future?”
“Of course,” Nabil said. And then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “We’re very proud.”
Sure, Amal thought, there are still appearances to keep up back home, brothers to convince that all was right with the world, cousins to brag to about the graduation of an only daughter, friends to invite to the biggest homecoming party anyone had ever seen, employees to tell about a new executive at AmraCo. In the Amrani family, this was how things worked. What would his friends say if, instead of the official line, they learned that she was getting ready to move in with this young man, who was too dark for her father’s taste?
“But there’s also something important that we have to discuss,” Nabil said.
Malika glanced at Fernando. “We can’t talk here.”
“Right,” Nabil said. “Why don’t we meet for dinner tonight? Do you remember where the Beverly Hilton is?”
Amal nodded. She had stayed there with her parents when they had come to help her move into her dorm room her freshman year. “What do you want to talk about?” she asked. Now she, too, glanced at Fernando, who surveyed the scene with a calmness that belied the feelings he must have had at being surrounded by people who talked about him but not to him.
Her father’s expression turned grave. “Something very important. Something about our family.” He took a card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “This is the hotel’s address and phone number, just in case.”
He stood up, and everyone else followed.
“Come at eight o’clock,” he said, starting to walk out. He turned around suddenly. “Where’s your car? I didn’t see it in the parking lot.”
“I sold it a long time ago.”
“I see. Then we’ll pick you up.”
“There’s no need,” Amal said. “Fernando can take me.”
“Come to dinner alone,” Malika said. “This is a family matter.”
“We’ll send a cab for you,” Nabil said.
“Fine,” Amal said. She opened the door for them, forgetting that Moroccans do not open doors for departing guests for fear of giving the impression that the guests are unwelcome. Months later, she would remember this moment and wonder whether this was the first sign of her having become a different person, or the last.
Nabil walked down the stairs to the street, but Malika lingered at the doorstep. She put her hand on her daughter’s cheek. “You look so grown-up now.” Her eyes watered; she blinked a few times. “It seems like only yesterday you were waving a stubby finger at me and telling me you wouldn’t come out from under the table.”
Amal chuckled. “I’m not a baby, Maman.”
They hugged. Nabil honked. He was behind the wheel of a rented black BMW, just like the one he had bought for her when she started school. It had gone to pay her rent for a few months, before she found her first job—teaching aerobics at the student center. That was followed by stints as a copy-shop clerk, a math tutor, a receptionist, and an intern at a medical research company.
Amal walked back inside the apartment, closed the door, and leaned against it.
“What was all that about?” Fernando asked.
Amal told him the little she knew.
“It must be some big news, then,” Fernando said, chewing his lip, “for them to have flown six thousand miles just to tell you. I wonder what it could be.”
She shrugged. “I’ve no idea. But it can’t be any good.”
Fernando put his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry. It’s not like he can take his money away twice.”
They showered and got dressed and went to see the apartment—all at Amal’s insistence. She wanted to go on with her day as if her parents had not shown up, but it was no use. Although the property manager left them alone for fifteen minutes while they walked through the rooms, opened closets and windows, and checked water taps, Amal wandered around the apartment without seeing it.
“So?” Fernando asked, after they stepped out.
“It’s nice,” she said.
“The south-facing bedroom doesn’t get enough light.”
“I guess so.”
“We wouldn’t be using it as a bedroom, anyway. So maybe it doesn’t matter.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine.”
“Did you change your mind?”
“Of course not,” Amal said, slipping her hand in his and walking back toward the car. “We just have to keep looking. Let’s look again tomorrow. Maybe something better will come along.”
The sight of the red overstuffed chairs and the elab
orate flower arrangements in the hotel lobby brought Amal memories of a life of comfort she had nearly forgotten. She went to sit on the circular sofa. A causeuse. From the French causer, meaning “to chat.” Only, she thought, this was the worst sort of chair for chatting, since you could not really face your interlocutors on it. The elevator doors opened, and her mother came out, wearing a tailored black dress and a row of pearls. Her father followed, looking even more aged than he had earlier that morning. Amal stood up, said hello to her father, and kissed her mother on the cheeks. Her parents did not address or make eye contact with each other. It’s already awkward, she thought, and we haven’t even sat down for dinner. She followed them into the hotel restaurant. The waiter, a young man in a long-sleeved white shirt that did not quite cover the tattoos on his arms, came by for their orders. Amal asked for a green salad and a glass of water.
“Is that all you’re having?” Nabil asked, eyebrows raised.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You should get something.”
Amal put her hand on her stomach. “I’m not really hungry.”
“But a salad?” he persisted. “That’s not enough. Get something.”
She gave the waiter an apologetic look and quickly scanned the menu. “Could I have the scallops, please?” she asked.
She looked around the dining room. A group of Hispanic businessmen seemed to be concluding a deal; two couples were enjoying the flambéed dessert their waiter had just brought them. Their apparent ease made Amal feel disconnected from the place. Her father had ordered a bottle of champagne, and it arrived now, along with two fluted glasses. “Could I have a glass as well, please?” Amal asked the waiter, already fetching her identification from her purse. Her father looked at her and seemed on the verge of saying something but held it back.
“Let’s have a toast,” Malika said. “For Amal, congratulations on finishing your degree.”
Amal took a sip, delighting in the cool, sparkly taste. “I changed my major from business to math,” she said to her father.
“Even though a business degree is more useful,” he said, shrugging. Then, casting a glance at his wife, he added, “But of course, we’re very proud.” He took out a blue velvet case from Azuelos Jewelers. “This is for you,” he said.