by Monia Mazigh
Louise was deeply attached to both Ameur and her mother. She did not want to lose either. She wished only that her mother could accept what she had become. Ameur gave her his full support but said she had to be patient with her mother — even though she was a non-believer, she must not be harsh with her. That advice transformed Ameur into a hero in Louise’s eyes, a noble and gallant Prince Charming who extended his hand even to those who despised him.
“Only a few months more, then I’ll finish my degree and by the grace of God we’ll marry, I promise.” Louise lived with those sweet words in her mind, and with the hope that her mother would change her mind and accept her choice.
14
“You call those marks? Don’t stare at me like innocent victims! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?”
Mrs. Bibi was beside herself. Her half-smoked cigarette lay smouldering in the a crystal ashtray that refracted the rays of the afternoon sunlight against onto the white walls of the living room. Lynne and Mona, her two youngest daughters, stared at her in stunned silence. Both had just come home with catastrophic marks in math — they hadn’t even understood the questions.
Mrs. Bibi had long since forgotten that when she was a girl, she hated math, in addition to not understanding it. “Just imagine what your father will say! I can hear it all now: ‘Here I am, killing myself on the job so I can send you money, and what do you do? You spend all your time partying and neglecting your studies.’ What am I supposed to tell him, eh? You tell me. And you can wipe that expression off your faces. You make me want to slap you!”
Lynne, the elder of the two, broke into sobs, counting on their mother to pity them. It was her way of dodging shouting and punishment, and it never failed. Mona, indifferent, stared at the floor, waiting for the storm to blow over; it was all a question of time, and she knew it. Their mother would call one of her friends and finally calm down. They had only to wait out the roar of thunder and the flashes of lightning and keep their mouths closed.
But Mrs. Bibi was not about to stop. She’d had her fill of her daughters, her fill of raising three daughters on her own in Canada, her fill of a husband who left her with all the responsibility while he continued to work abroad and didn’t make the slightest effort to get a job here. And she’d had her fill of Lama, who instead of helping her out like a mature, responsible girl, was still wearing torn jeans and reading books by “diabolical” authors. In fact, she’d had her fill of everybody and everything.
She seemed to forget that she was the one who had insisted on buying their luxurious house. Or that she was the one who organized morning get-togethers to dazzle her friends and parade her newest acquisitions, and she couldn’t stop buying new dresses and new furniture she didn’t need for the sole purpose of being like the other women, or feeling superior to them.
Actually, Samia couldn’t have cared less about her daughters’ marks. She was so busy during the day, between the kitchen and the shopping, that when evening rolled around, she would flopped down in front of the television set for a bit of relief.
The programs on the Arab satellite channels were her favourites. You could find everything: song-and-dance shows featuring the Lebanese version of Star Academy, where interchangeable nymphets with their brilliant artificial smiles paraded in front of the camera, dreaming of stardom. She adored old Egyptian films that made her weep and reminded her of her youth in Kuwait. But what she liked best of all were the programs of religious instruction, given by a scholar with a long beard and a grim look on his face who made threatening gestures and had a laptop in front of him to answer viewers’ questions. She would break out in goosebumps and tears streamed down her cheeks. On the spot she would vow to never again miss a prayer. But the next day, after a late night, as she struggled to get up for the pre-dawn prayer, she would forget the sheikh’s message, curse her life, and plunge back into sleep as if nothing the sheikh said had left a trace in her heart.
In her fury, Mrs. Bibi seemed to forget the hidden side of her life. It was enough to shout her rage at her two younger daughters. Lynne and Mona would hang their heads dutifully, and then, to reward them for their obedience and devotion, she would buy them whatever they desired.
But with Lama the situation was far more complex. She was out of reach. “You’re the spitting image of your father, the way you run away from people, your antisocial ways . . . Ah, I pity the man who marries you!” Mrs. Bibi would hammer away at her, never missing an opportunity.
The truth was that her daughters’ poor marks hardly bothered her, no more than her husband’s reaction, for that matter. Long ago she had learned how to tame him, how to smooth over situations without getting involved in interminable squabbles. His distance, his remoteness, which she complained so bitterly about, actually worked to her advantage. Her husband was completely caught up in business, and he had better be. His role was to work and send money to his family so that they would want for nothing.
Mrs. Bibi was furious because her daughters’ bad marks had disturbed her carefully constructed facade of normality, a virtual world that provided her with a bit of happiness and stability. The incident had brought her back to reality, and that was what irritated her. It was a mournful and fetid reality that Mrs. Bibi could not accept, that she loathed, just as she had loathed her childhood behind the white walls of the huge family home, with its windows covered by drawn curtains. Her absent parents, her thirst to be loved, to be embraced, and most of all, the rootless feeling that she felt, the little Palestinian who had never seen the land of her ancestors, were like a crushing burden on her frail shoulders. Then there was the rejection by her Kuwaiti playmates, who looked down on her as if she were a stateless beggar who had come to profit from their wealth and to steal their resources.
