Laila Lalami - Secret Son

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 his 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.