by Susan Abraham
Introduction:
There is no doubt that Moroccan-American writer Laila Lalami, one of Morocco‘s newer writers in the post-modern age for Middle-Eastern literature in the West, creates a stunning cinematic effect with her new 291-page novel, Secret Son, (Viking, Penguin England/13.99 euros).
It is a strange, sad book – one designed to puppet an intriguing interplay of engimatic characters; brooding and resolute in their search for essential truths. These to be defined by cultural complications in frail human relationships, which hint at mismatched triumphs over fatal vulnerabilities in both uptown Casablanca and an accompanying neglected backyard slum, Hay An Najat.
With an illegitimate son about to make known his explosive secret, the lone sentence will serve as catalyst for a cautious plot, aimed at triggering a surreal displacement of the self and the unravelling of family secrets – the latter, representing a scattered jigsaw, that may never own the luxury of being put back together by the King’s men again. This, no matter the tried wisdom of conservative Islamic philosophies, a stern North African masculine pride or the blunt common sense approach, often prevalent and held endearing among Middle-Eastern ladies.
Besides, somewhere in the dark skeletons that hound the closet, there also lingers a plan for a brutal assasination.
In the former context, I am reminded of Pearl S. Buck‘s 1968 novel, The New Year which discussed the lengthy pensive introspection of an upcoming American politican who having since remarried, discovers to his shock – at the wrong time in his life – a Korean son who after much rational thought and a sagacious application to his own spirit, returns the son to the United States to be reunited with fresh familial ties.
The tone of the novel is warm, forgiving and welcoming towards the character’s forgotten sin. The outlook for a theme proved optimistic and hopeful. Still, this was the moment of a parent’s soul-searching as its injured past lay imbued in misgivings and reluctant candour.
I am a great one for Buck’s stories having devoured the majority of her ancient tales with judicious intensity – some, long out of print – and still recalling a splendid showcase. I am glad this came to mind.
In Secret Son, Lailaimi gives us mostly the son’s outrage, his desperate bewilderment and eager longing for a father’s runaway love which will result in ridiculous if not outlandish decisions at the best of times.
Analysis:
In their grim unassuming way, the opening chapters are crafted to valuable picturesque detail as Lailami lays bare an obvious poverty that shrouds the life of Youssef El Mekki, a teenager brought up by his tenacious single mother, a hospital clerk. Lailami makes no bones about the fact that her protagonist dwells in a dreary estate that even the City Council would brush off with vigour. Later in the book, his address will work against him when Youssef is faithfully turned down by Governmental positions in what the reader supposes to be, a materialistic and status-hungry Casablanca, uninterested in the poor.
Along a narrow dirt road, tin roofs cover whitewashed houses and stand together in thick chains. Youssef lives with his mother in a one-room home. Laundry, cooking and eating are conducted in the yard. A green awning runs from the kitchen corner to the front door, once blue and now rusty. Here lies a table and a divan. Upon the tin roof held together by rocks and the satellite arial, are where pigeons and droppings gather. The room is lighted by a bulb spouting a garish yellow light. There is also a televison and transistor radio. In bed late into the night, Youssef is likely to be awakened with industrious regularity by rising conversations down the alley. Come the day, walk a little way and not far from the corner, lies a heap of rubbish with its stench. (These are my own words. – s.a)
Without a doubt, this bleak landscape stays vital for a reader, bent on the steadfast grasping and analysis of Youssef’s actions later on, and failing which, the rest of the plot is poised to stay senseless.
On the upside, the scenes offer its passionate reader a hypnotic cinematic reel of comings and goings latched to hazy atmospheric encounters – the rain beating ferociously on the ground…the smells of thick bean soup…the neighbours’ blaring televison sets…the sights of potted roses and daisies urgently rescued from trash cans etc.
Again in this dreamlike sequence, I am reminded of Middle-Eastern media – a comprehensive study of it and not a fragile enthusiasm, that now turns up as necessary essential tools in helping me to effortlessly appreciate Lalami’s fiction. This, armed with my professed and ready willingness for a lingering passion with regards to Arabic cinema and literature. Take nothing for granted. There’s a science to understanding the process.
