It had taken a little over an hour to undo all of his life, just as two years ago his life had been turned upside down in the same amount of time. Why was this happening to him? Why did God look on as His creatures went through such pain and not see fit to save them? Youssef felt the last vestiges of faith leave his heart, replaced by hate for Madame Amrani.
And there was, too, along with the hate, the shame that had been waiting at every corner for him, the shame of having failed in his endeavor, of having accomplished exactly what his mother had told him he would — which is to say, nothing. He realized now that he had only played the part of Youssef Amrani, but all along he had remained Youssef El Mekki.
As dusk fell, he began to shiver. He looked around him. Afternoon patrons had left, and now the evening clientele had begun to appear. He felt even more out of place. It was time to leave. But how could he show himself in Hay An Najat again, after everything that had happened? He dropped his face in his hands and tried to suppress his sobs for as long as he could, but it was useless. Soon he became aware of the other patrons’ stares, and he quickly wiped his eyes with his napkin. He held the pillowcase full of his belongings and walked, dragging his feet, to the bus station.
It was the smell that got to him first. He had forgotten about the stench of garbage mixed with the odor of car exhaust and the stink of old, refried sardines that permeated the street, but as soon as he stepped off the bus, he began to cough uncontrollably. The cart that sold boiled chickpeas still sat around the corner from the bus station, and so did the vegetable stand. Kids loitered at corners, leaning against walls. Discarded black plastic bags dotted the ground, and clotheslines crisscrossed the alleys. The walk from the bus station to his mother’s house, which had seemed so short to him when he lived here, now seemed to take forever.
The streets and alleys were fulclass="underline" women getting water, girls carrying shopping bags, drug addicts huddled in groups, merchants peddling their wares from rickety bicycles, teenagers hawking single cigarettes, children playing marbles. Youssef thought that all eyes were on him, that the entire neighborhood had found out about his return and had stepped out to watch the humiliated son return home to his mother. He tripped on a rock and fell down, his things spilling out onto the dirt. Several people stopped what they were doing to watch. Jumping up to his feet, he hurriedly collected his belongings, now covered with red dirt. Someone called out his name in the distance, but he pretended not to hear. He trotted the rest of the way to his mother’s house. To his immense relief, the door was unlocked.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, finally allowing himself a breath. The smell of mint tea hung in the air. There were dishes drying on the rack in the corner, right on the battered cement floor. Three housedresses in faded colors hung on the laundry line, against walls whose paint was cracked like broken eggshells. The corrugated tin roof over the bedroom was eaten by rust, and the satellite dish mounted on it was covered with bird excrement. The house looked the same as he remembered it.
His mother looked up at him from the divan where she was curled up. She shot to her feet now, and the bowl of sunflower seeds that had been nestled in her lap dropped to the floor. The seeds scattered everywhere. For a moment, it felt to Youssef as though time had suspended itself. He looked at her, wordlessly communicating that what she had warned him against had finally come to pass. She nodded once.
Looking down, he dropped his bag on the floor. She gave him a hug, her head barely reaching his chest. “My son, my son.”
After she let go of him, he remained standing in the same spot until she guided him by the hand toward the divan and forced him to sit. She did not ask him the questions he expected — Did he throw you out? What about your school? What about the job? — but instead sat next to him in a silence that resonated with solidarity.
Youssef’s throat was dry. His jaw was so tight that he was unable to speak. He stared at her, and after a while she put her hand on his forehead, then caressed his cheek. He watched her, still immobile. She asked if he was hungry. He did not answer. “Do you want to go lie down, then?” He managed to blink his approval.
She helped him to his bed. He tucked his knees to his chest and turned to face the wall. Chills ran down his arms and legs, despite the blanket with which his mother had covered him. He heard her turn off the TV out in the yard before returning to the bedroom to sit on her bed. As darkness fell, the house grew quieter. He could hear her breathing across the room. He closed his eyes, though he knew there would be no sleep for him tonight.
Youssef did not leave his mother’s house over the next few days. Although he was due to sit for his final exams, he could not bring himself to go to school. He did little but sleep or stare at the ceiling — counting the dips in the corrugated tin above him, and then counting them again until he fell asleep. He wanted never to wake up. What purpose was there to his existence? If his mother had aborted him, he would have escaped the life that she had condemned herself to, and he would not have had to endure the fate that had been decided for him even before he was born. His anger took many shapes: sometimes it was soft and familiar, like a round stone that he had caressed for so long that it was perfectly smooth and polished; sometimes it was thin and sharp, like a blade that could slice through anything; sometimes it had the form of a star, radiating his hatred in all directions, leaving him numb and empty inside.
When the end of the month finally arrived, he called his father. The line rang, but no one answered. Rather than leave a message, he hung up. Now he had to contend with the doubts: Had his father ignored his call, the way he used to ignore his wife’s? There was no other alternative but to go meet him at work. Youssef put on his nicest shirt, a pair of black pants, and the tasseled loafers he had bought from a store on rue Aïn Harrouda. He ran up the street like a fugitive and caught a bus to the west side of town. It was still early. His father was probably making his morning calls and getting ready to go out for his rounds — to the factory, the hotel, a trade conference, or a business meeting. With enough luck, Youssef might still catch him.
The sun was already high in the sky when Youssef arrived at AmraCo. The mirrored windows reflected the rays of light, blinding him. He reached for his sunglasses, then suddenly remembered that he no longer had them; they had been left behind in the apartment. With eyes cast down, he walked inside the parking lot and stood by the entrance, waiting for his father to emerge. Cars and cabs fought for space at the semaphore across the street, starting up in a cloud of dark exhaust as the light turned green. A policeman whistled at a motorcycle and then spoke into his walkie-talkie when the driver failed to stop. A truck stopped by the minimarket up the street and delivered canisters of gas. It was scorching hot, and Youssef could feel pearls of sweat forming on his forehead.
Finally the double doors swung open and Omar the driver came out, followed by Nabil Amrani. Youssef held out the hope that somewhere in his father’s appearance, there would be a hint of Youssef’s passage in his life. But Nabil looked exactly the same as ever: harried, elegant, authoritative, in control. Nothing about him hinted at the events that had come to pass.