Mirrors and Mirages

by Monia Mazigh

  Also by Monia Mazigh

  Hope and Despair: My Struggle to Free My Husband, Maher Arar

  Mirrors

  and Mirages

  A Novel

  Monia Mazigh

  Translated by Fred A. Reed

  Copyright © 2014 Monia Mazigh

  English translation copyright © 2014 Fred A. Reed

  First published as Miroirs et mirages in 2011 by Les Éditions L’Interligne

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  This edition published in 2014 by

  House of Anansi Press Inc.

  110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801

  Toronto, ON, M5V 2K4

  Tel. 416-363-4343

  Fax 416-363-1017

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  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Mazigh, Monia

  [Miroirs et mirages. English]

  Mirrors and mirages / author: Monia Mazigh ; translator: Fred A. Reed.

  Translation of: Miroirs et mirages.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77089-359-7 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-77089-360-3 (html)

  I. Reed, Fred A., 1939–, translator II. Title. III. Title: Miroirs et mirages.

  English.

  PS8626.A96M5713 2014 C843’.6 C2013-907016-8

  C2013-907017-6

  Cover design: Marijke Friesen

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program

  the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund. We acknowledge the financial support of the

  Government of Canada, through the National Translation Program for Book Publishing,

  for our translation activities.

  MIRRORS AND MIRAGES

  1

  Emma felt her heart beating, steadily at first, then faster and faster. It was as if her chest were going to burst. What had come over her? Was it excitement or fear? She slowed down and then stopped in front of a dark red door. It belonged to a brick house, one of a row of five small dwellings hunched together, the wood trim around their tiny windows stripped bare by weather and time. The door of her future home bore a visible mark at its centre, like a claw scratch on the weather-worn wood.

  She shivered. From where Emma stood, she could see the backyards of another, identical row of houses, and through a moss-splotched wooden fence, clumps of soil that must have been part of a garden. The fence planks, rotted by the damp and encrusted with dirt, had been torn away or had fallen. In one of the backyards, the residents had seeded small plants. Their yellow flowers lent a festive air to the grim decor, while the greenish yellow weeds reminded her of a small park long untended. In one of the weed-choked gardens Emma thought she could make out a rusty metal cage, its door hanging from one hinge; the animal it housed had fled, never to return.

  She could feel her eyes being drawn once more to the door of her new home. She noticed the grey beneath the peeling red paint. Just beside the door there was a high, narrow window. Must be the kitchen, she thought. Emma stood on tiptoe, but she was too short to see over the windowsill.

  The exhaust fumes from the cars and buses that rushed along the busy street had stained the dark brown brick so it looked almost black. The row houses were all two storeys: a ground floor and a second floor. Mustering her courage, Emma looked up. Directly above the front door she saw another window, and above it, crooked grey asphalt shingles overlapping like fish scales. Suddenly she felt a light, repetitive tug on her skirt. Turning, she saw a slender little girl whose hair, which was pulled back into pigtails, made her look like a frightened rabbit. The girl was no more than seven or eight years old, and in her thin arms she held a pudgy, curly-haired baby whose eyes sparkled with mischief.

  “Are you looking for someone, lady?” asked the little girl with the pigtails.

  Emma was startled, at a loss for words. Her first impulse was to say nothing. But the girl’s insistent look and the smile on the baby’s lips changed her mind. She forced herself to smile and said, “No, I’m not looking for anyone. I’m here to see number seventeen. I’ll be moving here in a few days.”

  The little girl seemed relieved. With a shift of the hip she lifted the baby into a more comfortable carrying position and answered calmly, “Well, then, we’ll be neighbours.” And as suddenly as she had appeared she turned her back and hurried off, still carrying the baby. Emma watched her until she went into one of the neighbouring houses.

  Her mind wandered for a moment, and then she remembered why she had come. She knew the neighbourhood; she had seen it many times before when she used to take her daughter, Sara, to school. She didn’t care much for the area — it reminded her of her native Tunisia. Images of poverty made her feel queasy. She remembered those grey days when she had walked along this very street. The sight of garbage bags and abandoned furniture had only added to her depression. Once she had seen a derelict fridge, door ajar, amid the piles of rubbish. Refuse littered the sidewalk, waiting for the big green truck to collect and grind it in its cavernous belly. She had never dreamed that she would live here one day. Her life had turned upside down; her childhood dreams had evaporated; she was alone with the past, and it haunted her every day. The perfectly behaved little girl, the brilliant student, the curious young woman, and the courageous immigrant in a new world — all of that belonged to the past. A shadow seeking only to hide, to flee from the judgement of people around her and the constant battering of regret.

  Emma glanced at her watch. It was almost noon. She walked back to the bus stop. The bus shelter wasn’t far from her future home. Pieces of broken glass lay scattered across the sidewalk, and old circus posters hung in tatters from the lampposts. She paused for a moment to try to make out the odd word that remained.

