Hope & Other Dangerous Pursuits by Laila Lalami

street.”
    â€œCan’t they lend you money?”
    â€œNot that kind of money.”
    â€œIt’s a very good price,” Rahal said, “We’ve never had any problems.”
    â€œAll I can get is eight thousand,” Murad said, even as he wondered how he was going to convince his uncle and his sister to let him borrow the sum.
    Rahal chuckled. “This isn’t some game. We’re taking a lot of risk here.” He refilled his glass of tea. “We have Zodiac lifeboats, not like the pateras the others use.”
    Murad called to mind the sunken fishing boats the Guardia Civil stacked on the Spanish coast, plainly visible from the Moroccan side. They thought it would scare people. It didn’t.
    â€œTen thousand,” Murad said.
    â€œLa wah, la wah. I can’t do it for that little.”
    â€œYou think ten thousand is little?”
    â€œI don’t get all of it. I have to pay for the fuel, don’t forget. And then there’s the police. I have to grease them.” Rahal turned the extra sugar between his fingers. With a swift movement he put it in his pocket. “Let me tell you something. You know Rashid the baker? His brother went on one of our boats about eight months ago. Now he’s in Barcelona and he sends his family money every month.”
    Murad never tired of hearing stories like that. He’d heard the horror stories, too—about the drownings, the arrests, the deportations—but the only ones that were told over and over in the neighborhood were the good stories, about the people who’d made it. Last year Rashid’s brother had been just another unemployed youth, a kid who liked to smoke hashish and build weird-lookingsculptures with discarded matchboxes, which he then tried to sell off as art. Look at him now. Murad took a deep breath. “Twelve thousand. And that’s it,” he said at last. “By God, I won’t be able to get any more out of them.” Even though Murad talked about “them,” he knew Lamya wouldn’t give him a single rial. For one thing, she now had a wedding coming up; for another, he couldn’t imagine asking his little sister for help. But it would be different with his uncle. He would talk to him, man to man, and ask for a loan. Surely the old man wouldn’t say no, not after having slighted Murad on the wedding of his sister.
    â€œIf you make it twenty thousand, I’ll get you a job. Guaranteed. Like Rashid’s brother.”
    Murad sighed. “Fine,” he said.
    â€œBut listen here. People back out. I don’t want to waste my time.”
    â€œI’m not the type to back out.”
    Rahal took a sip. “Good. When the time comes, we’ll call you. We’ll meet on the beach at Bab al Oued.”
    â€œWhen do we leave?”
    â€œWhen can you get me the money?”
    Murad looked away. “Soon,” he said.
    A FTER LEAVING THE Café La Liberté, Murad headed back toward the beach. He found a spot near the Casbah where he could get a view of the Mediterranean. It was getting dark. In the distance, car lights from the Spanish side looked like so many tiny lighthouses, beacons that warned visitors to keep out. He thought about the work visas he’d asked for. For the last several years, the quotas had filled quickly and he’d been turned down. He knew, in his heart, that if only he could get a job, he would make it, he would be successful, like his sister was today, like his younger brothers would be someday. His mother wouldn’t dream of discounting his opinion the way she did. And Spain was so close, just across the Straits.
    He started walking through the Socco. He saw a few tourists wandering down the market. He couldn’t understand these foreigners. They could go to a nice hotel, have a clean bed, go to the beach or the pool, and here they were in the worst part of town, looking around for something exotic. He thought of