By the time the sandpaper roofs of the Casbah were picking up the wider light, he had found his father’s friend Nasim and his fishing boat, el Karam. Nasim was tinkering with the motor, his beard rumpled with gray. A younger man Aziz did not recognize on the boat yelled, and Nasim looked up.

They fell together in an embrace, and the man came running to join them. Nasim was overjoyed; Aziz, hopping and clapping. Alhamdu-lillah was said over and over. Suddenly Nasim’s friend pulled them apart: A fisherman nearby was staring; a group of men on a pier were pointing. Aziz motioned Nasim and his friend below-deck and explained the boat must leave, immediately; he could not say why but would say why in Arzew. Without asking more, Nasim returned to the motor, which he started after a few tries.

Aziz expected the harbor to be empty. Few would be on Arzew’s short beaches. He pictured the rusted umbrellas along the esplanade. His father’s inn needed paint when he left two years ago, and its sign on the beach, LA MEHARIA HOTEL, had collapsed into a storm. It was as if Arzew were returning to ruin. Soon it would be like the Roman stones from a temple they had played in as children. It amazed him that Arzew had ever hosted pirates; it seemed too meager for any romance. As long as he could remember, each year brought less of less than less.

He climbed on deck. Through the wind, he heard Nasim on the boat radio. He was shouting, but Aziz couldn’t make out what he said. They were closer than he realized. He must have slept for hours. There were the rocky cliffs, so forbidden when he sailed as a boy. Starboard he could see the outlines of tankers, only three today. Other fishing boats were plentiful. That surprised him. It was wonderful to see. Nasim would probably be checking his trawl lines after he took Aziz ashore. The refinery was operating, the smoke not too bad. But then, past the old slaughterhouse, as the crescent of the bay came into view, he saw them. Not just his family—his parents; his brothers Latif, Bilal, and Mourad; his sisters Anissa and Hazar; their husbands Ghaleb and Issam; his father’s sisters Dalal and Ghadah; his mother’s sisters Hala and Hassibah; all their husbands; all their children—it was more than his family; at least a hundred or more had come. They were standing on the beach near his father’s hotel, some with infants in their arms, and a few he saw had brought chairs for the older ones. But when one of them caught sight of el Karam, they told another and another. They began to wave.

He had no thinking; all he wanted was to be there: now, now, now. And the waving continued.