(Captions: Scenes from Mauritanian filmmaker, Abderrahmane Sissako’s Waiting for Happiness – something’s gone wrong with the light while 17-year old Abdallah who plans to emigrate to Europe, stares out wistfully from the solitary window that marks his humble one-room house. Observe the radio and bed that also doubles up as a seat.)
The taciturn, spartan prose followed the seemingly ethereal cinematography as I well remembered it in Mauritanian filmmaker Abderrahmane Sissako‘s trance-like film that studiously centred on a nation’s exile and displacement in Waiting for Happiness. In the 91-minute film shot on the tiny coastal town of Nouadhibou, the restless 17 year old Abdallah too, lived in a similar dwelling wrapped in its brooding atmosphere and listless air of resignation commonplace with eccentric characters. Abdallah too, had only his single mother for family in a tiny alleyway dwelling with similar furnishings.
When Youssef happens upon a photo of his lost father and is taken to long glimpses, I recall a Toronto Discovery Beirut film, A Perfect Day (2005) where its character Malek too, fashioned his complicated life from the agony of a father, missing from the days of the Lebanese Civil War. Malek often stared for long searching moments at the picture of his Dad as if hoping for a reprive, a solution, a happy-ever-after ending.
A practised silence is what makes up for the bulk of Arabic media.
In this segment of literature, the starched prose that paints a picture of a character’s forlorn thoughts and the abrupt decisions and actions that result without too much conversation or flamboyant movements that may otherwise tempt a warning for the reader, hallmarks the subdued personality of Secret Son.
Still, fairy tale conclusions are not to rear its idealistic head in Secret Son.
Lalami is most unlikely to have conjured up her imaginings from Campbell Soup for the Soul adjectives in the guise of heartwarming or endearing. Rather, she will encourage her themes to stay loyal to a pained realism with its vague shadows; pushing the boundaries for truths sheltered by the darkness and definitely not pretty.
There is Youssef often hanging out at either the street corner or the cinema with his childhood friends, Amin and Maati who through their eyes, ears and conversation, the reader is treated to the appropriate picture of a souless dejection. Amin studies law but thanks to an addiction with hashish, will flunk it and turn out the angry, embittered soul raging at the world in general. It doesn’t help that his crush for Sophia, a girl from a rich family will meet its dead end as she is promptly married off to another.
Youssef will make out with his first love, the arrogant Alia and meet the same tragic fate.
Through a few other examples of rich university girls who want to have fun with poor boys but marry into their own class, the reader also picks up the observation that the majority of Moroccan girls know where their bread for financial security is buttered and will seldom argue with their fathers.
Maati fails all his exams with gusto but will land himself a permanent job as a security guard for a political party’s headquarters led by the charismatic Hatim. Maati is grateful for his pay packet and may appear the adequate simpleton but there’s is always more than what meets the eye.
Youssef studies for an English degree at the university but suspects he will lose out in the long run to children with degrees from abroad or those with influential parents at expensive addresses.
After all, nothing could be more important than discovering his true identity once and for all. Also, throughout the book, the three friends will part and meet again at major turning points. All three will steer the body of the story, to the necessary relevance of beginnings and conclusions, in the creation of triumph and tragedy.
The opening chapters are fastidious in their inclination for measuring rich against poor.
In Hay An Najat, a flood filled potholes and a bus-stop sign among many other misfortunes was knocked out. Neighbourhoods were flooded and people waded knee-deep in the water to save their belongings.
The councilman climbed out of his chauffeur-driven Mercedes… He wore a blue raincoat over his pin-striped suit and eyeglasses…he opened his enormous umbrella…
At university, the many cliques are quick to label the dour Youssef , a clear misfit. Among these, are the Mercedes-and-Marlboros (wealthy student-groups), the Max-and-Lenin (intellectual) and the headscarf-and-bearded (religious) factions.
