Free Hope & Other Dangerous Pursuits by Laila Lalami Page A

for the day.
    â€œHe’s just concerned,” Aziz said.
    â€œSo is everyone else.”
    Aziz didn’t answer. He was thinking about what Lahcen had said.
    â€œDo you think he can really do something?” Zohra asked.
    Her question was exactly what he feared—that Lahcen’s assurances of help would give Zohra hope, a hope that he knew would eat away at her determination to let him go, a hope he knew would eventually be crushed anyway. He held her hand and gave it a squeeze. “If Lahcen could help,” he said, “he’d have helped himself.”
    â€œYou never know,” she said.
    T HE NEXT DAY Lahcen showed up in a blue double-breasted suit, which he’d purchased from the swap meet at Derb Ghallef, where secondhand American clothes weresold, and which he wore on special occasions. “Where are you headed?” Aziz asked, as he greeted him at the door.
    â€œTo a meeting,” Lahcen said. “And you’re coming with me, Ammor.” He closed the door behind him.
    Aziz knew that he would have to go along with whatever plan Lahcen had hatched, if only for the sake of his parents, who accused him of not having tried every possible solution before deciding to emigrate. “Fine.”
    Lahcen sat down to have tea with Aziz’s parents. He talked about the weather, commented on the latest soccer match, and inquired after their health. Aziz’s father responded with a prompt “Hamdullah,” teasing his false teeth with his finger, taking them off and readjusting them, while Aziz’s mother, a notorious hypochondriac, complained at length about her latest bout of indigestion. Lahcen politely listened, finished his tea, then signaled to Aziz that it was time to go. “Bring your folder,” he ordered.
    Zohra ran to the bedroom to get Aziz’s father’s jacket and insisted that Aziz wear it. “For the meeting,” she said.
    Aziz put it on and stepped outside to meet his friend. “Where are we going?”
    â€œOne of the women who buys minutes from me works for a dentist, and I asked her to talk to her boss about you.”
    â€œWhat would a dentist want with me?”
    â€œHis chair is broken. Maybe you could fix it, and then he can tell his friends about you.”
    â€œThat’s not a job.”
    â€œLet me look at your teeth.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou need to be presentable when you walk into his office.”
    Aziz laughed. “You know,” he said, “I appreciate that you’re trying to help me. But this isn’t a job, man. It’s a one-time thing, isn’t it?”
    â€œIt might lead to something.”
    They took the bus downtown and walked into the dentist’s office just as a patient was leaving, yelling that she’d never come back. Lahcen held the door open for the woman, letting her finish her diatribe against doctors in general and dentists in particular, then walked in with Aziz behind him. He smiled at the receptionist, asking her how her boyfriend was, the one she always called from the pay phone. “He’s fine,” she said, her cheeks turning a light pink. “Have a seat, I’ll let the doctor know you’re here.” She disappeared, and Aziz and Lahcen sat down in front of a coffee table upon which lay three half-torn magazines, all of them about golf. Aziz picked one up andstarted to read while Lahcen crossed his legs and patted his pocket for his cigarettes without taking them out.
    The afternoon wore on, punctuated by the sound of the doorbell, the moans of pain, and the
ka-ching
of the cash register. When the clock chimed six, Aziz suggested they leave. Lahcen patted his back and said now that they’d waited this long, they could wait a little longer. Finally the last patient left and the dentist stepped out, taking off his lab coat. He looked at the two men with a mix of surprise and recognition in his eyes. “You’re here,”