Hope and Other Dangerous Pursuits by Lalami Laila

Author:Lalami, Laila [Lalami, Laila]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2005-10-07T04:00:00+00:00

Better Luck Tomorrow

WHEN THE AFTERNOON FERRY let out the tourists in Tangier, the guides swooped down on them. They darted from one passenger to the next, offering tours of the medinas and the museums, the palaces and the bazaars. But Murad Idrissi had a different approach. This was his line: “Interested in Paul Bowles?” And it usually worked, especially with the hippie types. Even though the writer had died a few months ago, he could still take the tourists to the house where he had lived, the cafés he’d gone to, the places where he’d bought his kif. These days, though, the guides outnumbered the tourists and Murad found little work.

He watched carefully as passengers got off the Spanish ferry before he set his sights on a couple. The woman wore a T-shirt and cargo pants; her companion was in a baseball cap and green shorts. The backpacks they carried gave them a forward-leaning gait, but they walked swiftly on the dock. They seemed to be in their late twenties, which wasn’t Murad’s preferred age range for that line—it usually worked better with older people. Still, he figured they were British or American and would be familiar with Bowles, and the way things had been lately, he couldn’t afford to be picky.

They avoided eye contact when he walked up to them, but he recited his line with a suave smile. “Interested in Paul Bowles?” A fleeting expression of surprise lit their faces, but they stepped aside. Shit. Maybe they weren’t American. “¿Hablán español?” Murad asked. No answer. Another guide slipped between Murad and the tourists. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” he asked. Murad shot the guy a look that said, I saw them first, get the hell away from them. The couple walked on, so Murad followed. In the mesh pocket of the woman’s backpack he saw a book. He craned his neck sideways to read the title: Backpacking in Morocco. So he was right, they were probably Anglos.

Years ago, when he was still studying for his bachelor’s in English, he would go to the American Language Center on Zankat Ibn Mouaz and sit in the library and read all the books he could get his hands on. He loved reading, loved the feel of the paper under his fingers, the way the words rolled off his tongue, how they made him discover things he didn’t know about himself.

Murad caught up to the couple at the entrance of the ferry terminal. He willed his voice to ring with confidence as he said, “My name is Murad. Welcome to Morocco! Would you like to visit Paul Bowles’s house?”

“No, thanks,” the woman said.

An answer at last. There was hope yet. So they weren’t interested in Bowles. Well, Murad didn’t care much for him either. “Do you want to see Barbara Hutton’s palace?” he asked.

“Who’s he talking about?” the man asked. From their accent Murad could tell that they were American, not British, as he’d assumed.

“The Woolworth heiress, Jack,” the woman said.

Murad realized he had

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