by Laila Lalami
“May God open all doors for you.”
“Amen.”
IT WAS JUST after 9 a.m. when Youssef arrived at the Interior Ministry in Rabat. He was directed to the human resources department, on the second floor, where a middle-aged man with a thin mustache and thinning hair sat at a desk right on the landing. The expression on the man’s face was familiar to Youssef: an immediate appraisal, categorizing him as another supplicant.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning.”
“I am here to deliver a job application.”
The man took the letter from Youssef, gave it a quick look, and then added it to a pile on his right-hand side. He fixed his eyes upon a distant spot behind Youssef.
“When might I hear about it?”
“The director has to read it. Come back in two weeks.”
And so it went with every other government body he tried that day. He was running out of places to try, having exhausted the list of state agencies he had found in the phone book.
On the train home, a wave of panic washed over him. What if he could not find another job? What would become of him? For a while his life had seemed to open up, allowing him to see a path for himself, a future, but now the darkness was closing in again. He wanted out of this miserable existence. The pain was so acute that he could feel it, just under his ribs, with each breath he took. When he got off the train, he stopped by the news kiosk to buy Le Matin. The job advertisements were the usual calls for applications from computer engineers and MBAs, but he saw a two-line ad for a receptionist at a cybercafe and another one for a helper at a copy shop. He called the first number. An angry café owner answered, barking at him that he regretted having placed the ad—he had received more than one hundred calls and had spent all day on the phone, turning people down. And yes, the position had already been filled. Youssef dialed the second number and got a busy signal. He kept trying for fifteen minutes without success. At last he left the station to catch the bus home.
For lunch, his mother had made a plate of couscous garnished with a few carrots, a small piece of meat, and a lot of sauce. He ate the couscous, but left her the meat, refusing to take another bite of food until she ate. They were drinking a glass of verbena, listening to the news on the radio, when the mailman knocked on the door to deliver the letter that informed Youssef that his application for the police academy had been rejected.
14
DREAMS
YOUSSEF STARTED GOING to the street corner again with Amin. There, he watched people come and go, and sometimes listened to or repeated new gossip. Did you hear that a teenager from Douar Lahouna stole twenty kilos of copper wire from the railway line? The commuter trains from Rabat to Casablanca had to be stopped for several hours while the ONCF made repairs. The boy sold the spools of metal and made enough money to buy a motorcycle. And did you know that Simo was mugged while coming home the other night? The greaser put a razor right here, at the base of Simo’s neck. And did you see the way Sawsan dresses and carries herself? That girl had better watch out; she is looking for trouble.
By early afternoon, Youssef and Amin usually tired of standing at the corner and went to the Party headquarters to see Maati, keeping him company by the entrance. They sat on the white plastic chairs outside and shared his coffee and cigarettes. Sometimes, Maati would tell them one of his new jokes. “Did you hear the one about the police?” he asked. When they both said no, he continued. “The heads of security services from Morocco, France, and the United States meet at a conference, and they make a bet about who is the best at finding criminals. So they come up with a challenge. They release a rabbit into a forest and they each have to try and find it. The Americans go in. They set up a huge command center. They hire informants; they spy on all the animals; they harass the ones that look rabbitlike. After two months, they issue a report saying that rabbits do not exist in that forest. The French go in next. They investigate for two weeks. They can’t find the rabbit. So they burn parts of the forest and make no apologies. It was the fault of the rabbit; he should have turned himself in. Then the Moroccans finally get their turn. They come out two hours later with a battered and bloodied fox. The fox is yelling: ‘Okay! Okay! I am a rabbit! I am a rabbit!’ ”
Everyone burst out laughing. Youssef loved hearing Maati’s jokes, but it frightened him how quickly he fell back into this routine with his old friends, standing around with nothing but words to occupy them. It was as if he had never left the neighborhood, as if his life had never been interrupted.