  For the past three months she’d been staying at a women’s shelter with Sara, counting the days until she could get out. The sight of the blue metal bedstead was enough to make her stomach churn when she woke up in the morning. She hated the shelter because it reminded her every day of her failed career, of her failed marriage, of her tormented life. But she had no choice: for all her aversion, for all her loathing, her fears, and her demons, the shelter had been the only place to open its arms and take her in.

  Now, today, she could permit herself to hope, even to dream of returning to the warmth of a home she could call hers. A letter had come a few days before, informing her that her application for subsidized housing had been accepted. She held tight to that letter for fear of losing it, and to reassure her: soon things would be better.

  Last night — it must have been after midnight — she had awakened with a start. Ideas were racing through her mind. She got up and tiptoed to the bathroom, not wanting to turn on the light, as Sara was sleeping peacefully. There, in that cramped space that smelled of cheap perfume and urine overlaid with bleach, she stood in front of the mirror, her nightdress touching the washbasin. She switched on the light and reread the letter. Then she closed her eyes, and for the first time in months a smile brightened her face.

  Seated in the shelter waiting for the bus, she slowly ope
ned her bag and reread the letter — that fabulous letter! — for what must have been the nth time. Yes, she and her daughter would have a place of their own. And she had seen it with her own eyes; she was not dreaming, it was real. She listened to herself breathe. She was coming back to life…

  2

  Louise looked in the mirror once more. She didn’t recognize the person staring back. The blue-and-white veil covering her chestnut hair made her look like a nun. One of those austere, remote members of the religious order her mother had so often told her about when she described her unhappy childhood in Chicoutimi.

  Without her hair framing it, her face reminded her of a plump, shiny apple. The red cheeks that had always embarrassed her — it was as though she was always blushing — were tightly enclosed by the scarf wrapped around her head. Her blue eyes didn’t have the same sparkle that had made her former classmate Big Jean burst out with childish delight, “Your eyes are the same colour as Lake Memphremagog!” She’d blushed that day, but deep down she was pleased. She remembered his innocent compliment. But today, in front of the mirror, she found herself almost repulsive. She forced a smile, but when she looked at her reflection even her mouth startled her. It seemed so small, nearly invisible. With the headscarf on it was as though she could no longer speak: her thin lips were even more compressed. “I can’t do it, I can’t go out wearing this headscarf. I look awful…” With a quick gesture she took it off. Her fine hair, which she’d pulled up into a bun, stood on end from the static effect of the scarf. She looked at the square of fabric, smoothed it with her slender hand. 100% POLYESTER. MADE IN CHINA, she read along the edge.

  She’d bought it the day before at the Bay in the Rideau Centre, not far from the University of Ottawa. The saleslady had shown her different ways to wear it: around her neck like a tie, or thrown over her shoulders, with a large knot at the chest. Louise had smiled politely but said nothing. Did she dare say that the scarf would be covering her hair? Could she face the world with her new self, her new face? Still smiling, she paid the cashier and went home.

  A dart of guilt shot through her mind. Hadn’t she just become a Muslim? Hadn’t she pronounced the shahada at the mosque in front of all the women? Some of them had had tears in their eyes, and others ululated with joy. So why was she afraid to cover her hair, to face the world, to testify to her faith? Was it fear of rejection? Of what her university professors and friends who didn’t know she had become a Muslim would think?

  Then her mother’s face came to mind: serious, livid. Their last conversation rang in Louise’s ears. “How could you dare sink into the darkness of a religion of people from the desert, people who want to invade us with their incomprehensible ideas, their backward values, their flocks of women and babies?” her mother had lashed out at her. “Listen to me, Louise! I was brought up in the Catholic faith, and the nuns told me exactly what I could and couldn’t do; they stuffed my head full of it. I’ve had it up to here with anything that has to do with religion! I sacrificed my youth for you, I gave you all my love. You’re not going to come and start telling me about good and evil, about what’s sacred and what’s religion . . . So please, do me a favour and get off my case!”

  Alice Gendron stood up abruptly from the kitchen table. Her nostrils were flaring, something that happened whenever she lost her temper. Then she rushed off to her bedroom and threw herself down on her bed.

  She was a good-looking woman of average height, with short brown hair streaked with grey. She was in her forties and worked as a nurse at the Montfort Hospital. Her team liked and respected her seriousness and her dedication to her patients and her profession. Only two things mattered in her life: her work and her daughter, Louise.

  Men hadn’t been a part of her world since she was twenty, when Louise’s father had walked out on her to pursue his career. That was the year she’d landed with her little checked suitcase on Rue Édouard-Montpetit, primed to enrol at the Université de Montréal.

