Hope & Other Dangerous Pursuits (4 page)

He thought about the day, a long time ago now, when he'd almost lost her. She was only two. They had gone to the beach in Temara for the day, and Nadir had asked for ice cream. Larbi had called out to one of the vendors who walked back and forth on the beach. He'd paid for the cones and handed one to Salma and one to Nadir, but when he'd turned around to give Noura hers, he realized she'd vanished. They'd looked for her for hours. He remembered his face burning in the sun, the vein at the base of his neck throbbing with fear and worry, his feet swelling from walking on the sand. He remembered the tears that continued to stream down Salma's face as they searched the beach. Eventually an old woman brought the disoriented toddler to the police station. Noura had gone to collect seashells, and it took the old woman a while to realize that the girl who had sat quietly on the rocks was alone.

He'd promised himself then never to lose sight of her, but the terror he felt that day came rushing in, and the weight of it made him sit down in his chair, his head in his hands.

Moments later, Larbi heard Noura's footsteps in the corridor. He could see her in front of the mirror, her freckled face turned to the light coming from the living room, placing a scarf on her head, tying it under her chin so that her hair was fully covered. Before he could think about what he was doing, he lunged at her and took off the scarf. Noura let out a cry. Salma stood up at the dining table but didn't come to her daughter's rescue.

“What are you doing?” Noura cried.

“You're not going out like that.” Larbi threw the scarf on the floor.

“You can't stop me!”

Larbi didn't say anything. He knew that she was right, of course, that he couldn't keep her under lock and key just because she wanted to dress like half the city's female population. Noura picked up her scarf and quietly resumed tying it on her head. She said her good-byes and left. Larbi turned to look at his wife, whose face displayed the same stunned expression as when Noura had first spoken.

O
N THE FIRST NIGHT
of Ramadan, Salma took out her best china and set the table herself. She had sent the maid home to celebrate with her own family. One by one, she brought forth the dishes they had prepared that day: harira soup with lamb, beghrir smothered with honey, sesame shebbakiya, dates stuffed with marzipan, and a tray of assorted nuts. Larbi called out to Noura that it was time to eat, then sat down to await the adhan of the muezzin, the moment when day became dusk, the fast would end, and they could eat. At last, Noura poked her head in and stood listlessly at the entrance of the dining room. Larbi looked at her beautiful hair, its loose curls reaching her chest. It was a reminder of what she had chosen to do.

The TV announcer came on to say that the sun was setting; the call for prayer resonated immediately after. Salma gestured to Noura. “Sit, so we can eat.”

“I'll only break the fast with water. I'll eat after I've done the maghrib prayer.”

Salma glanced at Larbi. “Fine,” he said.

Noura added, “We're supposed to have frugal meals during Ramadan, not this orgy of food.” She pointed to the festive table her mother had prepared.

Larbi felt his appetite melt away. Instead, he craved a cigarette
and a stiff drink. Preferably Scotch. Of course, there wasn't a place in the city that would sell alcohol for another twenty-nine days. He swallowed with difficulty. It was going to be a long Ramadan. “We'll wait for you,” he said.

Noura turned to leave, but then turned back. “Well, maybe just a little bit of shebbakiya,” she said. She took a healthy bite out of the candy.

“Didn't you say this was too much food?” Salma asked.

The family ate without talking. In years past, this first night had been special; friends and family would sit around the table, sharing stories of their fast and enjoying their meal, but there had been too much on Larbi's mind lately to think about inviting anyone.

I
T WAS YET
another drought year—the end of November and no rainfall at all. Looking at his desk calendar, Larbi noticed that the NYU application deadline was approaching. At least he had Noura's future to look forward to, he thought, even if the present was difficult. Since she had taken on the hijab, he had stopped mentioning her at work. He felt it was beneath someone like him to have a daughter in a headscarf, and he provided only terse answers to anyone at the Ministry who asked him about his daughter.

