Hope & Other Dangerous Pursuits (6 page)

For days after he beat Halima, Maati would sulk. Hours would go by, she'd wait for him to apologize or at least speak to her; but he never did, and she'd give up waiting
and end up trying to console him, as though
he
were the one who'd been beaten. But tonight he came home with an apologetic look on his face. He let her sit on the divan with the children and took a car seat for himself, then served the tea. Halima watched as he ate his rghaif, finishing each one in only three bites. One thing that could be said for him was that he had a healthy appetite. If only he'd help out instead of drinking his money and eating hers. “These are delicious,” he said, a smile on his face.

After dinner Halima cleared the table and sent the children to play outside. She was at the kitchen sink when Maati came up behind her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. He kissed her neck and she felt it burn with heat. He still had that effect on her, even after ten years of marriage. When they had met at a neighbor's wedding, she'd immediately been attracted to his magnetic eyes, to his body, so thin yet full of pent-up energy. They had married only weeks later and had three children in four years before Halima went to the family planning clinic and got the Pill.

“Leave the dishes,” he said. “You can do them later.” He pulled her away from the sink, his hand on her wrist, and took her back to the courtyard, where they sat down on the divan. His skin felt softer than hers, yet his fingers
had left a mark on her wrist where he had pulled her. He leaned in and kissed her palm. I shouldn't have doubted my mother, Halima thought. The powder is working.

T
HE NEXT DAY
, Halima was waiting for the bus that would take her to the fish market at the Casablanca port, when she spotted a crisp fifty-dirham bill on the dusty sidewalk. What luck! That same morning, Maati had promised her he'd stop drinking and now this. When she got on the bus the attendant said he had an extra ticket that someone had bought by mistake and she could have it for ten rials. She smiled and put the ticket in her wallet. She found a seat by the window and looked at the outside world through the smudged glass. Buildings with peeling walls and satellite dishes flashed by, occasionally interrupted by palm trees.

At the market entrance, a one-eyed man in a dark brown jellaba sat on the ground, holding out his hand. He was so old that he could barely call out to passersby, his frail voice reaching only a few feet away. Halima looked through her wallet for some coins and gave them to him.

Along the lane, vendors in blue lab coats praised the freshness of their wares and their low prices. Halima
stepped over the rivulets of fish scales and water that flowed between the stalls. Once a week she tried to break from the monotony of couscous, bean soups, and fritters that she could afford to feed the children by buying cheap fish. Ordinarily she would buy sardines or mackerel, but today she was in a mood to splurge, so after haggling with one of the vendors, she bought a large white fish for making a tagine.

While she worked on lunch, Halima found herself humming with Farid El-Atrache while he sang “Wayak” on the radio. She cleaned the fish over the sink, then cooked it in tomato and lemon sauce. The table was set, but Maati still wasn't home. She stood in her kitchen, trying to decide what to do. If she served the tagine now, the food would be cold by the time he got home and he might be upset. If she waited, the children would be late for school and he might still be upset. She hated these impossible choices that he forced her to make every day. She watched the clock with increasing anxiety, but soon she heard the creaking of the front door and grabbed the tagine and brought it out.

Maati sat cross-legged on the low divan, rubbing his hands together at the lemony smell emanating from the funnel-shape pot. The children sat around the table, and Halima took her seat, completing the circle. Maati cut the
best pieces of fish and put them on the children's side of the communal dish. After getting a taste he said, “May God grant you health. This is excellent.”

“To your health,” she replied.

“The teacher said we need to buy a new history book,” Farid said.

“Again?” Halima replied.

“Last time it was a grammar book, Mama,” Farid said, rolling his eyes. Halima didn't know much about grammar or history, having taken only literacy classes, but she didn't like his tone.

“Tell her we'll buy it next week,” Maati said. He tapped the boy's head, leaving a sticky imprint of fish sauce on it. Just a month earlier, Mouna had been unable to go with the rest of her class on a field trip to the Roman ruins at Volubilis, near Meknès. Halima knew that, despite his good intentions, Maati would not keep his promise to their child.

After the children had gone back to school, Maati and Halima settled down for tea. He was quiet today, but she didn't mind. She sat back on the divan, enjoying her drink. Maati finished his tea, then lay down to take a nap. “Aren't you going back to work?” she asked.

