Laila Lalami - Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits

He was impressed by how easily they navigated their way amid the crowd of port employees, busy pedestrians, and countless guides and vendors. Now they were already at the light, with the bus station and the line of cabs just across the street. Time was running out. He stood next to them, looking them in the eye while they stared straight ahead. “I can give you a tour of the medina,” he said. The couple continued ignoring him. “Need a hotel room? I know a place where you can get a good price.” Still nothing. In desperation, he whispered, “You want some hashish?” His voice was drowned out by the cars that whizzed by in a cloud of black exhaust.

He wasn’t sure they had heard him, but when the light changed, there was a slight hesitation in the woman’s step. She turned for the first time to look at Murad. Then Jack grabbed her elbow. “Eileen,” he said. She had a broad forehead and a fair complexion, but it was her clear, blue eyes that struck Murad. There was something in them that he recognized — resignation, perhaps.

They were now at the Petits-Taxis station. “I can get you a good price,” Murad said, his voice at a higher pitch than he wanted, his tone pleading despite himself. He didn’t even have any drugs on him, but if they said yes he could always get a cut from one of the dealers. And if they said yes, he could probably make forty dirhams, give or take, enough to pay for the groceries for a few days. Jack’s hands tightened perceptibly on Eileen’s elbow as he guided her to a cab and opened the door for her. Murad took a deep breath. It was over.

He turned around and looked toward the dock. He considered going back, but by now all the tourists would be gone. He moved on slowly toward Bab el Bahr, the Sea Gate, kicking at rocks on the road. The sole of his shoe came loose. Letting out a string of curses, he pressed the ball of his foot harder against the ground to hide the loose rubber. When he passed the grand mosque, he heard the muezzin call out for the late-afternoon prayer. There would be no more ferries today.

RELUCTANTLY, MURAD HEADED home to the medina. Every day this week he had come home empty-handed, and today was no different. He wandered through narrow streets for a while until he found himself in front of his apartment building. He walked up the stairs to the top floor with the speed of a man being led to face a firing squad. From the landing he heard the catchy theme song to an Egyptian soap opera. He leaned against the metal door of the apartment and let himself in. The warm, wet smell of ironing tickled his nostrils and he sneezed. His mother looked up from her ironing board, where she was pressing his sister’s work shirts. Behind her, the only windows in the living room were open, showing a patch of antennas and satellite dishes under the clear sky. He kissed the back of her hand.

“May God be pleased with you,” she said.

He took off the jellaba he wore whenever he dealt with tourists. He was now in his old jeans and white T-shirt. He sat beside her, his palms flat against the worn velvet of the divan covers, and heaved a sigh.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Business is tired,” he answered, looking away.

“You’ll have better luck tomorrow.”

She said this every day, Murad thought, but his luck didn’t seem to be getting better. He let his eyes rest on the TV, where a dark, handsome man was courting a plump girl with too much eye makeup, promising her that he would talk to her parents as soon as he had found a job and saved enough money for the dowry. Murad took off his shoe and inspected the sole. “Do we still have some of that shoe glue?” he asked.

“In the cabinet.”

Murad went into the only bedroom in the apartment, where his mother and his sister, Lamya, slept at night. He and his younger brother, Khalid, spent the night on the divans in the living room. It was a stroke of luck that the middle children, the twins Abd-el-Samad and Abd-el-Sattar, had earned a scholarship and had started medical school in Rabat just when the family found this apartment, a few months after Murad’s father passed away. There wouldn’t have been enough space for two more people here. He got the glue from the cabinet and, without bothering to close the uneven wooden doors, went back to the living room. He started working on the shoe.

“Where is Lamya?”

“At work.”

Murad’s sister, Lamya, was a receptionist for an import-export firm downtown. Bitterly, he recalled how he’d been turned down from a similar job because they wanted a woman. “Shouldn’t she be home already?” he asked. His mother ignored him and continued ironing, her eyes on the TV set. “What about Khalid?” he asked.

“He’s at school.” Murad’s mother dipped her fingers in a bowl of water and dribbled it on a shirt sleeve before applying the hot iron. “Why all these questions?” she asked.

“No reason.” He capped the bottle of glue carefully, then slipped the shoe under a leg of the coffee table to let it dry.

His mother finished ironing the work shirts, put them on metal hangers, and took them away. When she returned she sat quietly next to him. “Someone asked for your sister’s hand today.”

“Who?”

“A colleague of hers from work. He came to talk to your uncle and me.”

“My uncle ?” Murad felt his face flush with anger at the slight.

“Well, yes,” his mother said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you now.”

He slammed his hand on the table and got up. “I’m the man in this family now,” he said. His father had passed away three years ago, in a hit-and-run accident. He’d been walking home from the café where he drank tea, told stories, and played chess with his friends every evening, when the driver of a red Renault tried to pass a Fiat, veered off the road, and hit him.

“There will be a proper engagement ceremony and you’ll be there. May we celebrate when it’s your turn.”

Murad wondered how his mother could say this so nonchalantly when she knew that without a job his turn wasn’t going to be anytime soon. “I should have been in the know,” he yelled.

“Don’t raise your voice at me. Are you paying for the wedding?”

“Just because I don’t have a job you think I’m invisible? I’m her older brother. You should have come to me.”

Murad sat back down on the divan. His eyes were on the TV, but his mind wandered. Lamya was moving on with her life — she had a job and now she was getting married. The twins were still in medical school, but there was little doubt that they had a bright future ahead of them. Doctors could still find jobs. And what about him? He cursed himself. What was wrong with him? Maybe he shouldn’t have bothered going to college to study English, spending his time learning a language and its literature. No one cared about these things. In the beginning, when he had just graduated, he’d combed the paper for ads and written long, assured application letters; but as the months and then the years crawled by, he took anything he could find, temporary or seasonal work. Looking back now, he wondered if he should have worked with the smugglers, bringing in tax-free goods from Ceuta, instead of wasting his time at the university.

AT DUSK, MURAD headed to the Socco Chico. He took a small detour to avoid walking by the Al-Najat building, where he’d had his only promising interview in the six years since he finished college. It took an extra five minutes and he had to walk through a narrow street where brown water pooled at a broken sewer, but it was better than seeing the employees get off work.

He arrived at the Café La Liberté around seven and ordered a cup of coffee. It was thick and tasted like tar. It did nothing for his mood. Around him, turbaned old men smoked unfiltered cigarettes while bareheaded young ones played cards. The TV on the far wall of the café was showing a football match — Real Madrid was playing Barcelona. Murad watched with interest, so he didn’t notice Rahal until the man sat down at the table. Rahal smiled at Murad, a smile that looked reptilian because of his large eyes, set too far apart, and his bald head. Murad nodded but continued watching the match.