After work he found her in her room with her mother, busy hanging new curtains. He asked her if he could read her essay before she sent it out.

“I'm not applying,” she replied. She slid the last curtain tab onto a mahogany pole.

Larbi glared at her. “Why not?”

“Because I want to transfer out of university at the end of next year. I'm going to be a middle school teacher.”

“What happened to your plans to study economics?” Salma asked, sitting down.

“Morocco needs me. You two always talk about the shortage of teachers,” Noura said.

“Have you lost your mind? You're not going to solve the shortage problem—”

“Am I crazy to want to help my country?” She turned away and climbed onto her desk to place the pole on the brackets.

“Look, you'll be of more help as an economist than as a schoolteacher,” Larbi said. “It's that friend of hers,” he added, turning to his wife. “She's filled her head with these ideas and now she can't think for herself.”

“No one is filling my head,” Noura said, standing next to the window, the late afternoon light in her hair. “There's too much corruption in the system now, and I want to be
a part of the solution.” Larbi wondered if she was referring to him. No, that was impossible. He had always kept his deals secret from his wife and daughter. Still, he thought it best not to respond. Noura jumped down from the desk. “Besides, why go to school in the States when I can just as easily study here?”

“For the experience, child,” said Salma.

“And you think people in America are going to want me?” Noura said, raising her voice. “Americans hate us.”

“How would you know if you've never been there?” Salma asked. “Your brother has never complained. Why don't you talk to him?”

“He's in Canada,” Noura spat, as though her mother couldn't tell the difference.

“Doesn't your Islam tell you to listen to your father?” Larbi asked.

“Only if my father is on the right path.”

“Congratulations, then. You alone are on the right path,” he said.

“Baraka!” Salma said. She got up. “What about all those years you spent learning English? All the plans you had?”

“I really want to be a teacher,” Noura said.

“Think carefully about what you're doing, ya Noura.
People your age would do anything for an opportunity like this, and you squander it.”

“I want to stay,” Noura said, and she pulled the new curtains shut.

I
T WAS SALMA'S
idea to invite Faten to dinner. Larbi had agreed, reluctantly at first, then resignedly, thinking that perhaps he might be able to talk some sense into his daughter if he understood her friend a little better. It was a Saturday evening, and the table had been set with a new service Salma had bought. Larbi sat at the head of the table with Noura to his left. Salma sat to his right, under the framed silhouette of a younger version of herself. During their honeymoon in Paris some twenty-five years ago, they had gone to Montmartre, where an artist had talked them into getting their silhouettes done. Working with his scissors, the old man had made Salma's bust more generous, and she'd laughed and left him a good tip.

Faten sat across from Larbi, at the other end of the table, looking calm and content. She had amber-colored eyes, plump lips, and skin so fair that it seemed as though all the light in the room converged upon it. She was, in other words, beautiful. This maddened Larbi. God is beautiful, and He loves beauty, so why hide it beneath all that cloth?

The maid brought the main dish, a stew of chicken with black olives and preserved lemons. “Thank you, um …” Faten said, looking up.

“Mimouna,” the maid said, glancing at Larbi.

“Thank you, Mimouna,” Faten said.

“To your health,” Mimouna replied, smiling.

Larbi started to eat, periodically glancing at Faten. He was mildly satisfied to notice evidence of less-than-genteel upbringing—she had placed her knife back on the table even after using it. After a decent amount of time had been spent eating and the expected compliments had been made about the food, Larbi cleared his throat. “How old are you, my child?” he asked, affecting as gentle a tone as he could muster toward the girl.

“Nineteen,” Faten replied.

“Noura told me you're repeating this year,” he said.

Noura shot her father an exasperated look.

“That's true,” Faten said.

“I was sorry to hear that. It must have been tough.”

Noura slammed her fork on the side of her plate and dropped her chin in her hand. She stared at her father angrily.

Salma intervened. “And are you from Rabat?” she asked Faten in a pleasant tone.

“I was born here, but I grew up in Agadir. I've been back only four years now.”