I adored Lalami’s wry humour so closely interwined into the engaging scenes and crowning episode after episode with an affable light comedy.
…one of the Mercedes-and-Marlboros called her… He watched as she caught up with the other Mercedes-and-Marlboros… and at a football game, One of the intruders, a tall boy with a dirty white shirt and frighteningly thick eyebrows, walked up to Maati… ‘So what,’ Eyebrows opened his right palm… ‘What’s the matter?’ Eyebrows, said… ‘So what are you boys going to do,’ Eyebrows continued…
And when Amin found out about Youssef’s sexual encounter with the wealthy Alia, ” he retorted with a scolding lest his friend suffered a broken heart, “What planet do you live on?” “Everyone should know the size of his teapot.”
It was a shame that Lalami would appear tight-fisted with her comic effervescence.
Still, who can complain about the gripping plot. To put all in a nutshell, Youssef will happen upon a picture of his father in the newspapers and throw a rage at his mother who always told him his father was dead from a car crash. It turns out that Youssef’s mother, Rachida was impregnated by a married man who rejected her demands. She never married but iron-willed and determined to bring up Youssef on her own, runs to the slums in the guise of a widow.
As the truth is slowly uncovered, the reader will find out that having lost her mother, the displaced Rachida is brought to an orphanage by her father, who himself came from a lineage of noble horsemen. She is brought up by Franciscan nuns.
The nuns decide on nursing for Rachida. In her first year of training as a midwife, she is asked to assist the pregnancy of Mallika, the wife of wealthy businessman Nabil Armani. Rachida goes to stay in the new household in her role as nurse. However, she embarks on a love affair with Nabil and her tysts are discovered by Nabil’s mother who is the matriach of the mansion. Rachida is at once, literally, thrown out onto the streets where she will turn soldier of her own fortune.
On hearing this, the disgusted Youssef becomes furious with his mother for her scarlet reputation. ‘A man’s honour in Morocco is easily bruised,’ sums up Rachida and how true. Youssef feels so ashamed that he doesn’ talk to his mother for weeks. His silent temper trails his everyday life, regaling in its contorted twists of pessimism and hope.
It is this shame and anger that gives him enough Dutch courage with which to pursue his businessman father, albeit being humilatied and treated askance by Nabil’s secretary. Nabil is startled but accepts Youssef congenially.
After exchanging difficult notes over lunch in an expensive restaurant, Nabil takes Youssef with him to stay in a penthouse. At lunch, we watch Youssef’s uncomfortable but never-say-die attitude. His father responds with a marked curiosity but a distant warmth.
At the Penthouse, Youssef is handed his own key and turns surrogate father with shopping trips and a tidy job offer. The tiny key meanwhile, is Youssef’s lottery ticket, his fairy godmother. Youssef celebrates his independence despite Rachida’s strong apprehension. She refuses to enter the Penthouse.
Soon, Youssef has an undying crush on his new Dad and obedience becomes the word of the day. Youssef strives in all things to earn favour with Nabil. At his father’s insistence, Youssef discards both Maati and Amin, throws away his university education that his father’s swears is ‘worth nothing’, abandons his old identity of Youssef el Mekki and embraces the new Youssef Armani with expensive trips to restaurants and boutiques. Lest, he appear callous, which reader could possibly blame Youssef after the squalor of the past.
Later, it will all fall apart of course. Nabil confesses his secret son to his daughter Amal, while visiting her with Malikka in Los Angeles. Amal is shocked but later, intrigued. Nothing comes of this. Despite an initial interest, Amal and Youssef will never meet.
While still in Morocco and before visiting Amal, Malikka had already found out about Youssef’s existence, thanks to rumours on the sly. Eventually, she calls from America and orders the locks to be changed and for Youssef to be dismissed from his job. In an effort to please his father, Youssef had proved the devoted apprentice with a five-star hotel; it was one his secret father had found him through connections. Here, we are shown that a ruthless wealth and power treat the poor like cartoon characters almost, without a second thought.
