Laila Lalami - Secret Son

Whenever he was turned down for a job interview, he simply returned to the dream. “Just imagine—,” Youssef would say to Amin, unable to control a smile, “imagine how it will be when we get the visa.”

“Everything will be better,” Amin concurred.

America was different, its movies told them; it was a place where one could go to escape tyranny, poverty, or both — and succeed. Once, as they were walking near the French lycée, on their way back from another pointless interview, a zealous cop stopped them and made them turn out their pockets for no discernible reason. When the search was over and they were let go, Youssef found refuge in the fantasy. “This would never happen in America,” he said with unwitting conviction. He had watched suspects on TV shows being read their rights: You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law; you have the right to an attorney; if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you . He knew the warnings by heart, and foolishly he believed them.

But the dream ended, as all dreams do, when rumor spread that the American Consulate had already interviewed those who had been selected. Frantic, Youssef ran across town to check with Maître Chraibi at his office. There was a FOR LEASE sign on the door. Youssef had failed, once again, and now the money was gone.

APPEARANCES ARE DECEIVING. Rachida had understood this simple fact long ago, so she was often surprised to come across people who fell for artifice and good looks, for sweet words and appealing facades — for lies. Just that morning, at the market, the artichoke vendor had told her his son had found a job with a naval company based in Dubai. After the customary congratulations, she asked about the company’s line of business. “I don’t know, exactly,” the vendor said. “Something to do with tourism.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “The salary is fifteen thousand dirhams. My son paid the fee for the medical exam, so he’s just waiting to hear about when he will start.”

“He paid money to get the job?” Rachida asked, but the vendor did not catch her hint. He weighed the artichokes, giving her an extra 150 grams for free; she could not bring herself to tell him his son had been deceived.

Now she sat cross-legged in her yard, pulling the scales off each artichoke to get to its core. Every once in a while she ate the fleshy top of a leaf, letting its tartness linger on her tongue. She was planning on making a tagine of meat and artichoke hearts, one of Youssef’s favorite dishes. Perhaps it might entice him to eat. Ever since he had lost all his money to the immigration lawyer, he had had little appetite. She had warned him that it would be a scam, but he hadn’t listened, of course. Boys these days were like dandelions: the lightest of winds could blow them away. Yesterday, when she had returned home from work, she had found him lying supine on his bed. Twice she called to him before he heard her. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Should I serve you dinner now?” He looked at her as if he could not see her, then shook his head no. She wanted to tell him that he would find his way someday, but he looked so distant that she doubted her words could penetrate his world.

There was a knock on the door. Rachida set aside the artichokes and went to answer. On her doorstep was a young woman in a sleeveless white shirt and blue pants, her right arm clutching a large red handbag. She had on diamond earrings and a turquoise necklace, which made Rachida worry for her safety. She was obviously not from the neighborhood. Rachida wanted to put her arms around her to protect her — she had the look of someone for whom the world had not yet taken off its mask.

“Good morning, a-lalla,” the girl said. “Is this Youssef’s house?”

“Yes, it is. Who’s asking for him?” Rachida said, leaning forward to take a closer look at Youssef’s friend. Could she be an old classmate from university? Perhaps Rachida could enlist her help in convincing Youssef to go back to college.

The girl seemed to hesitate. She turned to look up the street, as if expecting Youssef to magically appear from that direction, then said, “My name is Amal Amrani.”

Rachida felt her stomach drop. Here she was, worrying about getting her son back into university, back to the life he had before his father appeared in it, and who should show up on her doorstep but one of his people? The only thing that kept Rachida from closing the door in Amal’s face was that look of hesitation and vulnerability. It tugged at her instincts.

“May I come in?” Amal asked softly.

Almost despite herself, Rachida opened the door wide. Amal walked in and sat down on the divan in the yard. She let go of her handbag, but it balanced precariously on her lap, so that the slightest movement could make it tumble forward. She looked around — at the pot of artichoke hearts, the washtub full of dirty laundry, the water closet with the broken lock — taking great care not to let her eyes rest on any single item for too long. “I think perhaps you know who I am,” she said.

Rachida had begun to warm up to this strange girl, but now she was irritated with her. Was arrogance passed down from father to daughter? “No. Who are you?”

“I’m sorry,” Amal said. She looked searchingly at Rachida. “I thought Youssef might have told you about me.” She waited for Rachida to say something. When nothing came, she drew her breath: “I am his sister.”

Something about the way she spoke those words made it seem that they had crossed her lips for the first time. Hearing them, Rachida felt a visceral need to turn around, to walk away from the reality to which even her best approximations, her most convincing lies, could not compare. All she had ever wanted was to give Youssef a family he could call his own. She had created stories and memories to which he could relate, so when he told her he had met his father, she had been dumbstruck; she did not understand why the comfortable world she had created had not been enough for him. But now, with Amal in her living room, quietly saying she was Youssef’s sister, Rachida saw clearly that her words had been powerless against reality.

“I wanted to talk to him,” Amal said.

“He’s not here,” Rachida repeated, her voice coming out hoarse. She cursed herself for having let Amal in. What if Youssef came home now and found her here? It would inevitably send him into another fit of questions about the past, about his father, or, worse, about his father’s sudden change of heart. “What did you want to tell him?”

Amal’s face fell. She seemed not to have considered the idea that people were not going to be waiting for her when she needed to talk to them. Again, Rachida felt sorry for her — such ignorance, such innocence. Many years ago, when Rachida had arrived in the Amrani family home near Fès, she, too, had been ignorant and innocent. She had let herself believe that Nabil Amrani was in love with her. Love was new. Love was intoxicating. Love gave license to the ultimate of taboos: sleeping with a married man, a married man whose pregnant wife was on bed rest. When Rachida herself became pregnant and Nabil Amrani’s mother ordered her to get an abortion, Rachida had refused and had returned to the orphanage with nothing but her dashed dreams and a baby growing inside her. Nabil’s reputation had been safeguarded; her life had been ruined.

“I just wanted to meet him,” Amal said. “I didn’t know about him until last June, when my mother came to visit me in Los Angeles.”