Hope & Other Dangerous Pursuits (14 page)

“You look thinner,” his mother said. She herself seemed to have shrunk, and her shoulders stooped. Of course, he told himself, it's been a few years, it's normal. “And your skin is lighter,” she added. Aziz didn't know what to say to this, so he just kept smiling as he held her wrinkled hand in his.

Zohra came back with the tea tray. Aziz sat up. She was still very beautiful, he thought. When she gave him his glass of hot tea, he noticed that her hands seemed to have aged a lot faster than the rest of her, the skin rough and dry. Her knuckles were swollen and red. He felt a twinge of guilt. Perhaps the money he had sent hadn't been enough and she'd had to work harder than he thought to make ends meet. But it hadn't been easy for him, either. He took a sip.

“Let me show you what I brought for you,” he said. He put down his glass and went to open the suitcase. He took
out the fabric he brought his mother, the dresses for Zohra, the creams, the perfumes. The two women oohed and aahed over everything.

When he took out the portable sewing machine, Zohra looked at it with surprise. “I bought one last year,” she said. She pointed to the old Singer that lay in a corner of the room.

“This one is electric,” he said proudly. “I'll install it for you. You'll see how much faster it is.”

WITHIN AN HOUR
of his arrival, a stream of visitors poured in to see Aziz. The tiny apartment was filled with people, and Zohra kept shuttling between the kitchen and the living room to refill the teapot and the plate of halwa.

“Tell us,” someone said, “what's Spain like?”

“Who cooks for you?” asked another.

“Do you have a car?” asked a third.

Aziz talked about Madrid and how it could get cold in the winter, the rain licking your windows for days on end. He also talked about the Plaza Neptuno, near the Prado, where he liked to wander on summer days, watching the tourists, the vendors, and the pigeons. He spoke of his job at the restaurant and how his manager liked him enough
to move him from dishwashing to busing tables. He described the apartment in Lavapiés, where he lived with two other immigrants. They took turns cooking.

“Did you make friends?” someone asked.

“Some,” Aziz said. He mentioned his neighbor, who had always been kind to him, and his boss at the restaurant. But he didn't talk about the time when he was in El Corte Ingles shopping for a jacket and the guard followed him around as if he were a criminal. He didn't describe how, at the grocery store, cashiers greeted customers with hellos and thank yous, but their eyes always gazed past him as though he were invisible, nor did he mention the constant identity checks that the police had performed these last two years.

Zohra's mother, who lived down the street, had also dropped by, and she sat quietly through all the conversations. Finally she asked, “Why would you work there while your wife is here?” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. Aziz looked at Zohra. He wanted to talk to her about this, but they hadn't had any time to themselves yet. He cleared his throat and refilled his mother-in-law's glass.

“Where is Lahcen?” Aziz asked. “I thought he'd be here by now.” He and Lahcen had exchanged letters in the beginning,
but as time went by, they had lost touch. Aziz had received the last postcard from Lahcen two years earlier.

“He's moved to Marrakesh,” Zohra said. “Everyone has mobile phones now, so he couldn't sell phone cards anymore.”

A
FTER THE GUESTS
left, Aziz's mother went to spend the night with the neighbors next door so that he and Zohra could have the apartment to themselves. Aziz stepped into the bedroom to change into a T-shirt and sweats. He sat at the edge of the bed and looked around. There was a faded picture of him tucked in a corner of the mirror on the old armoire and a framed one, of the two of them on their wedding day, hanging on the wall by the door. Under him, the mattress felt hard. He bobbed on it and the springs responded with a loud creaking.

Zohra busied herself for a while in the kitchen before finally turning off the lights and coming into the bedroom. She had been talkative and excited during the day, but now she seemed quiet, shy, even. Aziz sat back against the pillow and crossed his legs.

“You must be tired,” Zohra said, her eyes shifting.

“I'm not sleepy yet,” Aziz said.

Zohra looked ahead of her, at the street lights outside.

“I have something to tell you,” he said. He swallowed hard. Zohra looked at him intently. “I have some savings. But …” He swallowed again. “I don't think it's enough.”

Zohra sat on the edge of the bed. “How much?” she asked, a look of apprehension on her face.