All of those things Mrs. Bibi kept hidden deep inside her, burying her memories in a deep shaft where the light never shined. She surrounded herself with false friends. Flooded Lynne and Mona with superfluous purchases to distract them from their problems. Smothered Lama’s every attempt at rebellion, the better to conceal her own defeat.
The bad grades had inflicted nasty scratches on the smooth surface of her life. She had to find a proper solution, fast.
She called Leila and asked for advice, which her friend was quick to provide. “But what kind of world are you living in, sweetie? All children need private coaching these days. How did your daughters get this far without it? Math is hard, not to mention that it’s in English. You should hire a private tutor as soon as possible. All is not lost, the school year is just beginning. You’re fortunate . . .”
Mrs. Bibi was hesitant. “A man to tutor my daughters? And what if something happened? No, I could never accept that.”
Leila was not about to give up. Mrs. Bibi could not imagine where she’d dug up so many arguments. But she wasn’t about to let the girls’ math marks take over her life, so gradually she let herself be convinced. When she put down the handset on the mahogany coffee table, her mind was made up.
She would take out a classified ad in the local newspaper. Surely her husband wouldn’t say a word if she explained that she needed money to pay for private lessons for their daughters. And she would find a female tutor, to avoid problems. She felt better already; her cheeks were shining once more. She pulled a package of cigarettes from the imitation Louis Vuitton bag she’d bought in Kuwait, took one out, lit it with her gold-plated lighter, and inhaled slowly, deeply. The storm was already receding.
15
Emma walked her daughter to the school-bus stop. Now that she’d left her husband she no longer had a car. That was behind her now. She wanted nothing to do with Fadi; all she wanted was peace of mind.
A handful of parents were waiting at the bus stop already. There wasn’t a white face among them; they were all Asians or blacks. The Asians, originally from China or Vietnam, lived in the fine big houses that Emma could see from her tiny backyard. The blacks, from Soma
lia, lived in the same social housing as Emma.
The two contingents of children pulled and tugged at one another, laughing, as they waited for the bus. Their parents chatted with other people of their ethnic group. Emma, hair covered with a headscarf and with pale skin that set her apart, kept her distance. She held Sara’s hand, looking impatiently down the street for the yellow bus that would take her daughter to school. Sara, tiny and frail in her winter coat, watched the other children squabbling with an amused look on her face. It was clear that she wanted to take part in their innocent little disturbance, but her shyness held her back. It was enough to watch and listen to the children’s gestures and excited chatter.
The bus pulled up and the door swung open. The group calmed down, and the children moved close to mothers or fathers as though they had suddenly remembered they would be separated for the day. Emma kissed her daughter, checked to make sure all her buttons were fastened, and waited patiently while Sara found a seat on the bus. She sat down next to a window and flattened her nose against the glass, smiling at her mother with her tiny white teeth. Emma waved at her and felt tears welling in her eyes. A pang of fear at being alone pierced her stomach, but she let nothing show, and continued to wave goodbye to Sara until the school bus drove off, leaving a cloud of grey exhaust fumes in its wake.
Emma returned to her new home. It no longer felt empty, as it had for the first few days after the move. She’d bought some used furniture: a kitchen table, a sofa, and bookshelves. She had also purchased plates, drinking glasses, and a few pots and pans for the kitchen. There was a room for her, and one for her daughter, and each of the bedrooms was furnished with a mattress and a chest of drawers. It was simple, modest, and clean.
For all her sadness, Emma grew more attached to the place with every passing day. For her it represented a break with her husband’s psychological abuse, with his indifference and his obsessive, pathological ambition. The scene was always the same, and Fadi’s words echoed still in her ears.
“There you go, imagining things, looking for problems everywhere. Sara is just fine. You’re the one who’s not fine.”
Emma answered back, her voice quavering with emotion. “But Sara is our daughter. You can’t leave her to grow up all alone. You have to help . . . we have to make sacrifices together.”
He looked at her darkly. “You seem to forget that I must complete my project at all costs. I’ve got to get my promotion. You have no right to keep me from advancing in my career with all these preposterous and imaginary pretexts —”
Emma couldn’t hold back. “I have every right to remind you of your duties as father and husband. Why should I be the only one to look after Sara? She needs you too, doesn’t she?”
Fadi was losing patience. His eyes burned with anger, and in a loud voice he said, “You’re afraid of everything. You can’t manage your stress, you panic over nothing, you’re depressed. Go see a shrink —” He stopped in mid-sentence. Lifting his hand in exasperation, he leaped to his feet and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
Emma wanted to plug her ears. For months Fadi had been insulting her and hurting her feelings. He ridiculed her, called her stupid, crazy, and paranoid. And whenever she wanted to talk with him, to tell him that it was high time he began to look after Sara and her, he wriggled away, turned his back and ran, seeking refuge in the virtual world of his job that would soon betray him.
The separation had been abrupt and painful. Emma had seen it coming but had done everything in her power not to look. She had tried to convince herself that Fadi would change, that he would come to his senses, but things only got worse. There was no going back.
