Laila Lalami - Secret Son

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.”

Tarek relinquished the paperweight, watching with mild amusement as Amin began a tirade. The price was an insult. Who did Tarek think he was dealing with? Surely he would not treat someone from the neighborhood the way he would an outsider. And look at this — this was real silver! Any jeweler would want it, either for resale or for melting.

Tarek held up his palm. “Thirty. Take it or leave it.”

“We’ll take it,” Amin said. “You thief. Shame on you for taking advantage of one of your own.”

Tarek handed over the coins and went back to fixing a radio.

Amin and Youssef bought themselves a whole pack of cigarettes from the grocer’s. It was a luxury; ordinarily they could only afford to buy single cigarettes from the boy at the corner. “So what are you going to do next?” Amin asked. “Are you going back to see him?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Maybe you can get some money from him.”

“You think?”

“Sure. If he’s as rich as you say he is, he’ll want to pay up to keep this from his wife, won’t he?”

“I’m not going to blackmail him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“There you go again, using complicated words. Who said anything about blackmail? I’m just saying, you could get something more than a paperweight.”

“I don’t want anything from him.”

An uneasy silence fell between them. The recycling man passed them, pushing his cart and calling out “Bali al-bi‘!” A Peugeot 103 motorcycle came up the street, honking as it neared the intersection.

“You’re right,” Amin said. “Rich people like Amrani, they’d find a way to cheat you out of the money anyway.”

“Exactly,” Youssef said, relieved that Amin’s ruminations had taken another turn.

One of the Mercedes-and-Marlboros was bragging about having received a private tour of the 2M studios. Youssef felt compelled to outdo her, so he told the anecdote — a lie, but he had told it often enough, and with enough detail, that it no longer felt like a lie but like a good story — about how he had once met Tayeb Saddiki right outside the theater where one of his plays was being staged. Youssef hunched his shoulders and cleared his throat to imitate the build of the playwright and his baritone voice; he pretended to be pestered by a girl for an autograph and a role.

“Are you Youssef?”

Youssef turned around to find a young man in a pressed shirt and black pants staring at him.

“Who’s asking?”

The young man pointed to a black car parked on the street. “Mr. Amrani.”

The window in the back was lowered and Nabil waved and smiled. Youssef felt his knees go weak from the shock.

“Who is that?” one of his classmates asked, suddenly interested.