“Not this year,” Amin said, barely taking his eyes off the computer screen. “I don’t have the money.”
Youssef considered this for a moment. “I have enough for both of us.”
“Aw? Where did you get the cash?”
“The money I made from my job. I have enough for both of us. We can both apply.”
Amin pushed the keyboard away and looked incredulously at Youssef. “You would give me the money? Really?”
“Of course.” Youssef said, quickly averting his eyes. He did not want to explain that this was his way of atoning for how he had treated Amin. Maybe this lottery would give them the chance they had been waiting for. It would take both of them out of Hay An Najat this time, and for good. Youssef pictured palm-lined beaches, white picket fences, giant hamburgers, baseball matches, fast cars — it was a dream that came, fully formed, in stereo and in high definition, into his mind. All he had to do was replay scenes from the films and television shows beamed into his home by satellite, and insert himself into the story.
They sent in their lottery applications the next day. Now, all they could do was wait. They spent their days together, shuttling from the street corner to the Oasis, from the Oasis to the cybercafe, and back again. Sometimes, one or the other of them left Hay An Najat to inquire about a job listing, but such occasions seemed more like formalities than possibilities, their names and addresses having already disqualified their applications.
Their routine was disrupted when Amin’s girlfriend Soraya got married — to a store security guard, at a ceremony to which neither Amin’s family nor Youssef’s mother was invited. Amin stopped coming to the street corner in the mornings. He was too depressed to want to leave his house, and when he reappeared, it was mostly at the cybercafe, reeking of hashish. Youssef started going there, too, taking a seat next to him at the computer station. Most of the other customers were looking at porn photos or Islamic Web sites, or both, but Amin was addicted to online chat. He was trying to start a romance with a foreign woman. He was worried that the American consul would deny him a lottery visa because he didn’t speak English very well. He was ready to go anywhere: somewhere in Europe or America was best, but he did not mind the Gulf or Australia, either. He had created different nicknames for different chat rooms in different countries: for the West, he was Ash; in the Middle East, he was Ashhab; and Down Under, he was Heb.
Soon, Amin mastered the bizarre abbreviations made necessary by the bandwidth of his Internet connection. In one window, he typed, “What r u up 2?” while on the other he was waiting for an answer to his message “T où, là?” On yet another window, he used a latinized spelling of Darija to chat with a French Algerian girclass="underline" “Finek a zzin?” Amin had no trouble conversing, half-literately, in three languages. He was determined to be a mail-order groom.
“How do you keep them straight,” Youssef asked him, “all these different people you claim to be?”
“You get used to it quickly,” Amin said. “Playing a role, I mean.”
Staring at the screen over Amin’s shoulder, Youssef saw that Katia from Oslo had just asked where he was from. “Casablanca,” Amin typed. A smiley face appeared in the tiny window of the chatting software, but nothing else. Still, that little emoticon was enough to give Amin hope, and he said he would try Katia again in a few days, see if he could get her to talk.
Amin’s belief in his chances was steadfast, and therefore it was infectious. Watching him type with two fingers, Youssef was tempted to consider the idea of an Internet love match for himself — but he could not bring himself to create a fake identity. He was tired of the masquerades. He was Youssef El Mekki; he was his mother’s son, a child of Hay An Najat. He no longer had any wish to be someone else.
He often thought that Maati had outsmarted them all. Three years ago, when he had flunked out of high school, he had seemed to have the least chance of making it. Yet now he was the only one among Youssef’s friends bringing home a salary, the only one who had not wasted his time at the university. Already he had saved up enough to help his parents with his sister’s wedding. Youssef could not help feeling pangs of envy every time he saw Maati at the Oasis.
And the worst of it was: Youssef was luckier than many others he knew. Around the neighborhood, young men from Senegal and Mali and Niger had begun to settle, sharing shacks, eight or ten to a room. They had come looking for Europe but had run out of money on the way and had stayed here in Casablanca. They worked as vendors, porters, or beggars. At any moment, they risked getting picked up by the police or harassed by thugs. But their fate did not raise concern in Youssef, for he was going to America, and surely, surely, such things did not happen there.
Whenever he was turned down for a job interview, he simply returned to the dream. “Just imagine—,” Youssef would say to Amin, unable to control a smile, “imagine how it will be when we get the visa.”
“Everything will be better,” Amin concurred.
America was different, its movies told them; it was a place where one could go to escape tyranny, poverty, or both — and succeed. Once, as they were walking near the French lycée, on their way back from another pointless interview, a zealous cop stopped them and made them turn out their pockets for no discernible reason. When the search was over and they were let go, Youssef found refuge in the fantasy. “This would never happen in America,” he said with unwitting conviction. He had watched suspects on TV shows being read their rights: You have the right to remain silent; anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law; you have the right to an attorney; if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. He knew the warnings by heart, and foolishly he believed them.
But the dream ended, as all dreams do, when rumor spread that the American Consulate had already interviewed those who had been selected. Frantic, Youssef ran across town to check with Maître Chraibi at his office. There was a FOR LEASE sign on the door. Youssef had failed, once again, and now the money was gone.
PART IV
The way of even the most justifiable
revolutions is prepared by personal
impulses disguised into creeds.
15. SECRETS AND LIES
APPEARANCES ARE DECEIVING. Rachida had understood this simple fact long ago, so she was often surprised to come across people who fell for artifice and good looks, for sweet words and appealing facades — for lies. Just that morning, at the market, the artichoke vendor had told her his son had found a job with a naval company based in Dubai. After the customary congratulations, she asked about the company’s line of business. “I don’t know, exactly,” the vendor said. “Something to do with tourism.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “The salary is fifteen thousand dirhams. My son paid the fee for the medical exam, so he’s just waiting to hear about when he will start.”
“He paid money to get the job?” Rachida asked, but the vendor did not catch her hint. He weighed the artichokes, giving her an extra 150 grams for free; she could not bring herself to tell him his son had been deceived.
Now she sat cross-legged in her yard, pulling the scales off each artichoke to get to its core. Every once in a while she ate the fleshy top of a leaf, letting its tartness linger on her tongue. She was planning on making a tagine of meat and artichoke hearts, one of Youssef’s favorite dishes. Perhaps it might entice him to eat. Ever since he had lost all his money to the immigration lawyer, he had had little appetite. She had warned him that it would be a scam, but he hadn’t listened, of course. Boys these days were like dandelions: the lightest of winds could blow them away. Yesterday, when she had returned home from work, she had found him lying supine on his bed. Twice she called to him before he heard her. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “Should I serve you dinner now?” He looked at her as if he could not see her, then shook his head no. She wanted to tell him that he would find his way someday, but he looked so distant that she doubted her words could penetrate his world.