Nabil’s brothers are just as enraged. Malikka, anxious at the disruption of a capsuled family harmony, uses their fury as an excuse for her own jealousy.
Thus, although the siblings stay invisible to the plot, they are mentioned occasionally in passing. There is a fear all round that Youssef will later demand an inheritance or an important share of the business. So one day, Youssef goes to his workplace, only to find himself sacked. Not all is lost and his salary is handed him in an envelope. He also has his savings. Yet, a furious Youssef demands an explanation. He refuses to go and creates a scene. Security guards throw him onto the street.
There is further trouble ahead. On reaching his apartment, Youssef struggles with the changed locks. Luckily, the kindly doorman who had secured a few necessary belongings in of all things, a pillow case, tells the lad in no uncertain terms, that Madam Armani had wanted him out.
Youssef asks for his fashionable clothes and vast collection of books and films. The doorman shakes his head sadly. The locks have been changed and that is that.
This new turn of events, immediately reduces him back to the wanting Youssef El Mekki. He is unable to reach his father by telephone. In the same way that Nabil had once welcomed Youssef, he had now decided with family circumstances being as troublesome as they had turned out; that life would march ahead with the absent Youssef.
Youssef drags his pillow case back to the slums from where he first started. He is once more holed up in an old identity. The identity that kept him poor but guarded his footsteps and emotions. Youssef el Ekki and all his thirst for a glorious future, is gone. His angry friends feel betrayed and after a close fight with a hot-tempered Amin, a dazed wounded Youssef must start again. The trouble is, he never fully recovers from the episode.
Laila Lalami is a wonderfully illuminating writer. There is no hurry about her. She is meticulous and conscientious with her story’s structure, measuring them into thoughtful boxed-up sections. Nothing short of reverence is held alight for each character, no matter the angel, the puzzled or the villian.
Lalami manouveres each fictitious individual with grace, elegance and charm. Picture a play where actors may step onto the stage at the desired time…never intruding or interrupting on another’s personality or importance. Lalami’s characters fade in and out when they have entertained fully or themselves been entertained. Each fictitious personality boasts its own mission and merit. In Secret Son, the character cast stay the crux of the story from start to finish. Everything else takes a back seat.
Secret Son is first and foremost, a human interest story. In fact two plots fight to be recognised as stellar. We have Youssef and his terrible complications as a secret illegtimate son entitled to nothing at all, while his half-sister Amal will see only silver spoons being thrown at her feet. Youssef is lucky that his prized shirt isn’t torn. Amal – nice as she is – will always feel at home, wearing her diamonds. Then we have the staggering battle of materialism, where we will see how the poor may despise the rich in poisonous ways.
Now, don’t be mistaken that this is a story of Islamic fundamentalism. Far from it.
Secret Son owns up to nothing more than the usual mild dosage of conservative religious dogma. I have settled on this rationale easily enough, being born and raised in the moderate Muslim country of Malaysia. Someone like me, recognises Islamic fanaticism from a 1000 miles away. Secret Son has slight shades of it but that theory soon makes way for other conflicts further up in the story.
In this case, there is Hatim of The Partisans who leads a party, and who stays determined to help the poor if not highly impatient. The lives of religious authority being the first priority, Hatim would urge any Muslim to give up the ‘vulgar cheap notions of the wealthy eg. short dresses in public, sexual relationships outside marriage’ and so on. Hatim is often misunderstood and when he finally waves Islam as a power tool is not interested in fundamentalism in any degree but engaged only in a battle of dangerous individual wills.
Hatim is furious with Benaboud, a journalist with Casablanca Magazine who despite his credibility, writes untruths about Hatim’s finances and everyday dealings with the religious Party. Hatim will decide on a terrible revenge using Islam and a youth’s confusion to lure in a hired killer. But the important thing to remember here is that Hatim is not killing for God. Do see where Lalami is going with this.
