Laila Lalami: Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits

The outboard motor idles. In the sudden silence, everyone turns to look at Rahal, collectively holding their breath. “Shit,” he says between his teeth. He pulls the starter cable a few times, but nothing happens.

“What’s wrong?” Faten asks, her voice laden with anxiety.

Rahal doesn’t answer.

“Try again,” Halima says.

Rahal yanks at the cable.

“This trip is cursed,” Faten whispers. Everyone hears her.

Rahal bangs the motor with his hand. Faten recites a verse from the second sura of the Qur’an: “‘God, there is no God but Him, the Alive, the Eternal. Neither slumber nor sleep overtaketh Him—’”

“Quiet,” Scarface yells. “We need some quiet to think.” Looking at the captain, he asks, “Is it the spark plug?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so,” says Rahal.

Faten continues to pray, this time more quietly, her lips moving fast. “‘Unto Him belongeth all that is in the heavens and the earth …’”

Rahal yanks at the cable again.

Aziz calls out, “Wait, let me see.” He gets on all fours, over the vomit, and moves slowly to keep the boat stable.

Faten starts crying, a long and drawn-out whine. All eyes are on her. Her hysteria is contagious, and Murad can hear someone sniffling at the other end of the boat.

“What are you crying for?” Scarface asks, leaning forward to look at her face.

“I’m afraid,” she whimpers.

“Baraka!” he orders.

“Leave her be,” Halima says, still holding her children close.

“Why did she come if she can’t handle it?” he yells, pointing at Faten.

Murad pulls his shirt down from his face. “Who the hell do you think you are?” He’s the first to be surprised by his anger. He is tense and ready for an argument.

“And who are you?” Scarface says. “Her protector?”

A cargo ship blows its horn, startling everyone. It glides in the distance, lights blinking.

“Stop it,” Rahal yells. “Someone will hear us!”

Aziz examines the motor, pulls at the hose that connects it to the tank. “There’s a gap here,” he tells Rahal, and he points to the connector. “Do you have some tape?” Rahal opens his supplies box and takes out a roll of duct tape. Aziz quickly wraps some around the hose. The captain pulls the cable once, twice. Finally the motor wheezes painfully and the boat starts moving.

“Praise be to God,” Faten says, ignoring Scarface’s glares.

The crying stops and a grim peace falls on the boat.

TARIFA IS ABOUT 250 meters away now. It’ll only take another few minutes. The Guinean woman throws a piece of paper overboard. Murad figures it’s her ID. She’ll probably pretend she’s from Sierra Leone so she can get political asylum. He shakes his head. No such luck for him.

The water is still calm, but Murad knows better than to trust the Mediterranean. He’s known the sea all his life and he knows how hard it can pull. Once, when he was ten years old, he went mussel picking with his father at the beach in Al Hoceima. As they were working away, Murad saw a dark, beautiful bed of mussels hanging from their beards inside a hollow rock. He lowered himself in and was busy pulling at them when a wave filled the grotto and flushed him out. His father grabbed Murad, still holding the bucket, out of the water. Later, Murad’s father would tell his friends at the café an adorned version of this story, which would be added to his repertoire of family tales that he narrated on demand.

“Everyone out of the boat now!” Rahal shouts. “You have to swim the rest of the way.”

Aziz immediately rolls out into the water and starts swimming.

Like the other passengers, Murad looks on, stunned. They expected to be taken all the way to the shore, where they could easily disperse and then hide. The idea of having to swim the rest of the way is intolerable, especially for those who are not natives of Tangier and accustomed to its waters.

Halima raises a hand at Rahal. “You thief! We paid you to take us to the coast.”

Rahal says, “You want to get us all arrested a harraga? Get out of the boat if you want to get there. It’s not that far. I’m turning back.”

Someone makes an abrupt movement to reason with Rahal, to force him to go all the way to the shore, but the Zodiac loses balance and then it’s too late. Murad is in the water now. His clothes are instantly wet, and the shock of the cold water all over his body makes his heart go still for a moment. He bobs, gasps for air, realizes that there’s nothing left to do but swim. So he wills his limbs, heavy with the weight of his clothes, to move.

Around him, people are slowly scattering, led by the crosscurrents. Rahal struggles to right his boat and someone, Murad can’t quite tell who, is hanging on to the side. He hears howls and screams, sees a few people swimming in earnest. Aziz, who was first to get out of the boat, is already far ahead of the others, going west. Murad starts swimming toward the coast, afraid he might be pulled away by the water. From behind, he hears someone call out. He turns and holds his hand out to Faten. She grabs it and the next second she is holding both his shoulders. He tries to pull away, but her grip tightens.

“Use one hand to move,” he yells.

Her eyes open wider but her hands do not move. He forces one of her hands off him and manages to make a few strokes. Her body is heavy against his. Each time they bob in the water, she holds on tighter. There is water in his ears now and her cries are not as loud. He tries to loosen her grip but she won’t let go. He yells out. Still she holds on. The next time they bob, water enters his nose and it makes him cough. They’ll never make it if she doesn’t loosen her grip and help him. He pushes her away. Free at last, he moves quickly out of her reach. “Beat the water with your arms,” he yells. She thrashes wildly. “Slower,” he tells her, but he can see that it is hopeless, she can’t swim. A sob forms in his throat. If only he had a stick or a buoy that he could hand her so that he could pull her without risking that they both drown. He’s already drifting away from her, but he keeps calling out, telling her to calm down and start swimming. His fingers and toes have gone numb, and he has to start swimming or he’ll freeze to death. He faces the coast. He closes his eyes, but the image of Faten is waiting for him behind the lids. Eyes open again, he tries to focus on the motion of his limbs.

There is a strange quietness in the air. He swims until he feels the sand against his feet. He tries to control his breathing, the beating of his heart in his ears. He lies on the beach, the water licking his shoes. The sun is rising, painting the sand and the buildings far ahead a golden shade of orange. With a sigh, Murad relieves his bladder. The sand around him warms up but cools again in seconds. He rests there for a little while, then pushes himself to his knees.

He stands, legs shaking. He turns around and scans the dark waters, looking for Faten. He can see a few forms swimming, struggling, but it’s hard to tell who is who. Aziz is nowhere to be seen, but the Guinean woman is getting out of the water a few meters away.

In the distance, a dog barks.

Murad knows he doesn’t have much time before the Guardia Civil come after them. He takes a few steps and drops to his knees on the sand, which feels warmer than the water. With a trembling hand, he opens a side pocket of his cargos and extracts a plastic bag. In it is a mobile phone, with a Spanish SIM card. He calls Rubio, the Spaniard who will drive him north to Catalonia.

“Soy Murad. El amigo de Rahal.”

“Espéreme por la caña de azúcar.”

“Bien.”

He takes a few steps forward, but he doesn’t see the sugar cane Rubio mentioned. He continues walking anyway. A hotel appears on the horizon. Another dog barks, and the sound soon turns into a howl. He walks toward it and spots the sugar cane. A small path appears on the left side and he sits at its end. He takes his shoes off, curls his frigid toes in the wet socks and massages them. Replacing his shoes, he lies back and takes a deep breath of relief. He can’t believe his luck. He made it.