“Fifty thousand dirhams,” he said. “It could have been more, but the first year was tough.”

Zohra reached over and took his hand in hers. “I know it was.”

“There was the rent. And the lawyer's fees to get the papers. And the money I had to send every month.”

“Fifty thousand is a lot. You could use that for a start. Maybe start a business?”

Aziz shook his head. “It's not enough.”

“Why not?”

“That would barely cover the lease for a year. Then there's inventory and maintenance.” Aziz shook his head. “Not to mention all the papers.” He thought of the lines he had seen in government offices, people waiting to bribe an official to push their paperwork through.

“So what are we going to do?” Zohra said.

“Go back to Spain,” Aziz said, looking down. His wife had sacrificed so much already. Her parents had only
agreed to let her marry him because they thought that at the age of twenty-four it was better for her to be married to someone who was jobless than to stay single. She had stood by and helped him save for the trip, waited for him, but at least now she wouldn't have to wait any longer. “And I've started your paperwork, so you will be able to join me before long, insha'llah.”

Zohra let go of his hand. She nodded. Then she stood up and turned off the light. He heard her take off her housedress and get on the bed, where she lay on her side. When he got closer, she stayed still, her knees to her chest. He moved back to his side of the bed and tried to sleep.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, Aziz was startled out of his slumber at five by the sound of the muezzins all over the city. He lifted his head off the pillow for a few seconds before letting it rest again and, eyes closed, listened to them. In Spain he missed the calls for prayers, which punctuated everything here. He smiled and fell back to sleep. Later the sound of cars and trucks whizzing by the industrial street a few blocks away from the apartment did not wake him. But the smell of the rghaif Zohra was making was too much to ignore, and he finally got out of bed around nine.

When he came out his mother was sitting on the divan in the living room, looking regal and aloof. He kissed the back of her hand, and in response she said, “May God be pleased with you.” Zohra entered the living room and, seeing him there, went back to the kitchen to get the tray of food. She placed the communal plate in the middle of the table, pushing it a little closer to Aziz. She poured and passed the tea around. Then she brought a glass of water and a pill for Aziz's mother.

“What's the pill for?” Aziz asked.

“Blood pressure,” Zohra said. She sat down and started eating.

“I didn't know.” He struggled to think of something else to say. “The rghaif are delicious.”

“To your health,” she replied.

He chewed in earnest, relieved that, with his mouth full, he couldn't say anything. Fortunately a knock on the door provided some distraction. A little girl came rushing in without waiting to be let in. She looked about six years old. Her hair was in pigtails and her blue pants were ripped at the knees.

“Who is she?” Aziz asked his mother.

“Meriem, the neighbors' kid. She's always here.”

The child jumped into Zohra's arms, and Zohra laughed
and planted loud pecks on her cheeks. “Do you want something to eat?” Zohra asked. She sat the child on her lap and handed her a rolled rghifa, dipped in melted butter and honey. She smoothed her hair and tightened her pigtails. Later Zohra took Meriem to the kitchen, and when they emerged the little girl was holding a wooden tray loaded with fresh dough on her head. She was taking it to the neighborhood public oven. “May God be pleased with you,” Zohra said as Meriem left. Zohra sat down again. “Isn't she sweet?” she said. Aziz nodded.

They finished breakfast. Zohra cleared the table and then announced that they had been invited to have lunch at her sister Samira's house, down in Zenata. She went to the bedroom to get her jellaba and slid it over her house-dress. She stood facing him now. “If I go to Spain with you, who will take care of your mother?” she asked.

“My sisters,” Aziz said, waving his hand. “She can go live with them. You've done more than enough.” Aziz was the youngest in his family, and the responsibility for his mother would normally have gone to her daughters or to her firstborn, and he was neither.

Zohra nodded. Then she drew her breath and added, “But I don't speak Spanish.”

“You'll learn. Just like I did.”

“Couldn't you just stay here?”

Aziz shook his head. His lips felt dry and he wet them with his tongue. “We can talk about it later,” he said.