  She had been young and ambitious. Leaving her native Chicoutimi, she settled in Montreal, where she hoped to make a career. Quebec was effervescent with new ideas; the Quiet Revolution had ended, a new era was beginning, and Alice was intoxicated by everything that was happening around her. She could feel change throbbing in her veins. She wanted to fill her lungs with freedom and to forget how miserable her childhood had been. She wanted to bury once and for all the memories that kept popping into her mind — the massive doors of the residential home, the stern faces of the nuns, the smell of cleanliness that assaulted her nostrils like strong perfume, the shiny wooden floors in the main prayer room, but most of all, being removed from her mother and separated from her sisters and brothers.

  She met Pierre a few months after arriving in Montreal and registering for her courses. It happened one evening at a friend’s house. He was a political science major who dreamed of becoming a lawyer. It was love at first sight. They lived together for two years — two years that almost wiped away the despair and unhappiness of the past. Pierre was from a wealthy Outremont family; the two of them would change Quebec, he promised her. Theirs would be the greatest generation, he told her, over and over. Alice dreamed of freedom and justice. But after he learned she was pregnant, Pierre never set foot in their apartment again. It was over. For him, everything was crystal clear: his career as a lawyer came first; love and babies came far behind.

  Alice’s deepest fears returned to haunt her. With Pierre her life had meaning; she had believed in him, had learned to believe in humanity once more. And then she’d lost everything. She decided against an abortion, though it would have been easy enough. Montreal was full of clandestine clinics; she could have gotten rid of the being that had turned Pierre against her. But something deep inside held her back. Could it have been the Sunday sermons of her childhood creeping back into her conscience? Had fear of sin caught up with her? Alice Gendron couldn’t tell. After weeks of hesitation, of doubt, of tears, her mind was made up. She would keep her baby. Unexpectedly, Louise’s birth gave her new hope. Louise became everything: her friend, her daughter, her reason for living.

  Louise gave her the determination to continue her studies to become a nurse. It wasn’t easy, but Alice had done it. There would be no man in her life. Now, stretched out on her bed, eyes wandering across the ceiling, Alice was furious with Louise, furious with herself for having always given her daughter the right to ask questions, for having brought her up without religious restrictions of any kind.

  Her daughter had chosen to become a Muslim. And she — the atheist, the woman who could not tolerate the influence of religion in people’s lives — was living under the same roof as a believer who happened to be her own flesh and blood. What kind of trick had fate played? Destiny had turned against her, helped by all that she held dear.

  3

  Daddy dearest,

  Well, I started my courses at the University of Ottawa last week! Here’s my course load: microeconomics, macroeconomics, financial math, and statistics! Our profs are flooding us with more info than we can handle, but don’t worry. I think I can manage!

  In just three years, your darling daughter will be graduating with a bachelor of business administration, meaning she’ll be able to give you a hand there in Dubai. I really miss you!

  Here at home, nobody understands me. Mommy won’t let me stay out after seven o’clock!! I don’t think I mentioned that she has a new friend who drops by for a cup of Turkish coffee every morning. Leila is her name, from Lebanon. It won’t be long before the Arab League headquarters moves in with us. What an awful woman! The way she looks at me, really nasty, as if I’m some kind of party girl. Maybe she doesn’t like my hairdo. Whenever she sees me, she whispers “May Allah help you in this infidel land” over and over.

  But you should see the way her eyes are made up, and her Calvin Klein headscarf. What a hypocrite! I just don’t understand Mommy. Why does she put up with these women? I guess it’s
because when Lynne, Mona, and I leave for school, she’s bored, so she invites them over to pass the time.

  Too bad you’re not here with us. How is your work going? Is your partner still insisting on that deal with the Chinese? Just three more years and I’ll be able to help you manage the business. I can hardly wait for the time to pass!

  Love and kisses,

  Your loving daughter,

  Lama

  Lama laid her pen down on her desk. She got to her feet, stretched, and then folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope.

  She wrote regularly to her father, Mr. Ezz Bibi. He had been living in Dubai, in the UAE, for the past several years. The letters were her only escape from the sense of suffocation that came with living in the family home. She looked forward impatiently for classes to begin, for the chance to see her friends, to study, to laugh, to enjoy life the way it was meant to be enjoyed.

  Ottawa suited her just fine; she was happy that her parents had decided to immigrate. Unfortunately, her father couldn’t stay with her, her mother, and her two sisters. He had remained in Dubai to work and sent them money. If he didn’t, who would pay the bills: her and her sisters’ tuition fees, their mother’s extravagant expenses? She was always changing the furniture, the bed linens, the drapery, then inviting her friends over to display her latest extravagance, drink Turkish coffee, and study the grounds at the bottom of the cup that would predict the future.

  Lama hated everything about her mother’s hypocritical lifestyle, the way she hid her boredom and the failure of her marriage by parading their wealth in front of her so-called friends. She didn’t like it any better that her mother hid behind religion, forbidding her from coming in late while she continued to spend her father’s hard-earned money hand over fist, all so they could live a comfortable life in Canada.