They ended up at a coffee shop not far from the apartment, a little place they often went to late at night. Amal recounted her dinner with her parents. It was the kind of moment, she told him, when one knows that nothing will be the same again, when life suddenly splits into Before and After. She had long suspected that her father had been unfaithful (she had heard her parents fighting when she was twelve or thirteen) but she did not know his infidelities were as old as her — older, in fact.
“What did your mother say?”
“Not much, I don’t think. I’ve never seen her so broken.” Amal was angrier on her mother’s behalf than on her own. She wished there was something she could do. She wanted, of course, to go back home and be with her mother, but the finality of what her mother was asking was a sacrifice she was not prepared to make. Giving up one love for the sake of another — who made bargains like this? Then it dawned on her that her father was precisely the sort of person to do that. She drew her breath, suddenly remembering a particular moment at dinner. “You should have seen the look on my father’s face when he was talking about Youssef — like he was the best thing that ever happened to him.” She rubbed her eyes.
“But your brother — can you imagine?” Fernando said. “Growing up all this time, never knowing his father, or his sister. Poor guy.”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” Amal said. She was far too wrapped up in her own pain to think of the pain of others. “What about you? What were you doing while I was with my parents?”
“Working on my résumé,” he said. He finished his coffee and, noticing that she had finished her tea, asked, “Ready to go home?”
Amal smiled at the word he used, and put her hand on his arm. Whenever she was with him, she found it hard not to touch him, as though she were making up for hours of not being with him. They arrived at Amal’s apartment to find three messages on the answering machine, all from her mother, a woman who clearly took special pleasure in using the redial button. “Amal, c’est Maman,” she said in a singsong voice. She asked Amal to call back immediately. They were still listening to the third message when the phone rang again. Fernando looked at Amal. “Do you want to pick it up?” he asked. She shook her head and unplugged the cord. Then she put her arms around him and asked if he was feeling sleepy.
THE PHONE RANG almost immediately after Fernando plugged the cord back in on Sunday morning. Amal was brushing her hair when he handed her the receiver. Malika, sounding disturbingly cheerful, asked if Amal would like to go to the county museum. Amal said she had to study for her last final, but her mother sighed and complained about having to come halfway around the world just to be turned down by one’s only daughter. Amal felt a mixture of guilt and irritation, and guilt won out. (Is it not always so with mothers?)
She turned off the phone. “I have to go meet my mother.”
“All right,” Fernando said. “I guess I’ll go look at the apartments alone, then.”
“I’m sorry,” Amal said. “Maybe we can go when I get back? Or do you want to come with me to the museum?”
“I don’t think so, sweets. Your mother can barely stand to look at me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Fernando shook his head. “Not your fault. I’ll call or e-mail if the apartments are any good.”
WHEN AMAL ARRIVED at LACMA, the esplanade was packed with tourists. Her mother waved at her from outside the box office. “How did you get here?” her mother asked as she kissed her cheeks.
“By bus.”
“I thought Fernando would drop you off.”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“You should have told me. I could have picked you up or sent a cab for you.”
“Where’s Papa?” Amal asked, wanting to change the subject.
“He didn’t come.”
“Why not?”
“I just didn’t feel like spending such a beautiful morning with him. It’s just us two,” Malika said. Amal smiled; she felt a touch of their lost complicity returning. Her mother linked arms with her, and they walked through the double doors of the museum. As they strolled through the galleries, stopping occasionally in front of one or another painting, Malika shared all the gossip from back home: her driver’s son had managed to get into engineering school; the maid had decided to wear a hijab and refused to serve alcohol when there were guests; there was a journalist who kept hounding Uncle Othman for an interview; Aunt Khadija had taken a secret trip to Paris to get a face-lift; Cousin Jaafar had been caught with drugs at the airport and his father had to call in favors to prevent his arrest.
They stopped in front of a small Delacroix, an 1833 water-color of Moroccan street musicians. Strolling Players was the kind of Orientalist painting that must have been in high demand in the salons of Europe at the time. It looked nothing like Amal’s memories of home, and yet it made her miss it. Her mother squeezed her hand. “You have to come back with us.”
Amal did not reply, as if silence could make the demand go away.
Malika drew her breath. “I know you love each other,” she said. “But someday you will learn that love is not enough. People in America are not like us. They are different. They live together without being married, they don’t think about what families they’re getting into, they break off relationships as easily as they start them. That’s not how we are.”
Amal pulled her hand away and turned to look at her mother. “Are you saying that Fernando’s going to break up with me?”
“Amal, you don’t understand. A relationship is difficult enough without all the other complications you’re adding to it. I only want what is best for you. And this young man may be nice, and you’ve had fun with him, but now you’ve finished your degree and it’s time to think about the future, to think about what you’ll do next. You belong in your own country, with your people, with us, your family.”
“I can’t go back for good. Not after what Papa did.”
“Your father loves you. He is just too proud to admit he made a mistake. But look what happened to him. He’s learned his lesson, I think, and I know he wants you back, too. Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.”
“I can’t go back, Maman.”
“Of course you can. You can come back with us after graduation. We’ll spend a couple of weeks in Spain, and when fall comes, you can start work. You don’t have to work with your father; you can find work anywhere you like.”
Amal shook her head.
“If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. Do you know what I’ve gone through? Everyone is talking about how crazy your father has been acting, and your uncles are upset about the appearance of this boy — this Youssef. They’re worried what your father will do with his share of the company, whether he’ll give him something. They told me they won’t let it happen. I need you back home. If you come home with me, I’m sure your father will come to his senses, and everything can go back to the way it was before. Please, Amal.”
Amal looked at her mother’s pleading face, at the despair so clearly painted upon it. Amal had made a tacit promise of love, and she had been happy, but now she was being asked to be loyal to another bond, one that did not ask just for love; it demanded duty as well, and it rewarded with approval, with ridat el-walidin. A part of her crumbled right then, and as they walked through the galleries, she became aware of an emptiness inside her that widened slowly and steadily.
They went to lunch at a restaurant nearby, and as they waited for their orders, Nabil appeared and pulled up a chair. “How was the museum?” he asked.