His eyes shifted. “The boss fired me.”

Halima's heart jumped in her chest. She sat up. “Why?” she asked, even though she already knew that it must have been because he'd been caught drinking. She felt sorry for him, but disgust overcame pity. “Did you think Si Hussein would just let it slide?” Maati wrapped his arm across his forehead, shielding his eyes from her stare. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

“I'll find something else,” he said. His tone was confident, but he turned his face away from her.

Halima glared at her husband. Mimicking his voice, she groaned, “I'll save money, I'll buy my own cab, I'll get us out of Zenata one day, you'll see.” Maati took his arm off his eyes and looked at her. Halima stopped impersonating him. Still, she continued, “And all for what? We'll be stuck here till the day we die. Soon we'll be begging at the door of the mosque on Fridays.” She looked down at her tattered slippers. She was sliding her feet into them to get up, so she didn't see his hand reach out—only felt it when it hit her face and knocked her to the side, the air suddenly out of her lungs. She jumped up to get away, but he kicked her so hard that his shoe flew over her head. She landed on her knees, her chin hitting the floor, her teeth shaking in her mouth. She threw his shoe back at him, pushed herself up on her hands, and ran out of his reach,
locking herself up in the tiny water closet, as she usually did when they fought. She saw her face in the mirror. Maati's hand hadn't quite landed on her cheek, but there were clear imprints on the side of her neck and jaw. She gripped the side of the sink and let out a long, rasping cry.

She was still in the bathroom when Maati stormed out, slamming the door behind him. She waited for a while to make sure he was gone before coming out and getting a turtleneck to wear under her dress. Maati had already been giving her less and less for running the household. She spent her afternoons in her courtyard, bent on her marma, working on fancy scarves for socialites or bed sheets for brides. Now that Maati had lost his job she knew he'd turn to her for beer money. She let her head drop onto her knees. How did it get to this? Where was the man she'd married? He had been full of promise and energy and ambition, but now he was lazy and angry, ranting at the taxes that cut through his profits, at the customers who didn't leave him tips, at the other drivers for not covering for him when he slipped out to drink.

She wiped her face with her hands, feeling for the welts that were already forming. Lifting her housedress, she looked for the scar from the last beating, when Maati had cut her calf with his belt buckle. Now that the cut had
healed, it had the shape of lips, as though he had merely kissed her leg and left a mark. She scratched the skin around it and pulled her sock up.

H
ALIMA WAITED FOR
the bus that would take her to the judge's house in Anfa, a posh seaside neighborhood in Casablanca. Taking a new route made her anxious, and she stood rigidly at the stop, occasionally leaning forward to see if she could catch a glimpse of the bus making the turn onto Place Mohammed V. She wore a light green jellaba and her hair, cut short a few weeks earlier, fluttered in the breeze. She held on tightly to her purse. She'd never had that much money on her. Before leaving her mother's house she had counted the money her brothers had sent when she'd told them she had started her divorce proceedings. She'd snapped each bill between her thumb and forefinger and put them in the envelope that was now tucked in the inner compartment of her handbag.

The smell of rubber and exhaust permeated the air. Near the bus stop a group of day workers squatted, cigarettes between their yellowed fingers, chatting under a cloud of blue smoke. A barber had just rolled up his metal curtain, and now he splashed water on the sidewalk in front of his shop in a futile attempt to get rid of the dust.
Finally an old bus, its front bumper hanging loose, roared up in a billowing cloud of black smoke.

Halima climbed on. The ride would be nearly an hour long, with many stops along the way, but she sat with her back straight, ready to get up at the slightest sign of trouble. A song was playing on the radio, its melody competing with the static from the loudspeakers. She recognized the lyrics to “Fakarouni,” by Oum Kalsoum. She willed herself to tune out the music.

The bus stopped near a hospital and a motley group of passengers, beggars, and vendors came on. The last to board was a thin, wiry-haired man who walked slowly down the aisle, holding the handles of each seat as he advanced to the center of the bus. He lifted his shirt, revealing a square pouch taped to his abdomen. The liquid inside looked like urine. He turned around to let everyone have a look. Several people gasped. The man raised a finger upward and recited his complaint in a clear, loud voice.

