Hope & Other Dangerous Pursuits by Laila Lalami Page B

by the time the afternoon prayer was called she’d get up and go home. Sometimes, when she couldn’t get a job, when the sun beat down on her until she thought her head would whistle like a kettle, she grew angry with Farid. Why had he saved her? Why had he saved any of them? There wasn’t any point in living when all you could do was survive.
    Then one day she managed to get one of the vendors, who’d cleared most of his cart by lunchtime, to give her his leftover ears of corn. She planned to barbecue them for dinner. She was fanning the fire with the rabuz when someone knocked at the door. Maati was standing on herdoorstep, his body filling the narrow frame. His shirt was open to his chest, displaying hair that had started to go white. His eyes were bloodshot. Halima turned on her heel, scanned the room, trying to figure out where she could hide in such a small place. But Maati grabbed her wrist and, without moving, swung her back toward him. She bit her lip, steeled herself for the blow. But Maati didn’t hit her. Instead, he stuffed a piece of paper in her hand. “If this is all you wanted,” he said, “now you have it.” And, as if to punctuate his declaration, he spit on her. The phlegm landed on her shirt, but all Halima could see was the divorce paper, with the elegant penmanship and unmistakable signature of the ‘aduls at the bottom. He turned around and left.
    Halima stood, stunned. The fear that had knotted her stomach at the sight of her now ex-husband subsided, and in its stead she felt the rush of blood to her temples. This feeling of elation was entirely new to her. She had tried everything to get this piece of paper, and when she least expected it, it had been delivered right to her doorstep. What had changed Maati’s mind? From her mother, Halima had heard that barely a month after she’d run away, Maati had tried to marry again, but the girl’s parents had heard about what happened to Halima andturned him down. Maybe he wanted to erase her from his life and start again with someone else. But then she remembered the long train ride from Tangier back to Casablanca, when Farid had turned to her and said, “I wish Baba had divorced you the first time you asked.” She’d chuckled at his comment, ruffled his hair with her hand, and turned to look at the scenery outside. Now she folded the sheet of paper carefully and slipped it inside her purse. Her hands still trembling, she put a kettle on the mijmar and made herself a pot of tea. Farid’s wish had been granted. She had her divorce. She sat, her chin resting on her hand, thinking about what it meant. And she remembered the bleeding tree.
    When Halima was five years old, her mother had come home from the market, excited about the news she had heard: There was a bleeding tree, a holy tree, in Rabat. She’d packed their lunch and they’d taken the train to the capital, riding in the fourth-class cabin, where farmers sat on wooden benches, chatting over their bags, their crates, and their chickens. It was Halima’s first trip to the city, and she was disappointed by the quiet streets, the groomed lawns in front of government buildings. The bleeding tree stood in a sparsely planted lot across from the flower market, a few steps away from the police station. A dozenpeople were there already, some sitting, some standing. From them, Halima and her mother heard the story of the tree. A developer had planned on tearing it down in order to make room for a high-rise, but when the workers tried to fell it, it started bleeding. The pilgrims showed up soon after, some collecting the blood-red liquid for use in concoctions, others using the site as a prayer area. Work had to be halted. Today, someone said, the city had dispatched a scientist to tell people that there was no miracle.
    Halima and her mother maneuvered their way to the front line of the crowd, where they could get a better view of the