Laila Lalami - Secret Son

The Grand Hotel hosted a nearly uninterrupted series of such meetings. Foreigners were buying up utility companies, sugar plants, textile firms, banks and hotels, telecommunications start-ups, and even fertilizer factories. Local supermarkets were becoming outposts of international chains. Three-hundred-year-old riads in the medina were being converted into bed-and-breakfasts. Gated communities were being built for European retirees. At every turn, Youssef watched his compatriots sing the praises of the most beautiful country in the world and then sell it to the highest bidder.

Toward the end of the fall, when the weather had begun to cool, a film crew stayed at the hotel for fourteen days to shoot scenes for a thriller set in New York, Tehran, and Peshawar. Morocco was substituting for Iran; or maybe for Pakistan, Youssef was not sure. He dared not come near the male lead because Ahmed Mezzari had warned that anyone bothering the international actors would be fired. Then Youssef saw Mohamed Majd having coffee with the film’s director in the patio café. Majd was probably playing the wise older man; he was too old for a terrorist part. Youssef could not resist asking for an autograph, which Majd granted with an amused smile. Somehow Amina Benjelloun found out and lectured him. “You are an employee here,” she told him, “not a client. Behave accordingly.”

Once, while he was having tea at the hotel café, he spotted a woman who looked familiar. It took him a few minutes to place her in his memory: she had sat behind him in Spanish class during his first year at university. A history major. What was her name? Loubna fulan, a sweet girl who loved to repeat the sentences the professor wrote on the board. Me llamo Loubna y tengo diecinueve años . Youssef was about to get up and surprise her with a hello, when he saw a middle-aged man with white hair that fell weakly on either side of his balding head slide his expansive body onto the divan next to her. The man called out to the waiter to bring a bottle of wine. He had a Gulf accent — Kuwait or the Emirates. Youssef’s national pride was stung; this was a rare emotion, usually reserved for that day, every four years, when Morocco’s football team was defeated at the World Cup. What was Loubna doing sleeping with this old man? It wasn’t as if she didn’t have admirers at school. These girls, he thought bitterly, they act all shy with us and then they do it with rich foreigners. He shot her a reproachful look as he walked past her table to leave. His disapproval did not last, though, because there were too many women like Loubna orbiting around the hotel. Soon they just became part of the decor, like the silver samovar and tea set displayed in a corner of the foyer or the Berber rugs hanging on the walls of the salon.

Payday arrived. Youssef lined up with the other employees at the cashier’s window. He took his time counting the money, snapping the bills between his thumb and forefinger the way he had seen it done so often at the market. The sum was much less than what his father routinely gave him, but there was a special pleasure in receiving it. For the rest of the day, he attended to his duties at the office with a smile on his face and a lightness to his step. After his shift, he went straight to the hospital to see his mother. He was told she was working upstairs. “Some tea, my son?” one of the receptionists asked.

“No, thank you, Auntie. Don’t trouble yourself.”

“No trouble at all.” She took him to a back office and went to get the tea.

Youssef had barely taken a sip when he heard his mother’s familiar step, a bit heavier on one foot than the other. He rose in preparation to greet her. When she appeared, he noticed at once that her brow was furrowed. They normally met on Tuesdays, not Fridays, so perhaps she feared he had come here with bad news.

“Mother,” he said, bending slightly to hug her.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “You don’t have class?”

“I came to see you. No, I don’t have class. Dr. Akharfi is away at a conference.”

“Really?”

He reached in his pocket for his wallet. “Yes. I wanted to give you this.”

“I don’t need money,” she said, biting her lip.

“Here,” he said quickly. “It’s my money. It’s not from him.” He knew she would not have taken Nabil Amrani’s money if he had offered it, but now that he was working and earning his own living, surely she would let him take care of a few things at home. Maybe she could buy a decent stove, or repaint the house, or install proper lighting.

“It’s not his money?”

“I have a job now.”

Her eyes opened wide. “A job? Where?”

“I work at the Grand Hotel.”

She sat down. “But what about your studies?” she asked. “You didn’t give up school, did you?”

“No,” he said. “It’s a part-time job. I’m still going to school.”

“But how will you keep up?” She stared at him with such concern and worry that Youssef grew uncomfortable.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, handing her a wad of bills.

“I can’t take this.”

“Why not?”

“You need it more than I do. Just focus on your studies. Don’t get distracted by your job.”

“Will you please stop worrying about me?” he asked, his voice at a higher pitch than he intended. Already he was getting irritated, even though he had spent no more than a few minutes with her. He softened his voice to ask, “Will you please let me help you?”

“But I don’t need the money.”

“Of course you do. Why don’t you take it and buy something nice for yourself?”

“I can’t.”

“Please,” he said. Now, on his third try, she took the money and slipped it in the pocket of her lab coat.

With this out of the way, Youssef had nothing else to say. For so long he had wanted to prove to her that she had been wrong about him, that he could find his way with his father. Now that he had a job, he derived no pleasure from having been right. Instead, he wished he could rekindle their memories of happier times, before his father’s existence had opened this abyss between them.

One Friday night, Youssef was catching up on episodes of one of his favorite TV shows when he heard the key turn in the lock. He jumped to his feet and went to the front door. It was his father. “What are you doing here?” Youssef asked. His father always came to the apartment at lunchtime, never in the evening.

Nabil sighed. “Don’t you want to start with a “good evening’?”

“Good evening,” he said, irked at having been so impolite.

His father took off his jacket and sat down on the sofa. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. What are you doing here?” Youssef asked.

Nabil shrugged. “Benaboud wanted to meet in a quiet place.”

“What about?”

“He wants some advice. The police have been bothering him lately.”

“You have friends in the police?”

“No one is friends with the police,” Nabil said wearily.

“So why does he want to talk to you?”

“We’ll find out.” He loosened his tie and went to the liquor cabinet.

Nearly an hour went by before Benaboud buzzed the apartment to be let in. Dark circles underscored his deep-set eyes, and he seemed to have lost weight. Nabil poured a drink for Benaboud, who started to talk, without preamble and at a quick pace. “Did you hear about the blind item we ran two weeks ago? Two hundred words. Amusing. Anodyne. Dull, even. I mean, we run these guessing games from time to time, and we’ve never had any trouble. Anyway, in this case, it was about a government minister who was seen at a casino in the north, gambling five thousand dirhams at a time. And we said it must pay well to work for the state, just ask employees at his ministry. That’s it. We didn’t say his name or which ministry he oversees, and we didn’t pass judgment on his gambling habit. But now he’s come forward to say he’s been libeled, his reputation has suffered a blow, et cetera. What I don’t understand is why they choose to give us trouble over something so silly. Last month we did a story on the ridiculous bonuses and tax breaks government ministers get; six weeks ago we had something on prostitution; before that we had an interview with an imprisoned Salafist. I would never have thought they’d come after us for a blind item like this one. It’s so arbitrary.” He looked at Nabil expectantly.