Laila Lalami - Secret Son

The sight of the red overstuffed chairs and the elaborate flower arrangements in the hotel lobby brought Amal memories of a life of comfort she had nearly forgotten. She went to sit on the circular sofa. A causeuse. From the French causer , meaning “to chat.” Only, she thought, this was the worst sort of chair for chatting, since you could not really face your interlocutors on it. The elevator doors opened, and her mother came out, wearing a tailored black dress and a row of pearls. Her father followed, looking even more aged than he had earlier that morning. Amal stood up, said hello to her father, and kissed her mother on the cheeks. Her parents did not address or make eye contact with each other. It’s already awkward, she thought, and we haven’t even sat down for dinner. She followed them into the hotel restaurant. The waiter, a young man in a long-sleeved white shirt that did not quite cover the tattoos on his arms, came by for their orders. Amal asked for a green salad and a glass of water.

“Is that all you’re having?” Nabil asked, eyebrows raised.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You should get something.”

Amal put her hand on her stomach. “I’m not really hungry.”

“But a salad?” he persisted. “That’s not enough. Get something.”

She gave the waiter an apologetic look and quickly scanned the menu. “Could I have the scallops, please?” she asked.

She looked around the dining room. A group of Hispanic businessmen seemed to be concluding a deal; two couples were enjoying the flambéed dessert their waiter had just brought them. Their apparent ease made Amal feel disconnected from the place. Her father had ordered a bottle of champagne, and it arrived now, along with two fluted glasses. “Could I have a glass as well, please?” Amal asked the waiter, already fetching her identification from her purse. Her father looked at her and seemed on the verge of saying something but held it back.

“Let’s have a toast,” Malika said. “For Amal, congratulations on finishing your degree.”

Amal took a sip, delighting in the cool, sparkly taste. “I changed my major from business to math,” she said to her father.

“Even though a business degree is more useful,” he said, shrugging. Then, casting a glance at his wife, he added, “But of course, we’re very proud.” He took out a blue velvet case from Azuelos Jewelers. “This is for you,” he said.

Amal opened it to find an exquisite ruby-encrusted platinum khamsa. “Thank you. It’s beautiful.” She did not get up to kiss him — it felt odd to be affectionate with him now. She had dreamed about the moment when they would see each other again, hoping that somehow things between them would return to normal, that they could talk the way they had before, that he would love her again the way he had before. But one look at him that morning, and she had known, in her heart, that things had changed. A part of him — the part that for years had made Amal the very center of his universe — was gone. And if it was gone, then why was he here? Why was she here?

The food arrived. Still, neither of Amal’s parents broached the topic. “So what’s the big news?” she prodded.

Malika sat back in her chair and turned to look at her husband, an expression of disgust on her face. Nabil cleared his throat. “Amal, my child,” he said, his voice unusually low. “Many years ago,” he continued, “I made a mistake.” He refilled his glass of champagne. He cleared his throat. He pushed his fork to the side of his plate.

An exasperated Malika finally turned to Amal and said, “What your father is trying to say is that he seduced one of the maids and got her pregnant. He has a son. Younger than you.”

“What?” Amal dropped her fork and turned to look at her father.

Nabil clicked his tongue. “There’s no need for that tone, Malika. I didn’t even know about his existence.”

“So you say.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” His voice rose, making a couple of heads turn at the next table.

“Wait,” Amal said. Both her parents turned to look at her, and she had the strange feeling of being the referee at a match between two teenagers. “Just wait a second. You have a son? I have a brother?”

Nabil nodded. “His name is Youssef. His mother used to work for your grandmother Lalla Fatema, up in Fès. And I swear to you I didn’t know she had kept the baby. She was working in the house one day, and the next she was gone. Your grandmother said she’d fired her, and I never heard from her again,” he said. “I still haven’t,” he added as an afterthought.

“Il ne manquerai plus que ça,” Malika said. “We have enough problems with the son. We don’t need the mother.”

Amal was still trying to comprehend what was going on. She had a brother! And all these years of thinking she was an only child — at times loving the attention it granted, and at others resenting it deeply, but always wondering: What if? What if I had a brother or a sister? Would my father have kept up all the comparisons with Uncle Othman’s children and Uncle Tahar’s children? Would he have gotten so upset over Fernando? Maybe he would have turned a blind eye, maybe he would have been too busy with another child to worry so much about controlling everything in her life.

“How old is he?” she asked

“Twenty-one,” Nabil said. “Six months younger than you.”

“Six months?” Amal repeated. Her father was cheating on her mother while she was pregnant with her.

Malika poured herself another glass of champagne.

“What does he look like?” Amal asked.

“He looks like me,” Nabil said, suppressing a smile. “Dark hair. Blue eyes.”

He looks more like my father than I do, Amal thought, surprised by her sudden jealousy of someone she had not even met. “What does he do?”

“Right now he’s working for me, learning the hotel business. He’s finishing an English degree, so with some training, the hotel trade might be a good fit for him. He seems to enjoy it.”

Enjoy it? When it came to her career choices, he had never seemed to care whether she enjoyed what she did. “But how did you find him?”

“He found me,” Nabil said, looking suddenly delighted. “Can you believe it?”

Amal nodded, looked down at her plate. The sauce around the scallops was already turning thick. She took another sip of champagne. She had eaten very little and now the alcohol was starting to go to her head. “And when did he find you?” she asked.

“Let’s see. We’re in May. So just about two years ago.”

So this was why he had remained silent for so long. He finally had the son he’d always wanted. She was the first draft of his book of love, and when it had not turned out the way he wanted, he had started over with Youssef. She would never compare to this son, who would listen to him, who would live up to his expectations.

“Why are you telling me about this now?” she asked.

Malika turned to her and said, “Amal, I just found out a little while ago myself. Your father was keeping this from me.”

Nabil heaved a sigh, turned the stem of his glass around in his fingers. “I was waiting for the right moment. I wanted to get to know him.”

“I take it you must have hit it off,” Amal said. She put her napkin on the table and looked at her watch.

Malika reached for her daughter’s hand across the table. “Wait, don’t go.”

“I told Fernando to pick me up at ten. I should be going.”

“You didn’t eat,” Nabil said, raising an eyebrow.

“Didn’t you hear me the first time, Papa? I said I wasn’t hungry.” She stood up.