Laila Lalami - Secret Son

He played H-Kayne on the stereo every morning, as if the music could somehow conjure up his mother, his friends, his old neighborhood. One day his father complained. “Don’t you have anything else to listen to?” he asked, loosening his tie. Youssef snapped, “This is the music I like,” and he raised the volume on “Malna.” His father didn’t say anything but stared thoughtfully at Youssef, as if trying to think of a way to negotiate a difficult but crucial turn whose time had come.

“How would you like to work at the Grand Hotel?” Nabil asked. He owned a large stake in it, he said, and would be happy to arrange for a job if Youssef thought he might be interested.

“I’m still in college,” Youssef said, without much conviction.

“I know. But you would work only part-time. Think of it as a job-training course. And if you like it, you can continue there after you graduate.”

Youssef lit a Dunhill. Unlike almost everyone else he knew at university, he had not thought or worried about employment; his mind had been on other things. Even now, with this offer, he could not really think about the job itself. What he really wanted was to meet his father’s family — the wife, the daughter, the new puppy that Nabil had mentioned last week. If this job meant a few more hours with his father, it might be worth it. “Do you work at the hotel, too?”

Nabil chuckled. “No, of course not. I work at my office at AmraCo.”

Youssef felt stupid for asking such a silly question, and then resentful toward his father for making him feel this way. He stamped out his cigarette. “I really don’t know. I’m still in school.”

His father looked at him, his face full of an unusual weariness. “It’s for your own good,” he said at last. “You know as well as I do that your university degree alone won’t lead anywhere in this country.”

Again there was that needless reminder that, despite all the effort he might put into it, his schooling would amount to nothing. Real jobs were for people who went to higher institutes, or engineering school, or medical school — or anywhere abroad. For Youssef, there was only the prospect of a degree and maybe a third-rate job, if he was lucky.

“Getting into the hotel business will be good for you,” Nabil continued. “It will give you some experience.”

Youssef had never thought about “getting into the hotel business” or any kind of business at all, but the phrase suggested something grand, something that had potential. And there was, too, in the way his father had suggested he join the family business, a faint promise that Youssef might follow in his footsteps and be acknowledged as his son.

“But,” Nabil added, “if you’re going to learn the trade, you can’t tell the other employees you’re my son. Because you can’t learn anything if they’re afraid of you. If they think you can get them fired, they cannot teach you anything. You need to learn exactly how things are done at that level, if you really want to see the big picture in the hotel business.”

His eyes looked sincere; his explanation made sense; his tone was calm. But Youssef was afraid to believe. “You’re just afraid they’re going to find out you have an illegitimate son.”

Nabil blinked, surprised by the bluntness. “Why do you react this way?” he asked. “Can’t you see that I have a plan?”

“What plan?”

“By this time next summer,” he said, counting on his fingers, “you will have work experience. You will have a degree. You will get your driver’s license. You will go to London for an internship. And I will get you a position at AmraCo. Then I will speak to my wife.”

Youssef felt helpless before this image his father had drawn. He was his father’s creature, waiting to be trained before it could be shown to the world. Yet he was ready to put up with all of it if, in the end, his father kept his word. There was no reason not to believe him.

YOUSSEF RUBBED HIS BARE CHIN, the skin smooth from the close shave earlier in the morning. That had been one of the conditions of employment at the Grand Hotel in Casablanca: no facial hair. Also: no skullcaps, no tribal tattoos, no police record, no qualms about the presence of alcohol. The bellhops wore white jellabas and red fezzes, but all the other employees in the hotel had to wear a suit. Bareheaded women could work anywhere, but those who wore headscarves had to work in the back office. The restaurant was called Al Minzah, but the menus were printed in French. Welcome to Morocco, Youssef thought, no need to experience the real country if a sanitized version can be had instead.

Besides the clothing and grooming rules, the manager, Ahmed Mezzari, explained that certain behaviors were not allowed in front of tourists. “You can say hello and smile,” he said. “But never stare, no matter how they behave or how they are dressed. I’m sure your parents taught you the proverb: Shuf we skut . So look, and keep quiet. If the customers attempt to speak Darija Arabic, never correct their pronunciation. And never, ever, under any circumstances, try to befriend them. Being friendly does not mean being friends.” Now Mr. Mezzari walked Youssef over to introduce him to his supervisor.

Amina Benjelloun sat in her corner office surrounded by piles of dossiers and papers. Framed diplomas and certificates of excellence were displayed on one wall, like a prized stamp collection. In the corner, a blooming white orchid leaned to the right, as if trying to get close to her. She pushed her tortoiseshell glasses up her nose. “Oh, right. Youssef El Mekki,” she said. “Please have a seat.” She waited for Mr. Mezzari to leave before she herself sat down.

“So you’re here for the assistant position?”

“Yes.”

“And do you have any experience in events management?”

“No,” Youssef said, already feeling uncomfortable.

“A degree from a tourism school?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.” She shook her head slowly. It was clear she did not want him for this job, any more than he wanted it for himself, but here they both were, accomplishing the will of Nabil Amrani; after a minute or two, Amina Benjelloun rose to the occasion. She described the Grand Hotel’s events program. “We have eight meeting rooms for professional events, such as conferences and seminars, and for personal ones, like weddings or birth celebrations. I want us to move away from the personal events and focus more on professional ones, which last longer and bring us more income.” She spoke quickly and precisely, moving her hands to emphasize her points. There were no rings on her fingers, he noticed, and she wore a dark pin-striped suit over an immaculate white shirt. Not a single strand of hair was out of place in her chignon. Youssef pretended to understand everything she said.

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.”