“So where do your parents live?” asked Larbi.

“I live with my mother.” Faten's voice dropped an octave. “In Douar Lhajja.”

Salma picked up the bread basket and offered it to Faten. “Have some more,” she said.

“Let me ask you something,” Larbi said. “If someone offered you a chance to study in New York, would you take it?”

“Not again,” Noura sighed. Yet she seemed interested in what her friend would say, for she turned and waited for an answer.

Faten blinked. “No one is offering me anything.”

“But if someone did.”

“I would want to know why they made the offer. No one gives anything for free. That is the trouble with some of our youths.”

Larbi felt a lecture coming from Faten, and so he called the maid to ask for more water. Mimouna brought another bottle of water and refilled Faten's glass, but she left without refilling Larbi's. “What do you plan to do after graduation?” he asked Faten.

“I'm not sure yet. It's all in God's hands.”

“My daughter here wants to leave school, give up going to NYU, and go teach in the villages.”

Faten smiled with approbation. “She will do a lot of good.”

“Don't you think that a degree from abroad would be better for her?”

“No, I don't. I think it's a shame that we always value foreign degrees over ours. We're so blinded by our love for the West that we're willing to give them our brightest instead of keeping them here where we need them.”

“If you think teaching middle school is so good, why don't you join Noura?” Larbi asked.

“I may well do that,” Faten said cheerfully, “although, to tell the truth, I'm not very good with children.” The dismissive wave of her hand as she spoke made Larbi's heart sink. He was losing control of his daughter to this girl, who didn't even seem to care enough to want to go with her. Faten pushed her plate away. “You must be so proud,” she said. Of all the things she could have said, this made Larbi angriest. He didn't say anything for the rest of the meal, rudely getting up from the table before the tea was served.

He was outside smoking cigarettes when Salma slid the glass doors open and joined him on the terrace. She sat on the wrought-iron chair next to him, and they stared at the blooming jacaranda trees that lined the far end of the backyard. Salma spoke at last. “What are you going to do
about this?” There was a hint of accusation in her tone that made Larbi want to scream.

“
Now
you want something done?” he asked.

“I didn't know it was going to get to this.”

Larbi pulled on his cigarette. “What do you think I should do, then, a lalla?”

“I don't know. Just do something,” Salma said.

He didn't have the heart to tell her that he'd already asked Si Tawfiq for help, and that his friend had said there were no police records on Faten. She was a member of the Islamic Student Organization, but the investigation hadn't turned up anything illegal. Tawfiq said he'd keep an eye on her. All they could do now was wait.

M
ONTHS WENT BY
. Exam season was a busy time at the Ministry, so when Si Raouf rang the doorbell at the house, Larbi thought it was because of some work matter and he hoped to settle it fast and have him leave before the subject of Noura came up. Larbi knew Si Raouf from his days as an education inspector. Raouf had been a schoolteacher, but eventually he had finished his Ph.D. and now he was a lecturer at Noura's college. Today Raouf had the exhausted look he always had this time of year, when he had to grade hundreds of undergraduate papers. The maid served the tea, but neither man touched his glass.

“It's Noura, Si Larbi,” Raouf said, his eyes looking intermittently away, his voice tinged with nervousness. “She passed a note to someone.”

Larbi felt his stomach tighten. “I-I don't understand,” he whispered.

“One of the students—Faten Khatibi is her name—she passed a paper to Noura with questions and Noura sent her back the answers.”

“She cheated?” Salma sounded incredulous.

“She helped someone cheat,” Raouf said, in an effort to lessen the blow. “This is grounds for expulsion. But we're friends, and I thought I'd warn you. If it happens again with another proctor, there could be a problem.”

Larbi walked the professor out. Then he turned around, marched to Noura's room, and flung open the door without knocking. Noura was at her desk. He grabbed her by the arm. She stood.

“Cheating at the exams? This is how you repay us after all the sacrifices we've made for you?” Larbi said.