Today she was a divorced woman with a child, educated but without a job, an immigrant without family. During their weekly phone conversations, her mother begged her to return to her homeland to live. “You don’t have a husband; you’re a single mother with a young child. You don’t even have a job. Why do you keep insisting you want to live there?”
The same question, over and over again. Emma pondered her mother’s words and weighed them carefully. She had gone over them what seemed like hundreds of times, but never did she make up her mind to leave Ottawa and return to Tunis. Was it fear of being singled out as the model girl who’d failed? Was it apprehension about returning to live in the country she’d left years ago, one that represented a distant past? All she knew was that she was going to stay where she was. She had no intention of giving in to her mother’s demands. For her, only one thing mattered: Sara’s well-being.
Emma sat down on the striped sofa, which smelled of age and household cleaner. She picked up the neighbourhood weekly, on the lookout for a job that would bring her a little more money to meet her needs. She’d lost her former job as a programmer, but in her current circumstances she couldn’t begin looking for a full-time position. What she needed was work that would restore her self-confidence and bring in enough money to supplement her monthly welfare cheque.
She scanned the classified ads. They wanted truck drivers, people to hand out advertising flyers, painters, but for there was nothing for someone with her academic qualifications. She heard a little laugh from deep inside: So that’s why you came to study in Canada, eh? What happened to that computer engineering degree of yours, to all those years you worked like a madwoman? Is that why you made all the sacrifices . . . to end up on welfare, reading the classified ads hoping to find some crummy job where you’ll be treated like a servant? What are you doing here, anyway? Why don’t you go home to your mother? You could find a job in a flash back there, enrol your daughter in a private school, forget Fadi and maybe even find a husband, an easygoing Tunisian who wouldn’t hold your past against you, who’d help you heal your old wounds . . .
Emma closed her eyes. She recognized that high-pitched, nasal voice. It made her suffer, tormented her, kept her awake at night. She shook her head, as though that alone would turn off the mocking voice, and resumed scanning the classifieds. It was then that she spotted the ad: FAMILY SEEKS INSTRUCTOR TO GIVE PRIVATE LESSONS IN MATHEMATICS TO TWO HIGH-SCHOOL STUDENTS, GRADE 10 AND 11. CALL EVENINGS AT . . .
She jotted down the number in her datebook. Why not? she mused. I’ve taken so many math courses I could teach at any level. Then she remembered Sara. Where would I leave her? No, no way I could leave her here alone. Yes, she’ll have to come with me . . . that will be my only condition…
Reassured by her own words, she put down the paper and went into the kitchen to prepare a spaghetti sauce for tonight’s meal. Sara loved pasta. She punched the On button of her cassette player, and the nostalgic, cajoling music broke the silence of the house. Emma hummed the refrain. The spiteful little voice inside her had quieted, overcome by a murmur of happiness…
16
The fervent messages continued to accumulate in Sally’s inbox. She was less and less sure of what she should do. First she had been afraid to read them for fear of committing a sin, and now she read them again and again until she knew them by heart. They were poems, attractive, well written. Their author was begging her to reply.
Sally hesitated as if paralyzed. Those messages touched her as nothing had before. They enveloped her in a cloak of love or, better, chipped away at the hard shell of coldness and rigidity that she’d built up around her. Their words resonated deep within her, leaving her at wit’s end. She struggled against her emotions, attempted to bury them deep in a rocky, arid garden plot where, against all expectations, they burst into strong and vigorous flower.
Now Sally — who had nothing but criticism for her parents, who accused them of being too soft, too permissive, of flirting dangerously with disbelief and disobedience to God — had no idea what she should do. These messages from an unknown person had turned everything inside her upside down. Was it curiosity? Was it the beginnings of love that had undermined her devotion, or had her soul been overcome by temptation? Sally knew only one thing: whenever sh
e received a message from her unknown admirer, her heart began to throb violently, her hands grew moist, and she felt as though she was ascending to heaven!
Every day Sally waited impatiently for a message, counting the minutes and the hours until it popped up on her BlackBerry. She reflected long and hard on every word she read, savouring them like the tastiest ice cream. Then she made ready to type out an answer, only to hesitate at the last minute. The words of her sheikh’s sermon rang in her ears and the verses of the Qur’an filed through her mind.
Just the day before, she had participated in an online discussion on the advisability of both men and women attending a marriage ceremony. Sheikh Abdurrahman Bilal was categorical: It is forbidden to attend marriage ceremonies where men and women are seated together. Whatever the ceremony, any occasion where men and women meet to eat, dance, listen to music is forbidden. It is an illicit environment that our young men and women must be spared.
One of the participants, called Jinane, who Technogirl always found had pertinent comments to make on virtual forums, asked a question: What if the women are seated on one side of the room, and men on the other? Is it permitted to attend such a ceremony?
The sheikh was even more intransigent. The answer is no! Women must be in a separate room, he quickly fired back.
What about music at a party for women only? asked Didi, another regular participant, who liked to ask ambiguous questions on various forums. Technogirl, for reasons unknown to her, particularly disliked her.