He collected his papers and went upstairs to his office. Youssef and Amin returned to their game, but Youssef let his finger hover over his knight, unsure whether to move it. How odd it was, he thought, to read an article and hear directly from the person about whom it was written. It was the kind of piece that would get a lot of attention. People would lend the magazine to their friends; journalists at competing publications would try to write similar articles. Youssef could not imagine that Benaboud would print lies. After all, some of the claims he made came from the police themselves. Still, Hatim was right: Benaboud should have spoken to him first. And the line about the Party’s headquarters being in an abandoned warehouse — it proved that Benaboud had never set foot in Hay An Najat. Hatim was right to be angry.
The following Monday, Youssef rose with the sound of the muezzin and crept out of the bedroom. The dawn prayer was his favorite because the chant was pure, uninterrupted by the honking of motorcycles or the ringing of school bells or the cries of children. The alley was quiet, and if he stepped outside now, he could almost forget the ugliness that was still hidden under a cloak of darkness. He washed up in the water closet and got dressed. Today he would deliver new job applications, written in his best Arabic penmanship, asking the human resources manager of this administration or that ministry to consider him for a state job. Each letter invariably closed with respectful salutations and was signed, sincerely, by Youssef El Mekki.
His mother was already making breakfast by the time he was ready to go. She served the bread and tea directly on the cane mat — the small, round table that was used for the main meals was still propped on its side against the wall. Her blue jellaba was folded next to her purse, ready to go. “Where are you going today?” she asked.
“Two ministries in Rabat, Foreign Affairs and the Interior. Then I’ll get back on the train to Casablanca and drop off another application at the National Office of Fisheries.”
“May God open all doors for you.”
“Amen.”
IT WAS JUST after 9 a.m. when Youssef arrived at the Interior Ministry in Rabat. He was directed to the human resources department, on the second floor, where a middle-aged man with a thin mustache and thinning hair sat at a desk right on the landing. The expression on the man’s face was familiar to Youssef: an immediate appraisal, categorizing him as another supplicant.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning.”
“I am here to deliver a job application.”
The man took the letter from Youssef, gave it a quick look, and then added it to a pile on his right-hand side. He fixed his eyes upon a distant spot behind Youssef.
“When might I hear about it?”
“The director has to read it. Come back in two weeks.”
And so it went with every other government body he tried that day. He was running out of places to try, having exhausted the list of state agencies he had found in the phone book.
On the train home, a wave of panic washed over him. What if he could not find another job? What would become of him? For a while his life had seemed to open up, allowing him to see a path for himself, a future, but now the darkness was closing in again. He wanted out of this miserable existence. The pain was so acute that he could feel it, just under his ribs, with each breath he took. When he got off the train, he stopped by the news kiosk to buy Le Matin. The job advertisements were the usual calls for applications from computer engineers and MBAs, but he saw a two-line ad for a receptionist at a cybercafe and another one for a helper at a copy shop. He called the first number. An angry café owner answered, barking at him that he regretted having placed the ad — he had received more than one hundred calls and had spent all day on the phone, turning people down. And yes, the position had already been filled. Youssef dialed the second number and got a busy signal. He kept trying for fifteen minutes without success. At last he left the station to catch the bus home.
For lunch, his mother had made a plate of couscous garnished with a few carrots, a small piece of meat, and a lot of sauce. He ate the couscous, but left her the meat, refusing to take another bite of food until she ate. They were drinking a glass of verbena, listening to the news on the radio, when the mailman knocked on the door to deliver the letter that informed Youssef that his application for the police academy had been rejected.
14. DREAMS
YOUSSEF STARTED GOING to the street corner again with Amin. There, he watched people come and go, and sometimes listened to or repeated new gossip. Did you hear that a teenager from Douar Lahouna stole twenty kilos of copper wire from the railway line? The commuter trains from Rabat to Casablanca had to be stopped for several hours while the ONCF made repairs. The boy sold the spools of metal and made enough money to buy a motorcycle. And did you know that Simo was mugged while coming home the other night? The greaser put a razor right here, at the base of Simo’s neck. And did you see the way Sawsan dresses and carries herself? That girl had better watch out; she is looking for trouble.
By early afternoon, Youssef and Amin usually tired of standing at the corner and went to the Party headquarters to see Maati, keeping him company by the entrance. They sat on the white plastic chairs outside and shared his coffee and cigarettes. Sometimes, Maati would tell them one of his new jokes. “Did you hear the one about the police?” he asked. When they both said no, he continued. “The heads of security services from Morocco, France, and the United States meet at a conference, and they make a bet about who is the best at finding criminals. So they come up with a challenge. They release a rabbit into a forest and they each have to try and find it. The Americans go in. They set up a huge command center. They hire informants; they spy on all the animals; they harass the ones that look rabbitlike. After two months, they issue a report saying that rabbits do not exist in that forest. The French go in next. They investigate for two weeks. They can’t find the rabbit. So they burn parts of the forest and make no apologies. It was the fault of the rabbit; he should have turned himself in. Then the Moroccans finally get their turn. They come out two hours later with a battered and bloodied fox. The fox is yelling: ‘Okay! Okay! I am a rabbit! I am a rabbit!’ ”
Everyone burst out laughing. Youssef loved hearing Maati’s jokes, but it frightened him how quickly he fell back into this routine with his old friends, standing around with nothing but words to occupy them. It was as if he had never left the neighborhood, as if his life had never been interrupted.
One day, Amin told Youssef about the lawyer. Maître Chraibi had immigrated to the United States many years ago, had a law practice in New York, and now had an office with a brass name-plate on Chari’ Al Massira. His online ad boasted that he could get green cards to all those who entered the visa lottery through his firm. Most of the applications filed with American immigration services are improperly filled out, the ad warned, so directions must be followed exactly. Why deny yourself an opportunity? Let me take care of the paperwork. All you had to do, Amin told him, was fill out a form and provide a photo, and the lawyer would take care of the rest. The service cost one thousand dirhams, half up front and half after the applicant was called for the consular interview.
“Are you going to apply?” Youssef asked, turning to look at Amin. They had come into the cybercafe after an afternoon of playing chess at the Oasis.