Laila Lalami - Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits

“Fifty thousand is a lot. You could use that for a start. Maybe start a business?”

Aziz shook his head. “It’s not enough.”

“Why not?”

“That would barely cover the lease for a year. Then there’s inventory and maintenance.” Aziz shook his head. “Not to mention all the papers.” He thought of the lines he had seen in government offices, people waiting to bribe an official to push their paperwork through.

“So what are we going to do?” Zohra said.

“Go back to Spain,” Aziz said, looking down. His wife had sacrificed so much already. Her parents had only agreed to let her marry him because they thought that at the age of twenty-four it was better for her to be married to someone who was jobless than to stay single. She had stood by and helped him save for the trip, waited for him, but at least now she wouldn’t have to wait any longer. “And I’ve started your paperwork, so you will be able to join me before long, insha’llah.”

Zohra let go of his hand. She nodded. Then she stood up and turned off the light. He heard her take off her housedress and get on the bed, where she lay on her side. When he got closer, she stayed still, her knees to her chest. He moved back to his side of the bed and tried to sleep.

THE NEXT DAY, Aziz was startled out of his slumber at five by the sound of the muezzins all over the city. He lifted his head off the pillow for a few seconds before letting it rest again and, eyes closed, listened to them. In Spain he missed the calls for prayers, which punctuated everything here. He smiled and fell back to sleep. Later the sound of cars and trucks whizzing by the industrial street a few blocks away from the apartment did not wake him. But the smell of the rghaif Zohra was making was too much to ignore, and he finally got out of bed around nine.

When he came out his mother was sitting on the divan in the living room, looking regal and aloof. He kissed the back of her hand, and in response she said, “May God be pleased with you.” Zohra entered the living room and, seeing him there, went back to the kitchen to get the tray of food. She placed the communal plate in the middle of the table, pushing it a little closer to Aziz. She poured and passed the tea around. Then she brought a glass of water and a pill for Aziz’s mother.

“What’s the pill for?” Aziz asked.

“Blood pressure,” Zohra said. She sat down and started eating.

“I didn’t know.” He struggled to think of something else to say. “The rghaif are delicious.”

“To your health,” she replied.

He chewed in earnest, relieved that, with his mouth full, he couldn’t say anything. Fortunately a knock on the door provided some distraction. A little girl came rushing in without waiting to be let in. She looked about six years old. Her hair was in pigtails and her blue pants were ripped at the knees.

“Who is she?” Aziz asked his mother.

“Meriem, the neighbors’ kid. She’s always here.”

The child jumped into Zohra’s arms, and Zohra laughed and planted loud pecks on her cheeks. “Do you want something to eat?” Zohra asked. She sat the child on her lap and handed her a rolled rghifa, dipped in melted butter and honey. She smoothed her hair and tightened her pigtails. Later Zohra took Meriem to the kitchen, and when they emerged the little girl was holding a wooden tray loaded with fresh dough on her head. She was taking it to the neighborhood public oven. “May God be pleased with you,” Zohra said as Meriem left. Zohra sat down again. “Isn’t she sweet?” she said. Aziz nodded.

They finished breakfast. Zohra cleared the table and then announced that they had been invited to have lunch at her sister Samira’s house, down in Zenata. She went to the bedroom to get her jellaba and slid it over her house-dress. She stood facing him now. “If I go to Spain with you, who will take care of your mother?” she asked.

“My sisters,” Aziz said, waving his hand. “She can go live with them. You’ve done more than enough.” Aziz was the youngest in his family, and the responsibility for his mother would normally have gone to her daughters or to her firstborn, and he was neither.

Zohra nodded. Then she drew her breath and added, “But I don’t speak Spanish.”

“You’ll learn. Just like I did.”

“Couldn’t you just stay here?”

Aziz shook his head. His lips felt dry and he wet them with his tongue. “We can talk about it later,” he said.

THEY TOOK THE BUS to Samira’s house. Aziz sat by a window and looked at the streets passing by. New buildings had sprung up everywhere, squat apartment houses with tiny windows that had been outlined with Mediterranean tile, in a futile attempt to render them more appealing. Internet cafés were now interspersed with tailor shops and hairdressers. He was startled away from the window when a bus coming in the other direction passed by, only inches away. Car horns blared from everywhere and motorcyclists barely slowed down at intersections.

They got off the bus and started walking. The smell of burned rubber made Aziz’s nose feel stuffy. “Do you smell that?” he asked. Zohra shook her head. “It’s a strong odor,” he said. She shrugged. They passed a school and Aziz saw children playing a game of football on the grounds. It reminded him of his own childhood and he smiled. They arrived a little after the midday prayer. Samira answered the door, and Aziz was shocked to see her hair fully covered in one of those Islamic scarves that had seemed to multiply since he left. Collecting himself, he leaned over to give her a hug, but she stepped back from him and said, “Welcome, welcome.”

Aziz straightened up. Unfazed, Zohra stepped in and took off her jellaba. They sat down on the foam-stuffed divan, and Mounir, Samira’s husband, appeared. Aziz kept looking at Samira. Finally he asked, “When did you put on the hijab?”

“Two years ago,” she said, “by the grace of God.”

“Why?” Aziz asked.

“Because that is the right way,” Zohra answered

Why was Zohra defending her? Aziz sat back. “So that means you are on the wrong path?” he asked her. Zohra shot him a look that said stop it. He pretended not to notice. “Well?”

Samira tilted her head. “May God put us all on the righteous path. Amen.” She got up and started setting the table for lunch.

“How long will you be staying?” Mounir asked.

“Only ten days,” Aziz said.

“He’s going back again for a while,” Zohra said.

Samira brought the plate of couscous. “You should go with him,” she said. “Husbands and wives belong together.”

Aziz watched for Zohra’s reaction. Perhaps her own sister could convince her better than he could.

“I don’t know if that’s the life for me,” Zohra said. But her tone was weak, and Aziz could see that her sister had planted a seed that he could cultivate until he convinced her.

THAT NIGHT ZOHRA came into the bedroom and turned off the light. But this time, when Aziz reached for her, she didn’t turn away. He took her into his arms. It felt strange to be making love to her again. He had forgotten how small she was, and while he was on top of her he worried that his weight might be too much, so he supported himself on his forearms. Being with her brought to mind the women he had slept with while he was gone. He was ashamed to have cheated, but, he reasoned, he had been lonely and he was only human. He told himself that he had never intended to cheat on her, that the women he had slept with had meant nothing to him, just as, he was sure, he’d meant nothing to them. Now he wondered what his wife would look like in a sexy bustier, straddling him, her arms up in the air, moaning her pleasure out loud. He couldn’t imagine Zohra doing it. But maybe she would, if he asked her. He came out of her and put his arm under her so he could scoop her up and put her on top of him, but she raised her head and gripped his arms in panic. Her eyes questioned him. He entered her again and resumed their lovemaking. When it was over and he lay in the dark, he wondered what had been on her mind. He feared that it was only one thing. He had seen how she had looked at the neighbor’s child and he wondered if he should have stayed away from her tonight. He told himself that he’d have to use a condom next time. He didn’t want to risk having children yet, not like this, not when they had to wait for her paperwork, not until he could support a family. He lay on the bed, unable to sleep.