“Sons of Adam,” he said, “this is what God has written for me.” He opened the belt that held the pouch in place and showed the healing hole in his stomach. “See what I have to endure every day and thank your God and mine that you don't have to suffer as I do.” Nods and
clicks of the tongue acknowledged his declaration. “Whoever can help me pay for my hospital bills, may God provide for him, may God open the gates of heaven to him, may God bless him with children, may God protect him from the evil eye …” and on he continued with his litany of prayers. Soon hands sprang up, some with coins, some with bills, and the man stopped praying and walked around to collect the offerings.

When he passed Halima's seat he held out his empty palm to her. It had flecks of red paint on it, stuck there from when he'd grabbed the peeling handles of the seats. Looking away from him, she said, “God help us all.” The man moved on to willing donors, leaving a trail of hospital smell behind him.

The bus was getting closer to Anfa. Halima held her purse even closer to her side and kept watching for her stop. She stood up as soon as she saw it and got out. Her feet had swelled from the heat, and her blue plastic sandals made creaky noises with every step that brought her closer to the house.

Eventually she found the villa. It was a white stucco building with red Mediterranean tile outlining the roof and windows. It had a well-groomed lawn, a lacquered wood gate, and a fancy doorbell, which Halima rang. A
maid, barely a teenager, came to answer. Halima told her she was there to see the judge. The maid gave her a knowing look and told her to wait in the yard. Halima preferred to stay outside. She didn't know whether the judge was married, whether his wife was at home. She wanted to avoid even the appearance of impropriety. So she sat on the doorstep and waited.

The judge appeared at the door. His face was puffy, but his small eyes commanded attention. He peeked out at the street as if he was looking for someone else, then said, “Come inside the yard, don't stand there.” Halima was too intimidated to say no. She followed the judge, who waddled inside, his crisp, white jellaba tight around his flabby chest.

“Did you bring the money?” he asked. Halima nodded. With trembling hands, she opened her purse and handed him the envelope. The judge took out the stack of bills and started counting them. He looked inside the envelope again before giving it back to her, then slipped the bills inside the pocket of his seroual. “Next time, don't bring small bills.”

Halima swallowed hard. She didn't like his reference to next time. The judge readjusted his jellaba and told her not to worry. “Be on time at the hearing. You'll get your
divorce this week.” He tapped her back and she realized it was over and he was pushing her toward the door. Suddenly she wished the exchange of money had taken a little longer. Tarik and Abdelkrim had worked so hard to save it and she had waited so long for it and now it was gone. She stumbled and held on to the gate but didn't step out. What if he didn't give her custody? she wondered. She turned around. Why did she give him the money all at once? She could have given him half and promised him the rest after he'd granted her the divorce and custody. Why didn't she think of that earlier? “Wait,” she said.

The judge's face, which moments earlier had looked mild if not benevolent, now was menacing. “What?”

“The children,” she said.

He frowned. He seemed on the verge of saying something, then decided against it.

“How do I know you're going to keep your word?” Halima's heart beat so fast in her chest that it seemed to her she could hear it in her ears, on her temples, in her hands. “Give me back my money.”

The judge looked offended. “I know your type,” he said. He put his palm on her back and pressed her toward the door. She stiffened. He withdrew his hand and looked at her with those small, challenging eyes. “Go, before I change my mind.”

Halima felt her knees tremble. A knot had formed in her throat, and she tried to swallow it. Why wouldn't he give her the children? This judge had been taking bribes for years; there was no reason to think he wouldn't come through this time. But what if he didn't? How could she trust him? She couldn't trust him, just as she couldn't trust her mother or the sorceress. “Give me back my money,” she said, her voice trembling. The judge's eyes opened wide and his lips parted in an expression that was halfway between anger and disgust. He slipped his hand in his pocket and threw the money at her. As the billfold fell to the ground, a few bank notes separated from the rest and floated down. Halima dropped to her knees and clutched them with both hands. The judge grabbed the back of her jellaba and pushed her. She drove her elbow into his gut with all the force she could gather. He bent over in pain, his arms folded over his stomach while Halima stepped outside, a fistful of bills in her hands. The gate slammed shut. Behind her, the yard was already quiet; the judge had gone back inside. She put the money away in her purse and rubbed her bottom with her hand. A Mercedes came noisily down the deserted street, its horn blaring, and the driver turned to look at her, a grin on his face. She ignored him and started walking.