He is killing for his own bruised pride, for his loss of face and for his personal vendatta especially that Benaboud may not have just written untruths but pointed too, to a couple of uncomfortable exposes. Again, this boils down to a question of truths, real and false.
Abdolah describes in detailed chapters, the dynamic intensity of different Mullahs’ teachings at various mosques, and of how thousands of listeners flock to embrace fanatical sermons as preparations, for a coup to overthrow the Shah of Persia. There are posters, leaflets, rallies and door to door campaigns that go on for days, weeks, months and years after the Shah is promptly exiled. There are segregations of individuals and their families. There are people who make oaths that they would live and die for Islam. There are those who swear to kill and there are yet others who wouldn’t be able to sleep or eat unless they converted another to strange traditions and etiquette, based on the Quran with a twarted agenda by fictitious individuals in the involvement of power games and the squabble for wealth.
Two other novels which highlight Islamic fundamentalism as main themes are Yasmina Khadra’s The Attack and Atiq Rahimi’s The Patience Stone. In the past, I have reviewed both novels featuring Palestine and Afghanistan on this blog and also for The Iranian online magazine.
In Secret Son, far from becoming a devout Muslim, Maati will turn police informer. And far from becoming devout Muslims, Amin and Youssef would be concerned only with the subject of emigration, of fleeing to Europe in a boat and making it big, of chatting online with European girls under different names in the hope that an internet romance would blossom and of wasting good money on bogus immigration agents who turn up scams.
Clearly, this was a human interest story bent on its solution to complex relationships although Lalami cleverly interweaved political innotations along the way. Too many Afghan and African refugees for example, complained Nabil. It depended on who you were in society; to be able to pull strings with the Government and police.
In fact, cliques at schools, rich students, corrupted societies, pride, arrogance and snobbery…these are themes commonplace all around the world. One only has to open the newspapers to be reminded of similar disasters.
But three features did stand out that were distinctly Moroccan. I was astonished when Lalami wrote that several of the ancient Arab quarters, noted for its rich tapestry of history and culture were now being refurbished into Bed-n-Breakfasts for tourists. This clearly signified a beloved loss.
Another was the fact that in Morocco it didn’t matter if you had a degree locally. You would almost always lose out to the job applicant who presented a degree from abroad. This fact also held my interest.
The third was of course the police brutality that Lalami exhibited in her novel, in describing a riot that took place over a price hike. It was a scene designed to bring home the memory of police brutality in the 80s’. Several hundreds of civilians were mysteriously swept off the streets and vanished; never to be seen again. Others would be badly beaten up for trival misdemeanours. There was always a dungeon at the bottom stairway of any police station in Morocco with which to interrogate and visibly torture suspects. This is all gone now, of course but haunted memories remain.
A novel – the first translated Arabic thriller – which highlights the remembrance of police brutality in all its shamelessness, is popular Moroccan screenwriter, Abdelilah Hamdouchi’s The Final Bet. Hamdouchi’s setting was also Casablanca and he also themed his plot around the idea of the wealthy versus the poor, as clear distinctions that marked the social framework of Moroccans. In Hamdouchi’s case, the focus for wealth and extravagance, lay in the European expatriate community who spent money lavishly and lived extravagant lives.
In Secret Son, Laila Lalami may not have possessed the poetry of translated Lebanese writers nor the folklore enchantment of Turkish or Iranian writers. She was not bothered about casual or careless humour. She wrote in an easy style, commonplace to domestic or summer stories in British fiction, penned by working novelists. Within this simplicity and quiet strength, tragedy trawled its history from start to finish. Lalami sketched one narrative within another and succeeded in opening up many rooms in my mind, for expansive absorption.
For an overview of The Final Bet by Abdelilah Hamdouchi, please read my thoughts over here.
The Blinding Absence of Light by Taher Ben Jelloun is a Moroccan novel of serious fiction based on deep philosophical contemplation, relating to the real story of a failed coup in the 1970s. Please read my review here.
Filed under: Older Book and Film Reviews
