Laila Lalami - Secret Son

“Yes,” Nabil said. “I didn’t read the item, but I heard about the scandal from my brother. It’s terrible.”

There was a pause in the conversation. To fill up the silence, Youssef went to the kitchen to look for something to serve with the wine. When he returned with a tray of cheese and crackers, he found Benaboud sitting at the very edge of the sofa, leaning forward. “The dossier is already with the prosecutor,” he said, “and one of my contacts is telling me they’ll ask for five hundred thousand dirhams in fines. I can’t pay, obviously. I’m going to have to shut down the magazine.”

“Unbelievable.”

“My coeditor suggested we put together an open letter to the government, and that we have our supporters — academics, intellectuals, human rights activists — sign it.”

Nabil sat back. He looked like a man who had bitten into a date only to find it infested with pest. “Farid, you’re asking for too much,” he said, looking away toward the bay windows.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important, Si Nabil. Crucial, even. If we can pull off having important names like yours on our petition, it will send a strong message.”

Nabil took out a cigarette, tapped it against his pack, and lit it. “I can help pay for legal costs.”

“It’s not a question of money. We can always ask for donations, we’ve done that in the past, and they’ve served their purpose. What we’re trying to do now is different. We’re trying to show that the elite of this country, our academics, our activists, our business leaders, support freedom of expression and that they stand with us.”

“I can’t put my name on this petition, Farid.”

Benaboud wiped his palms on his pants. “Journalists in my generation, we all grew up looking up to people like Nabil Amrani, like Rafael Levy, like Fatima Bourqia, like Hamid Senhaji — all those who dared to speak up during the Years of Lead. You wrote so many articles for opposition newspapers when you were my age. And to have your support now would make all the difference.”

“Look,” Nabil said quickly, “you have to understand. I have thousands of employees who depend on me. I can’t afford to do politics.”

“But it’s not a question of politics,” Benaboud said, “it’s a question of principles.”

“I can’t take the risk.”

An awkward minute passed. “Well, thank you all the same,” Benaboud said as he got up. He walked, slouching toward the front door with Nabil by his side.

THE SPRING SEMESTER STARTED, but Youssef did not attend the first week of classes. He was in his final semester now, but, he reasoned, little happened in the first few days, anyway; people were still returning from vacation, still buying the books they needed. When he next went to visit his mother at the hospital, the first question she asked was, “How is school?”

Of course there was only one answer that would keep her happy. “It’s great,” he said. “I have Dr. Hammouche again this year. You know how much I like her. And Haddad is teaching fiction. Everyone says he’s fantastic.”

His mother smiled, sitting down across from him.

“You’re still working for your … at the Grand Hotel?”

“Only a couple of afternoons a week and on Saturdays.” It was so easy to lie; all he had to do was divine her thoughts, and speak them.

“And you — how are you?” Youssef asked.

“Fine, by the grace of God.”

“Here,” he said, handing her some money.

She took the bills and slipped them into the pocket of her lab coat. “I will save this for you.”

“No, no, don’t save it. Use it for yourself.”

“We shall see.”

Somewhere in the hospital, someone howled in pain. Youssef stood up, startled. A shuffle of footsteps down the hallway, and the howling stopped. “How is Amin?” he asked, sitting down again.

“I saw him a few days ago. I wonder if that boy does anything but stand at street corners. He asked me again about you, and I told him that you had gone to Marrakech, to stay with one of my cousins.”

“But you don’t have any cousins.”

“How would he know? Did you tell him?” She had taught Youssef never to speak of her being an orphan. She was ashamed of her own birth.

“No, no.”

“I’ve never liked him, you know.”

“He’s a good man,” Youssef said. “What about Maati?”

“I don’t know. He’s still working for the Party. I never see him. Maybe you could come to the house and visit me. That way you can see Maati for yourself.”

“I can’t. I have to finish reading a novel for Dr. Hammouche’s class.”

“You said it was Haddad who was teaching fiction.” Youssef’s mother’s face was impassive, her voice level.

“I did? I meant it the other way around.”

“You’re lying to me,” she said with a sigh. “You’re still not in school. You have given up on college.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I promise I’ll go back next week. I’ve just been having a good time at work, and really, the beginning of the semester is always so slow.” His chair squeaked as he got up. “I should get going.” He kissed the back of her hand. “I’ll go back next week,” he repeated, but from the look in her eyes he knew he had no more convinced her than he had convinced himself.

Bottom line, business outcomes, event marketing, event legacy — Youssef began to imitate the terminology that Benjelloun frequently used. The words filled his mouth, satiating any need he may have had for an education. One afternoon, when he should have been preparing for his finals, he sat with his laptop in the living room, trying to learn how to use a project-planning software. His father came home, looking weary.

“What’s wrong?” Youssef asked.

“It’s nothing,” Nabil said. He kept jiggling his keys in his pocket.

“I was about to have a cigarette,” Youssef said. “Do you want one?”

They stepped out onto the dining room balcony. Even after all this time, Youssef had not tired of the view from his tenth-floor apartment. Nabil took a long pull from his cigarette. “I’m traveling to the U.S. in a couple of days.”

“Ah bon? To see Amal?”

A quick nod.

“You never told me you were getting ready for the trip.”

“Something came up. An emergency. It’s very last-minute.”

His father would not say anything more, Youssef knew. “Is she coming back?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“So will I finally get to meet her?”

“We’ll see,” he said, head tilted.

Youssef could not decide whether it would be better to press his father now, or if he should be patient for just a little while longer, since everything else seemed to unfold exactly as Nabil had promised it would.

“When do you get back?”

“In three weeks.”

“Bon voyage, alors.”

Youssef’s father gave him a hug. And then he was gone.

AMAL AWOKE TO THE SOUND of a camera clicking; Fernando was sitting at the edge of the bed, taking pictures. He was an early riser, always cheerful in the morning, whereas she loved to sleep late and was irritable for a while after waking. When she spent the night at his apartment, he listened to music on his headphones, edited his work, or lifted weights while he waited for her to get up. When he spent the night at hers, he usually rummaged through her books for something to read. Sometimes, if she stirred and seemed about to wake, he would slide in next to her, the coolness of his skin against hers giving her goose bumps. He would brush her hair away from her face and cajole her into getting up. They would talk endlessly about nothing and everything. Or they would read the Los Angeles Times , Fernando commenting sarcastically on the headlines. Or they would make love.