One day, Amin told Youssef about the lawyer. Maître Chraibi had immigrated to the United States many years ago, had a law practice in New York, and now had an office with a brass name-plate on Chari’ Al Massira. His online ad boasted that he could get green cards to all those who entered the visa lottery through his firm. Most of the applications filed with American immigration services are improperly filled out, the ad warned, so directions must be followed exactly. Why deny yourself an opportunity? Let me take care of the paperwork. All you had to do, Amin told him, was fill out a form and provide a photo, and the lawyer would take care of the rest. The service cost one thousand dirhams, half up front and half after the applicant was called for the consular interview.
“Are you going to apply?” Youssef asked, turning to look at Amin. They had come into the cybercafe after an afternoon of playing chess at the Oasis.
“Not this year,” Amin said, barely taking his eyes off the computer screen. “I don’t have the money.”
Youssef considered this for a moment. “I have enough for both of us.”
“Aw? Where did you get the cash?”
“The money I made from my job. I have enough for both of us. We can both apply.”
Amin pushed the keyboard away and looked incredulously at Youssef. “You would give me the money? Really?”
“Of course.” Youssef said, quickly averting his eyes. He did not want to explain that this was his way of atoning for how he had treated Amin. Maybe this lottery would give them the chance they had been waiting for. It would take both of them out of Hay An Najat this time, and for good. Youssef pictured palm-lined beaches, white picket fences, giant hamburgers, baseball matches, fast cars—it was a dream that came, fully formed, in stereo and in high definition, into his mind. All he had to do was replay scenes from the films and television shows beamed into his home by satellite, and insert himself into the story.
They sent in their lottery applications the next day. Now, all they could do was wait. They spent their days together, shuttling from the street corner to the Oasis, from the Oasis to the cybercafe, and back again. Sometimes, one or the other of them left Hay An Najat to inquire about a job listing, but such occasions seemed more like formalities than possibilities, their names and addresses having already disqualified their applications.
Their routine was disrupted when Amin’s girlfriend Soraya got married—to a store security guard, at a ceremony to which neither Amin’s family nor Youssef’s mother was invited. Amin stopped coming to the street corner in the mornings. He was too depressed to want to leave his house, and when he reappeared, it was mostly at the cybercafe, reeking of hashish. Youssef started going there, too, taking a seat next to him at the computer station. Most of the other customers were looking at porn photos or Islamic Web sites, or both, but Amin was addicted to online chat. He was trying to start a romance with a foreign woman. He was worried that the American consul would deny him a lottery visa because he didn’t speak English very well. He was ready to go anywhere: somewhere in Europe or America was best, but he did not mind the Gulf or Australia, either. He had created different nicknames for different chat rooms in different countries: for the West, he was Ash; in the Middle East, he was Ashhab; and Down Under, he was Heb.
Soon, Amin mastered the bizarre abbreviations made necessary by the bandwidth of his Internet connection. In one window, he typed, “What r u up 2?” while on the other he was waiting for an answer to his message “T
où, là?” On yet another window, he used a latinized spelling of Darija to chat with a French Algerian girl: “Finek a zzin?” Amin had no trouble conversing, half-literately, in three languages. He was determined to be a mail-order groom.
“How do you keep them straight,” Youssef asked him, “all these different people you claim to be?”
“You get used to it quickly,” Amin said. “Playing a role, I mean.”
Staring at the screen over Amin’s shoulder, Youssef saw that Katia from Oslo had just asked where he was from. “Casablanca,” Amin typed. A smiley face appeared in the tiny window of the chatting software, but nothing else. Still, that little emoticon was enough to give Amin hope, and he said he would try Katia again in a few days, see if he could get her to talk.
Amin’s belief in his chances was steadfast, and therefore it was infectious. Watching him type with two fingers, Youssef was tempted to consider the idea of an Internet love match for himself—but he could not bring himself to create a fake identity. He was tired of the masquerades. He was Youssef El Mekki; he was his mother’s son, a child of Hay An Najat. He no longer had any wish to be someone else.
