“The government has abandoned the people,” Hatim said, “and so have all the parties. The socialists spent decades making promises, but in the end they did nothing. The conservatives praise the Makhzen and get rich on our taxes. The so-called Islamic parties don’t want to risk their seats in Parliament or their big salaries on fixing our problems. The people are alone. We are alone. But we have the power to change things for ourselves. And the only help we need is the Lord’s help, may His name be remembered on earth as it is in heaven. This is what the Party stands for: Power to the people through God, with God, and by God. Through God, because our program is simple: we, the Partisans, follow God’s way in the knowledge that it is the best way. With God, because we know that the Lord is with us: He will help us and He will smite those who stand in our way. By God, because we have made this commitment to you and we will not waiver in our resolve to help you. Remember this: Through God. With God. By God.” He raised his finger upward again and looked sternly at the people.
As if a signal had been given, the driver slid open the van’s doors and asked people to line up. He began handing out tents, blankets, sacks of flour, tins of sardines, tubes of toothpaste, packets of gum, bottles of cooking oil, rolls of masking tape, boxes of detergent, and canisters of propane gas. It looked like the loot from a corner-store robbery, but people fell on it, pushing and shoving to get their share. Hatim stood aside to watch. The white of his attire stood out against the dark sky above and the muddy ground below. He looked like an angel who had lost his big wings and fallen straight from the sky.
The Star Cinema remained unoccupied until May, when Hatim returned to Hay An Najat with a team of construction workers. There were rumors that he had bought stolen cement from contractors who built homes for Moroccans working abroad. No one was sure. In truth, no one cared — a building being fixed up in Hay An Najat was too satisfying a sight. Hatim also hired some workers to repaint the walls, replace the wood, and retile the floors. The building was ready in just a few weeks: It had a real roof, huge double doors, new glass windows. A sign was hoisted over the entrance. In block letters it proclaimed, HEADQUARTERS OF THE PARTY.
Youssef went with Amin and Maati to the grand opening. On the ground floor, there was an infirmary, a meeting room with rows of chairs, and a café named the Oasis (drinks were free on Fridays). The notice board in the hall advertised a cultural program: evenings of Qur’anic study, lectures by visiting Partisans, and, miraculously it seemed, a movie every Thursday night. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, they heard the beat of a hip-hop song drifting down toward them. “That’s where Hatim’s office is,” Maati said, pointing.
“He has good taste in music,” Youssef said. He wanted to have a look upstairs, but a sign saying PRIVATE warned him against it.
“I heard he studied in New York,” Amin said.
“No, no,” Maati countered. “The doorman said Hatim went to school in Cairo.”
“New York or Cairo,” Youssef said, “what difference does it make? The tea is free today. Let’s go to the café.” They sat in front of the large TV and played chess until closing time, Amin methodically defeating both Youssef and Maati in turn.
YOUSSEF WAS THE FIRST to arrive at the Party’s headquarters for the picture show. He was expecting an action film, but the movie turned out to be Fatmah, with Umm Kulthum and Anwar Wajdi in the leading roles. Youssef had already seen this tearjerker several times, but he had no other plans for the evening and he loved the feeling of being in a darkened theater once again. He watched as the righteous Umm Kulthum was seduced by the debonair Wajdi, who later abandoned her when she became pregnant.
When the lights were turned on, Hatim stood up and asked about the movie’s “message.” Everyone in the audience gave him a blank look. “This movie was made in 1947, my brothers and sisters, but it could have come out this year, so little seems to have changed. Wajdi’s people spend their time drinking, dancing, and carousing, while the people of the Hara can barely find enough to feed themselves. Umm Kulthum’s misery is her own fault. This is what happens when Muslim women engage in relations with dissolute men. That is the message of this movie. Let it be a warning to the sisters in the audience.” And with this, he stared down the single teenage girl who was in attendance.
Youssef went home without getting a snack or lingering at the street corner with his friends. He found his mother bent over her embroidery. She was sometimes able to supplement her income by preparing trousseaux for brides. Without taking a break from the wedding sheet she was adorning in the Fassi style, she looked up and asked him to go buy a quarter kilo of flour.
“I was at the new cinema,” he said, sitting down.
“How did you pay?” she asked, needle paused in midair. “You didn’t ask me for money.”
“It was free.”
“Really? That’s odd.”
He shrugged. “They showed Fatmah.”
She started again on her embroidery. He told her about the movie, describing how Umm Kulthum had been deceived, how she had fallen in love with the handsome Anwar Wajdi, how she had had to go to court to prove the baby’s paternity, how it had all been the fault of Wajdi’s family. His mother remained silent, Youssef noticed. Even though she loved Umm Kulthum, she did not ask which songs had been performed in the film. And the way she kept her neck bent seemed slightly unnatural, as if she were making a special effort not to look at him. He waited.
At length, she set aside the wedding sheet, her eyes meeting his for the first time. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.
In a way Youssef could not explain to himself, he had always felt that something was amiss in the stories she had told him. “I think you know why,” he said softly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What I do know is that you’re going to the movies instead of studying for your final exams. You only have two weeks to go, my son. What are you going to do if you fail? You’d better go get the flour and come back and start studying.”
He took the money she handed him and left, kicking at rocks on the road as he walked.
Youssef took his final exams at the end of June, and on the day the results were to be announced, he made his way to school with Amin and Maati. He felt confident about his chances; he knew he was a good student, even if his mother seemed never to believe it. Maati, too, was not worried because, he said, he had “studied with the best,” by which he meant that he had copied from Youssef. Only Amin was sure he would fail. He had nearly refused to come along.
The lists were posted just outside the gates. Youssef pushed his way through the crowd that circled the notice boards. He scanned the names quickly: Youssef El Mekki, Amin Chebana, but no Maati Aït-Said. “Maybe someone’s taken one of the pages,” Youssef said, turning around to look at Maati behind him. “Some people like to keep them as souvenirs.”
Maati’s jaw tightened. “Nothing’s missing.” He said he was going for a walk.
“Wait, my friend,” Youssef said, but Maati did not look back.
Amin shook his head disbelievingly. He said he would go find his brother Fettah, and together they would ride the bus to the house in Anfa where their father worked as a gardener, to tell him the unexpected good news. Youssef walked back home alone. “I passed,” he announced, as soon as he pushed the door open.