Laila Lalami - Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits

Halima climbed on. The ride would be nearly an hour long, with many stops along the way, but she sat with her back straight, ready to get up at the slightest sign of trouble. A song was playing on the radio, its melody competing with the static from the loudspeakers. She recognized the lyrics to “Fakarouni,” by Oum Kalsoum. She willed herself to tune out the music.

The bus stopped near a hospital and a motley group of passengers, beggars, and vendors came on. The last to board was a thin, wiry-haired man who walked slowly down the aisle, holding the handles of each seat as he advanced to the center of the bus. He lifted his shirt, revealing a square pouch taped to his abdomen. The liquid inside looked like urine. He turned around to let everyone have a look. Several people gasped. The man raised a finger upward and recited his complaint in a clear, loud voice.

“Sons of Adam,” he said, “this is what God has written for me.” He opened the belt that held the pouch in place and showed the healing hole in his stomach. “See what I have to endure every day and thank your God and mine that you don’t have to suffer as I do.” Nods and clicks of the tongue acknowledged his declaration. “Whoever can help me pay for my hospital bills, may God provide for him, may God open the gates of heaven to him, may God bless him with children, may God protect him from the evil eye …” and on he continued with his litany of prayers. Soon hands sprang up, some with coins, some with bills, and the man stopped praying and walked around to collect the offerings.

When he passed Halima’s seat he held out his empty palm to her. It had flecks of red paint on it, stuck there from when he’d grabbed the peeling handles of the seats. Looking away from him, she said, “God help us all.” The man moved on to willing donors, leaving a trail of hospital smell behind him.

The bus was getting closer to Anfa. Halima held her purse even closer to her side and kept watching for her stop. She stood up as soon as she saw it and got out. Her feet had swelled from the heat, and her blue plastic sandals made creaky noises with every step that brought her closer to the house.

Eventually she found the villa. It was a white stucco building with red Mediterranean tile outlining the roof and windows. It had a well-groomed lawn, a lacquered wood gate, and a fancy doorbell, which Halima rang. A maid, barely a teenager, came to answer. Halima told her she was there to see the judge. The maid gave her a knowing look and told her to wait in the yard. Halima preferred to stay outside. She didn’t know whether the judge was married, whether his wife was at home. She wanted to avoid even the appearance of impropriety. So she sat on the doorstep and waited.

The judge appeared at the door. His face was puffy, but his small eyes commanded attention. He peeked out at the street as if he was looking for someone else, then said, “Come inside the yard, don’t stand there.” Halima was too intimidated to say no. She followed the judge, who waddled inside, his crisp, white jellaba tight around his flabby chest.

“Did you bring the money?” he asked. Halima nodded. With trembling hands, she opened her purse and handed him the envelope. The judge took out the stack of bills and started counting them. He looked inside the envelope again before giving it back to her, then slipped the bills inside the pocket of his seroual. “Next time, don’t bring small bills.”

Halima swallowed hard. She didn’t like his reference to next time. The judge readjusted his jellaba and told her not to worry. “Be on time at the hearing. You’ll get your divorce this week.” He tapped her back and she realized it was over and he was pushing her toward the door. Suddenly she wished the exchange of money had taken a little longer. Tarik and Abdelkrim had worked so hard to save it and she had waited so long for it and now it was gone. She stumbled and held on to the gate but didn’t step out. What if he didn’t give her custody? she wondered. She turned around. Why did she give him the money all at once? She could have given him half and promised him the rest after he’d granted her the divorce and custody. Why didn’t she think of that earlier? “Wait,” she said.

The judge’s face, which moments earlier had looked mild if not benevolent, now was menacing. “What?”

“The children,” she said.

He frowned. He seemed on the verge of saying something, then decided against it.

“How do I know you’re going to keep your word?” Halima’s heart beat so fast in her chest that it seemed to her she could hear it in her ears, on her temples, in her hands. “Give me back my money.”

The judge looked offended. “I know your type,” he said. He put his palm on her back and pressed her toward the door. She stiffened. He withdrew his hand and looked at her with those small, challenging eyes. “Go, before I change my mind.”

Halima felt her knees tremble. A knot had formed in her throat, and she tried to swallow it. Why wouldn’t he give her the children? This judge had been taking bribes for years; there was no reason to think he wouldn’t come through this time. But what if he didn’t? How could she trust him? She couldn’t trust him, just as she couldn’t trust her mother or the sorceress. “Give me back my money,” she said, her voice trembling. The judge’s eyes opened wide and his lips parted in an expression that was halfway between anger and disgust. He slipped his hand in his pocket and threw the money at her. As the billfold fell to the ground, a few bank notes separated from the rest and floated down. Halima dropped to her knees and clutched them with both hands. The judge grabbed the back of her jellaba and pushed her. She drove her elbow into his gut with all the force she could gather. He bent over in pain, his arms folded over his stomach while Halima stepped outside, a fistful of bills in her hands. The gate slammed shut. Behind her, the yard was already quiet; the judge had gone back inside. She put the money away in her purse and rubbed her bottom with her hand. A Mercedes came noisily down the deserted street, its horn blaring, and the driver turned to look at her, a grin on his face. She ignored him and started walking.

A FEW DAYS LATER Halima took the bus downtown to her janitorial job, where she cleaned the offices of Hanan Benamar, a translator who specialized in immigration documents. Halima had gotten the job through the center where she’d taken literacy classes, and where a big banner, which she was able to read at the end of the yearlong program, proclaimed in red block letters: Work for Your Future — Today. So far, the only use she had gotten out of the classes was that she could now read the rolling credits at the end of the soap operas she watched every night.

Halima knocked on the door twice before inserting her key and letting herself in. She pushed the gauze curtains to the side and opened the French windows, letting in the fresh air. She took in the view of the city, which was dominated by the King Hassan mosque, the three gilded balls of its minaret shining in the morning sun. Halima began emptying the trash cans. She was mopping the mosaic floors dry when Hanan came in. “Sabah el-khir,” she said. She dropped her briefcase on one chair and her jacket on another.

“Sabah el-khir,” Halima said, forcing herself to be cheerful as she said hello.

Hanan wore a dark pin-striped skirt and a white buttondown shirt. Her hair was blown straight, her eyelids darkened with gray eye shadow, her lips a flattering red. I could have been her, Halima thought, as she did almost every time she was in Hanan’s presence. I could have been her, had my luck been different, had I gone to a real school, had I married someone else. She wondered now whether Hanan thought the same thing of her and had given her the job only out of pity.