Laila Lalami - Secret Son

“We’re running low on water,” he said, getting up.

His mother lifted the lid off the jar and looked. “No, we still have some.”

“It’s all right. I’ll go get some now.”

Because it had been some time since he had taken a test, Youssef read each of the questions on the police exam several times before writing an answer. Compounding his hesitation was his knowledge of the basic unfairness in the exercise; many people paid a bribe to guarantee a passing grade. Whenever he came across an unusual phrase, or an unexpected premise, or even a typographical error, he worried that it was a trick, designed to fail the maximum number of applicants. Still, by the time the proctor stood up to collect the papers, Youssef felt surprisingly poised. The exceptional care he had put into his responses somehow filled him with hope. He would pass. He would start over.

Walking down the peeling halls of the Kénitra institute, he saw framed photographs of the interior minister and of high-ranking officers, men whose vulturine features radiated authority. However odd the idea had seemed when his mother suggested it, a career in law enforcement started to make sense. The uniform would give him a stake in the world. Instead of getting nervous whenever a policeman looked at him at a traffic light, Youssef would salute and go about his business. In any case, it was time he tried out some of his mother’s suggestions, since he had been so incapable of making his way in life on his own.

Afterward, he took the train back from Kénitra to Casablanca, and then a packed grand-taxi that careened down Boulevard Zerktouni at dangerous speed. Turning away from the sweaty popcorn vendor sitting next to him, he looked out of the passenger-side window. Young people dressed in sharp suits stood outside the Twin Center, smoking cigarettes; a teenage boy lowered the window of his Range Rover, slipping a bill to the policeman who had stopped him at a red light; a middle-aged woman spoke on her mobile phone while her driver stuffed shopping bags into the trunk of her car.

Why? This was the question that tortured him unrelentingly. Why had his father taken him in, told him he was the son he had always wanted, only to throw him out? Over and over, Youssef played back scenes of their time together, trying to understand where he had gone wrong, and each time he came up with nothing. He had trusted his father so much that he had forsaken everyone and everything for him, but now he had no friends, no degree, no job. Resentment and shame mixed afresh in his heart, so that by the time the grand-taxi dropped him off, he yearned once again for his bed, for sleep.

The stench of burning garbage made it hard to repress the tears, and he let himself go. Someone grabbed him roughly by the elbow. Youssef jumped as if he had been bitten by one of the malevolent dogs that roamed the neighborhood in packs. It was Amin. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“What do you care?” Youssef said, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

“You’re crying.”

“It’s just the smoke. That’s all.”

Amin put his arm around Youssef’s shoulders, the gesture taking Youssef by surprise. “Look,” Amin said, “about that night at the café. I don’t know what happened. I was angry.” It was unlike Amin to apologize for anything. “You have to understand,” he went on, “you disappeared. And you stopped returning my calls. You have to admit, you did me wrong, my brother.”

“It’s true, I did,” Youssef said. With this acknowledgment off his chest, he felt he could finally take an unlabored breath. Amin looked at him with what seemed like compassion — or at least what Youssef desperately wanted to believe was compassion — in his eyes.

“You want a cigarette?” Amin asked, pulling one from behind his ear. He lit it and then handed it to Youssef. “So where were you coming from?”

“The police academy in Kénitra,” Youssef said, taking the cigarette. “I took the exam.”

“Aw? You’re not at university anymore?”

“I stopped going.”

An old man carrying a burlap bag on his head walked hurriedly past them, followed by a group of children arguing about something.

“I flunked, too. By two points — two miserable little points.”

Youssef’s eyes widened. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Amin said, pulling on his cigarette and exhaling through his nostrils. “I don’t know what I was doing in college, anyway.”

“You’re not going back?”

“What for? It’s not going to make a difference.”

They had come to an intersection, and instinctively Youssef stopped. Amin stood for a moment with his hands hanging by his side, then leaned against the wall. “When do you find out about the exam?”

“A couple of weeks, I think,” Youssef said. He did not mention that he felt good about his chances, for fear that he might bring the evil eye upon himself.

“When you get a job with the police,” Amin said, “tell them to start patrolling around here. We could use some cleaning up.” He laughed, and although Youssef joined him, he was not sure if his friend was laughing with him or at him. “You want to go play a game of chess at the Oasis?”

“What happened to your friends?”

“Hamid and Mustapha? They’re in school right now. They’re just kids. So you want to come?”

“Not now. I need to check my e-mail. But I can meet you tomorrow, insha’llah,” Youssef said. “If you like.”

“All right. But get ready to lose the game, my friend. I’ve had a lot of practice while you were gone.”

Youssef went to meet Amin at the Oasis immediately after Friday prayers. He took a long time to decide on each one of his moves, in part because he had not played chess in a long time, and in part because Amin had sounded so confident of his victory. Surely, even if Youssef could not win this match, he could win the next, or the one after that. Not even Amin was infallible at this game. Hatim came in, carrying his usual load of newspapers and magazines. He took a quick look at the board as he passed them. “Careful with your king,” he said, patting Youssef on the shoulder. Good point, Youssef thought, and moved a pawn to protect his piece.

Hatim sat down at a table nearby. A moment later, he leaped to his feet. “This is unbelievable!” he shrieked.

Youssef and Amin looked up with alarm from their game. Hatim had gone pale; a thick vein throbbed on his forehead.

“What’s wrong?”

“Look at this,” Hatim said, holding up Casablanca Magazine . On the cover was a slightly out-of-focus picture of Hatim in an elegant blue suit, shaking hands with a man Youssef did not recognize. The two smiled widely, as if they had just concluded an agreement. Under the photo, a caption in big red letters read, THE PARTY’S MONEY.

“You’re on the cover?” Amin said, standing up to take the magazine from him. “That’s great!”

“You’re famous!” Youssef added. For some reason he could not explain to himself, he felt envious.

“No, no, no,” Hatim said impatiently. “This is another one of Benaboud’s attacks.”

When he heard the name, Youssef stood up to read the article over Amin’s shoulder.

A slogan like “Through God, by God, with God” may sound catchy, but it doesn’t pay the bills. And there are many: health services, a community center, even a summer camp for children. How does the Party fund its social programs? An exclusive investigation by Farid Benaboud.

PYRAMID SCHEME

Like any self-respecting grassroots organization, the Party relies on member donations. But rather than wait for members to reach into their pockets, the Party does it for them. Each member has to contribute 3 percent of his monthly salary via direct deposit, a sum that is increased to 10 percent in the months of Eid. With this money, the Party has already set up its headquarters at the site of an abandoned warehouse. The Party encourages its members to recruit people into the organization. If a mutahazzib — a Partisan — has brought in three new Partisans, he no longer has to pay a monthly contribution. This expanding base of activists provides the Party with a respectable amount of resources for daily expenses. Still, it can’t cover big projects.