Holding on to the wall, Youssef craned his neck to see if he could make it to the grocer’s, but all along the little street, shops and houses were flooded. Hammad came out of his store, pushing a wheelbarrow stacked high with bags of flour. A group of boys splashed around in the dirty water. Standing where the water was shallow, the tailor yelled into his mobile phone, asking someone to come help him. Through the broken window of the beauty shop, a blond-wigged mannequin head with painted lips surveyed the scene dispassionately.
Across the street, three red cushions floated aimlessly outside the gaping doors of the Star Cinema. Youssef felt a pinch in his heart at the sight, though he had no time to dwell on the damage to the theater because, just a few feet away, knee-deep in the water, men and women were moving their belongings. A man and his two sons turned the corner toward him, carrying a chipped divan base, a torn mattress, and a table. In places where the mud was too slippery, they held on to house walls or laundry lines. Youssef ran up behind the smaller of the sons to help him with the table. They were moving to an uncle’s house, the boy told him. It was the worst thing in the world, Youssef thought, to lose everything and, at the same time, to have everyone see that you did not own anything worth saving.
He continued walking toward the top of the hill, up to where the road was tarred. Rainwater filled potholes, and the bus stop sign was knocked out, but from this vantage point he had a full view of the neighborhood, of the streets that had been flooded and those that had been spared. This was another mektub. It would split someone’s life into a Before and After, just as his father’s death had done for him. Children born this year would be told that they came into the world during the Year of the Flood.
The news spread quickly through the neighborhood: a city councilman was coming to Hay An Najat to inspect the damage. Because Youssef had never seen a government official except on TV, he went with Amin and Maati to the marketplace, where a small crowd had already gathered. The councilman climbed out of his chauffeur-driven Mercedes, while a dozen staffers carrying file folders and speaking on their mobile phones streamed out of a line of cars behind him. He wore a blue raincoat over a pin-striped suit, and eyeglasses that gave him an attentive air. He lifted his trousers and walked up the street, trailed by his assistants. Some people followed him, but Youssef and his friends stayed back to admire the Mercedes sport-utility vehicle — from a distance, since the driver chased away anyone who came too close.
The councilman was back in front of his car after five minutes, a constipated expression on his face. He spoke in a voice that sounded precious, as if it were reserved for special occasions. “We are monitoring the situation,” he said. “I have given instructions to the emergency management office to send out tents and blankets. They should be here soon.”
“When?” Amin asked.
A benevolent smile appeared on the councilman’s face. “They’re already on their way, my son. Tomorrow. Or the day after.”
“Try spending the night under the rain,” someone yelled. Youssef turned to see who had spoken; it was Bouazza, whose tin roof had collapsed, trapping his children for two hours before he and the neighbors rescued them.
“You have to be patient,” the councilman said, a trace of impatience already apparent on his face. A sudden wind lifted a section of hair he had carefully combed over his balding head. He patted it back into place. “It takes time to get materials out here. There is flooding in other neighborhoods, and we’re trying to help everyone.”
“What about our businesses?” Hammad asked.
“You will get assistance, too,” the councilman promised.
It started drizzling again. The water was so soft and thin it felt like dew on Youssef’s face.
“We have helped you before,” the councilman said. He opened his enormous umbrella and held it over his head. “Didn’t we get you running water?”
Youssef laughed. “This guy doesn’t even know where he is!”
“You’re not in Qubbet Jjmel,” Maati yelled.
“Qubbet Jjmel is just a few streets away,” the councilman said quickly, catching himself. “You’ll get running water here as well.”
Youssef could hear the councilman’s gaffe being repeated. He felt the crowd pressing closer behind him. “Where are the supplies?” he asked. “Tell us where they are and we’ll get them ourselves.”
The councilman smiled as though at a child. “It doesn’t work that way,” he replied.
“He’s lying,” Bouazza said. “There’s no help. There’s nothing.”
Someone threw a tomato; another, a shoe. A rock smashed into the car’s front light. The councilman tried to close his umbrella before climbing into the backseat of his car, but under the shower of random projectiles he abandoned it and jumped inside, closing the door behind him. Youssef and his friends joined the protesters, pounding windshields and kicking attires as the procession of government cars made its way slowly, painfully, through the crowd. At last it extricated itself from the masses and sped away in a cloud of dark exhaust. Youssef picked up the councilman’s umbrella, wanting to break it over his knee, but it would not snap in two. Instead, the braces came loose and cut him. On his left palm, four thick beads of blood appeared. He rubbed them away on his sleeve.
LATER, AS YOUSSEF was walking back home with Amin and Maati, they were nearly run over by a white Volkswagen van on which a loudspeaker had been mounted. At deafening volume, the driver announced that a representative from Al Hizb, the Party, would bring emergency supplies to the marketplace. Youssef had not heard of the Party before, and neither had the others, but the promise was tempting. They retraced their steps.
The white van pulled up in the little square at exactly three o’clock. A stocky man in a skullcap, a black leather jacket, and jeans brought out some wooden crates, which he stacked together. Then he introduced the speaker as Si Hatim, chairman of the Party. Hatim climbed onto the makeshift podium and stared thoughtfully at the crowd, as though he were appraising it. He was dressed in a crisp white jellaba, his head was turbaned, a white cloak floated over his shoulders. He had lively eyes, a neatly trimmed beard from which a few white hairs stood out, and big hands, with long fingers that spread out like the tines of a rake.
“My brothers and sisters in faith,” Hatim said, “this flood is a big test of your faith. At a time of such suffering, the faithful ask themselves why God let such a thing happen. I am here to tell you that He let it happen for a reason. This flood is a warning to those who have cast aside their religion, to the men and women who sin against our Lord, again and again and again.” Here he stared at the young people in the crowd. Two teenage girls, perhaps not so willing to blame themselves for the fate of the neighborhood, walked away, but Hatim went on. “Look at what happened in Asia. For years and years, those people committed the kaba’ir, the sins of fornication and prostitution, so in the end the Lord had enough. He sent them the tsunami to punish them. Now He has sent you a warning, and we are here to help you heed it.”
Youssef was about to leave — he was in no mood for a sermon — when Hatim’s speech took a different turn. “My brothers and sisters in faith, I have here in this van some tents and blankets and food. You will get help today, not tomorrow, not next week. Today!” he said triumphantly, his finger spearing the air above him. People cheered, a few of them clapped; everyone looked eagerly at the van.