He often thought that Maati had outsmarted them all. Three years ago, when he had flunked out of high school, he had seemed to have the least chance of making it. Yet now he was the only one among Youssef’s friends bringing home a salary, the only one who had not wasted his time at the university. Already he had saved up enough to help his parents with his sister’s wedding. Youssef could not help feeling pangs of envy every time he saw Maati at the Oasis.
And the worst of it was: Youssef was luckier than many others he knew. Around the neighborhood, young men from Senegal and Mali and Niger had begun to settle, sharing shacks, eight or ten to a room. They had come looking for Europe but had run out of money on the way and had stayed here in Casablanca. They worked as vendors, porters, or beggars. At any moment, they risked getting picked up by the police or harassed by thugs. But their fate did not raise concern in Youssef, for he was going to America, and surely, surely, such things did not happen there.
Whenever he was turned down for a job interview, he simply returned to the dream. “Just imagine—,” Youssef would say to Amin, unable to control a smile, “imagine how it will be when we get the visa.”
“Everything will be better,” Amin concurred.
America was different, its movies told them; it was a place where one could go to escape tyranny, poverty, or both—and succeed. Once, as they were walking near the French lycée, on their way back from another pointless interview, a zealous cop stopped them and made them turn out their pockets for no discernible reason. When the search was over and they were let go, Youssef found refuge in the fantasy. “This would never happen in America,” he said with unwitting conviction. He had watched suspects on TV shows being read their rights: You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law; you have the right to an attorney; if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. He knew the warnings by heart, and foolishly he believed them.
But the dream ended, as all dreams do, when rumor spread that the American Consulate had already interviewed those who had been selected. Frantic, Youssef ran across town to check with Maître Chraibi at his office. There was a FOR LEASE sign on the door. Youssef had failed, once again, and now the money was gone.
PART IV
The way of even the most justifiable
revolutions is prepared by personal
impulses disguised into creeds.
JOSEPH CONRAD, The Secret Agent
15
SECRETS AND LIES
APPEARANCES ARE DECEIVING. Rachida had understood this simple fact long ago, so she was often surprised to come across people who fell for artifice and good looks, for sweet words and appealing facades—for lies. Just that morning, at the market, the artichoke vendor had told her his son had found a job with a naval company based in Dubai. After the customary congratulations, she asked about the company’s line of business. “I don’t know, exactly,” the vendor said. “Something to do with tourism.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “The salary is fifteen thousand dirhams. My son paid the fee for the medical exam, so he’s just waiting to hear about when he will start.”
“He paid money to get the job?” Rachida asked, but the vendor did not catch her hint. He weighed the artichokes, giving her an extra 150 grams for free; she could not bring herself to tell him his son had been deceived.
Now she sat cross-legged in her yard, pulling the scales off each artichoke to get to its core. Every once in a while she ate the fleshy top of a leaf, letting its tartness linger on her tongue. She was planning on making a tagine of meat and artichoke hearts, one of Youssef’s favorite dishes. Perhaps it might entice him to eat. Ever since he had lost all his money to the immigration lawyer, he had had little appetite. She had warned him that it would be a scam, but he hadn’t listened, of course. Boys these days were like dandelions: the lightest of winds could blow them away. Yesterday, when she had returned home from work, she had found him lying supine on his bed. Twice she called to him before he heard her. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Should I serve you dinner now?” He looked at her as if he could not see her, then shook his head no. She wanted to tell him that he would find his way someday, but he looked so distant that she doubted her words could penetrate his world.
There was a knock on the door. Rachida set aside the artichokes and went to answer. On her doorstep was a young woman in a sleeveless white shirt and blue pants, her right arm clutching a large red handbag. She had on diamond earrings and a turquoise necklace, which made Rachida worry for her safety. She was obviously not from the neighborhood. Rachida wanted to put her arms around her to protect her—she had the look of someone for whom the world had not yet taken off its mask.
“Good morning, a-lalla,” the girl said. “Is this Youssef’s house?”
“Yes, it is. Who’s asking for him?” Rachida said, leaning forward to take a closer look at Youssef’s friend. Could she be an old classmate from university? Perhaps Rachida could enlist her help in convincing Youssef to go back to college.