T
HEY TOOK THE BUS
to Samira's house. Aziz sat by a window and looked at the streets passing by. New buildings had sprung up everywhere, squat apartment houses with tiny windows that had been outlined with Mediterranean tile, in a futile attempt to render them more appealing. Internet cafés were now interspersed with tailor shops and hairdressers. He was startled away from the window when a bus coming in the other direction passed by, only inches away. Car horns blared from everywhere and motorcyclists barely slowed down at intersections.

They got off the bus and started walking. The smell of burned rubber made Aziz's nose feel stuffy. “Do you smell that?” he asked. Zohra shook her head. “It's a strong odor,” he said. She shrugged. They passed a school and Aziz saw children playing a game of football on the grounds. It reminded him of his own childhood and he smiled. They arrived a little after the midday prayer. Samira answered the door, and Aziz was shocked to see her hair fully covered in one of those Islamic scarves that
had seemed to multiply since he left. Collecting himself, he leaned over to give her a hug, but she stepped back from him and said, “Welcome, welcome.”

Aziz straightened up. Unfazed, Zohra stepped in and took off her jellaba. They sat down on the foam-stuffed divan, and Mounir, Samira's husband, appeared. Aziz kept looking at Samira. Finally he asked, “When did you put on the hijab?”

“Two years ago,” she said, “by the grace of God.”

“Why?” Aziz asked.

“Because that is the right way,” Zohra answered

Why was Zohra defending her? Aziz sat back. “So that means
you
are on the wrong path?” he asked her. Zohra shot him a look that said stop it. He pretended not to notice. “Well?”

Samira tilted her head. “May God put us all on the righteous path. Amen.” She got up and started setting the table for lunch.

“How long will you be staying?” Mounir asked.

“Only ten days,” Aziz said.

“He's going back again for a while,” Zohra said.

Samira brought the plate of couscous. “You should go with him,” she said. “Husbands and wives belong together.”

Aziz watched for Zohra's reaction. Perhaps her own sister could convince her better than he could.

“I don't know if that's the life for me,” Zohra said. But her tone was weak, and Aziz could see that her sister had planted a seed that he could cultivate until he convinced her.

T
HAT NIGHT
Z
OHRA
came into the bedroom and turned off the light. But this time, when Aziz reached for her, she didn't turn away. He took her into his arms. It felt strange to be making love to her again. He had forgotten how small she was, and while he was on top of her he worried that his weight might be too much, so he supported himself on his forearms. Being with her brought to mind the women he had slept with while he was gone. He was ashamed to have cheated, but, he reasoned, he had been lonely and he was only human. He told himself that he had never intended to cheat on her, that the women he had slept with had meant nothing to him, just as, he was sure, he'd meant nothing to them. Now he wondered what his wife would look like in a sexy bustier, straddling him, her arms up in the air, moaning her pleasure out loud. He couldn't imagine Zohra doing it. But maybe she would, if he asked her. He came out of her and put his
arm under her so he could scoop her up and put her on top of him, but she raised her head and gripped his arms in panic. Her eyes questioned him. He entered her again and resumed their lovemaking. When it was over and he lay in the dark, he wondered what had been on her mind. He feared that it was only one thing. He had seen how she had looked at the neighbor's child and he wondered if he should have stayed away from her tonight. He told himself that he'd have to use a condom next time. He didn't want to risk having children yet, not like this, not when they had to wait for her paperwork, not until he could support a family. He lay on the bed, unable to sleep.

A
FEW DAYS LATER
Aziz went to visit his father's grave. Zohra led the way, walking swiftly among the rows of white headstones gleaming in the morning light. She stopped abruptly in front of one. Aziz's father's name, Abderrahman Ammor, was carved on it, followed by the prayer of the dead:
“O serene soul! Return to your Lord, joyful and pleasing in His sight. Join My followers and enter My paradise.”
The date of his death followed: 27 Ramadan 1420.

Aziz recalled one day in 2000 when a letter had arrived announcing that his father had passed away. Zohra didn't
have a telephone, so he had called the grocer and asked that someone get her. He had called back fifteen minutes later, but there was oddly little to say. By then his father has already been dead a month, and the event carried no urgency. He felt a great deal of shame at not being able to cry. In Madrid, life went on, and his grief, having no anchor, seemed never to materialize. Now he found it hard to conjure it on demand.