The girl seemed to hesitate. She turned to look up the street, as if expecting Youssef to magically appear from that direction, then said, “My name is Amal Amrani.”
Rachida felt her stomach drop. Here she was, worrying about getting her son back into university, back to the life he had before his father appeared in it, and who should show up on her doorstep but one of his people? The only thing that kept Rachida from closing the door in Amal’s face was that look of hesitation and vulnerability. It tugged at her instincts.
“May I come in?” Amal asked softly.
Almost despite herself, Rachida opened the door wide. Amal walked in and sat down on the divan in the yard. She let go of her handbag, but it balanced precariously on her lap, so that the slightest movement could make it tumble forward. She looked around—at the pot of artichoke hearts, the washtub full of dirty laundry, the water closet with the broken lock—taking great care not to let her eyes rest on any single item for too long. “I think perhaps you know who I am,” she said.
Rachida had begun to warm up to this strange girl, but now she was irritated with her. Was arrogance passed down from father to daughter? “No. Who are you?”
“I’m sorry,” Amal said. She looked searchingly at Rachida. “I thought Youssef might have told you about me.” She waited for Rachida to say something. When nothing came, she drew her breath: “I am his sister.”
Something about the way she spoke those words made it seem that they had crossed her lips for the first time. Hearing them, Rachida felt a visceral need to turn around, to walk away from the reality to which even her best approximations, her most convincing lies, could not compare. All she had ever wanted was to give Youssef a family he could call his own. She had created stories and memories to which he could relate, so when he told her he had met his
father, she had been dumbstruck; she did not understand why the comfortable world she had created had not been enough for him. But now, with Amal in her living room, quietly saying she was Youssef’s sister, Rachida saw clearly that her words had been powerless against reality.
“I wanted to talk to him,” Amal said.
“He’s not here,” Rachida repeated, her voice coming out hoarse. She cursed herself for having let Amal in. What if Youssef came home now and found her here? It would inevitably send him into another fit of questions about the past, about his father, or, worse, about his father’s sudden change of heart. “What did you want to tell him?”
Amal’s face fell. She seemed not to have considered the idea that people were not going to be waiting for her when she needed to talk to them. Again, Rachida felt sorry for her—such ignorance, such innocence. Many years ago, when Rachida had arrived in the Amrani family home near Fès, she, too, had been ignorant and innocent. She had let herself believe that Nabil Amrani was in love with her. Love was new. Love was intoxicating. Love gave license to the ultimate of taboos: sleeping with a married man, a married man whose pregnant wife was on bed rest. When Rachida herself became pregnant and Nabil Amrani’s mother ordered her to get an abortion, Rachida had refused and had returned to the orphanage with nothing but her dashed dreams and a baby growing inside her. Nabil’s reputation had been safeguarded; her life had been ruined.
“I just wanted to meet him,” Amal said. “I didn’t know about him until last June, when my mother came to visit me in Los Angeles.”
Rachida looked away at the mention of Malika Amrani. Did Amal know anything about Rachida’s visit to the mansion in Anfa? Surely, Malika would not have been so foolish as to talk about their conversation on the terrace that warm afternoon. Rachida had worn her best clothes—a navy blue jacket with matching pants, her only pair of gold earrings—and had come to the door of the Amrani house. She told the maid she was the nurse who had watched over Malika’s pregnancy twenty-two years ago, and that she was here about an urgent matter. Malika Amrani recognized her immediately, kissed her cheeks, welcomed her in, and ordered tea to be served outside. She looked at Rachida with patient eyes, waiting for a favor to be asked. Why would she think otherwise? Favors were commonly asked of a woman of her station. Although Malika was older than Rachida, she looked younger. Her hair was expertly cut, her face was carefully made up, her nails were manicured, and she seemed at ease with all the comforts around her. Rachida kept her chapped hands on her lap, hidden by the tablecloth. She spoke as softly as she could. The truth was hard to speak and—she knew—to hear.