by Monia Mazigh
Fawzia pretended not to notice and continued to retrieve samosas from the boiling oil. “Can you get me some more paper towels to absorb the oil?”
Sally did as she was asked without a word. She could feel her mother’s inquisitive gaze, and it was as if she knew the whole story about the anonymous messages.
In reality Fawzia knew nothing, but her age and life experience told her that her daughter’s behaviour might have something to do with the emergence of new feelings. Could it be a new-found friend? A budding love? Fawzia was determined to find out. She felt deep gratitude to whoever that person might be.
Sally ate a few samosas — they were exquisite. The cumin seeds her mother had mixed into the dough yielded their fragrance in the mouth, mingling with the piquant and pungent taste of ginger. She wiped her mouth on a paper napkin, made sure her mother was still busy frying samosas, went back to her room, and stretched out on her bed.
She contemplated her BlackBerry on the night table. Nothing. No message had popped up in the inbox. The silence worried her, and her heart began to beat faster. What if The Boy Next Door didn’t write to her again? What if he hadn’t appreciated what she’d written? Remorse swept over her and suddenly she regretted sending the message. But wasn’t she satisfied with the words she’d chosen? No longer, for there was no answer. The Boy Next Door, or S, was ignoring her. What if he wanted nothing to do with her? Then what? Sally wondered, devoured by anxiety and fear. What if the whole thing was just a prank?
She considered logging in to one of her favourite online chat groups and talking it over with the other members, but her heart just wasn’t in it. She was exhausted, as if she’d just finished a footrace. Every muscle in her body felt stiff and sore. She shut her eyes, but the voices of regret would not stop echoing in her head.
She got to her feet and drew the curtains. She needed rest. It was at that moment that she heard her BlackBerry vibrate. A knife pierced her flesh. She picked up the tiny device and checked the sender’s name. FROM: boy next door. SUBJECT: your message.
She scrolled down. The words lashed her eyes like rain against a windowpane. In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate. My name is Sam, the boy in your class. I would very much like for us to see each other.
Sally’s head began to spin. Her eyes glazed over. Her temples throbbed. She sat down again on the edge of her bed, let the BlackBerry fall to the floor, closed her eyes, and held her head in her hands.
23
The bus carrying Emma and Sara home was almost empty. Emma was happy; Sara sat close beside her, staring out the window. Soon she would begin tutoring Mrs. Bibi’s two girls. It wasn’t the idea of earning a bit more money every month that pleased her most, but the fact of being useful, of drawing on her knowledge, of regaining her self-confidence, and above all, of being able to forget her divorce and her loneliness.
She wanted to be an example for her daughter, to be strong, to meet life on its own terms. She didn’t want to sink into depression or become a victim. She did not want to return to Tunisia and face the pained expressions of the people she knew. What she wanted very badly was to forget and to find her own way in the world.
Emma was determined to keep hunting for work. Part-time teaching was only a stopgap measure to keep her active. Jobs were not a dime a dozen, and she knew it. Getting an interview would not be easy, but her visit to Mrs. Bibi’s had restored her confidence. A sudden onrush of optimism propelled her towards the future.
The bus had reached the stop nearest their home, and Sara tugged at her sleeve. Sara thanked the driver, who responded with a smile. Snow was still falling. At one of the nearby townhouses a woman in her fifties was leaning against her open door, smoking a cigarette and watching the tendrils of smoke drift skywards until they dissipated. She waved to Emma and Sara.
After a moment of hesitation, Emma answered with a timid hello.
The woman addressed them. “Winter’s hardly here and already I’m chilled to the bone!”
“I don’t much like the long winters either,” ventured Emma prudently.
“I don’t blame you. We don’t see the sun very much…It’s depressing…Well, good evening, time to get back inside.” The woman stubbed out her cigarette in an empty can that stood on the windowsill, then closed the door behind her.
Emma stepped inside her own house. Everything was still. She went upstairs with Sara to get her ready for bed.
Sara wanted a bedtime story. She put on her pyjamas, brushed her teeth, and lay down on her mattress to wait for her mother. Emma’s mind was far away, but Sara’s insistent gaze brought her back to reality. She pulled a book from the pile and began to read.
Ten minutes later Sara had fallen asleep, exhausted by the visit to Mrs. Bibi’s and the long bus ride there and back. Emma switched off the light, turned on the nightlight, and retired to her bedroom. She was not sleepy.
Images from the past few years flashed before her eyes. In front of Sara she wanted to appear happy and strong, but when she was alone, the velvet gloves slipped off and the mask fell away. She became vulnerable again. What could she possibly hide? She was naked, with nothing to protect her from others. Her feelings, her fears, her unhappiness lay exposed.
She wanted to weep but no tears came to relieve her. All at once she felt too weak to keep up the daily battle. Her whole body shivered as though a deep chill had burrowed its way insidiously down to her bones. She thought back to her childhood, to her mother’s enveloping arms, to her father’s tender affection. She remembered the spring sunlight that brought her so much happiness as she chased the neighbour’s cat through the family garden. The gentle warmth of her happy memories seemed to wash over her.
She laid her head on the pillow and a faint smile crept across her face. She kept her eyes open in the darkness. All that had gone before would help her face the present unafraid. A feathery sensation tickled her eyelids; tears filled her eyes and ran unhindered down her cheeks. Hurt gave way to relief. How Emma wished that the feeling would never leave her.
24
Unblinking, Louise’s wide blue eyes travelled back and forth across Ameur’s face. She was on the verge of tears but was doing everything she could to hold them back. Ameur’s words flowed like a rushing brook, rising in her ears. Those same words that for months had caused her to dream — it was the way he spoke that had seduced her — that had brought her to Islam and transformed her into another person, were now inflicting pain. Ameur was speaking of his mother, and how deeply hurtful their relationship was to her, how he hoped to see her health restored, to be at peace with her.
No sooner had she learned that her son intended to marry Louise than Fatma took to her bed, unable to rouse herself. She could not approve of her son’s marriage to a Canadian girl. She wanted Ameur to marry her niece Iman, a well-brought-up Egyptian who’d attended the American University in Cairo. She would be compatible with her son.
Face pallid, lips trembling, Ameur attempted to explain. “I must obey my mother. I can’t just stand by while her health suffers on account of me…”
How Louise wished right then that her own mother was next to her. Despite the coldness that had come between them, she had only one thought: to nestle in her arms, to escape Ameur’s gaze.
“The choice is a hard one for me, Louise. You have to understand. There’s no other way.”
Louise wanted to vent her anger, her fury right in Ameur’s face. She wanted to tell him she thought he was a coward. She couldn’t believe he would drop her, especially after she had changed her entire life for him. She was unable to fathom why he could not convince his mother of his love for her. But she simply picked up her backpack and got to her feet.
Ameur wanted to hold her back. He implored her, but she would stay not a moment longer. He watched as the girl with blue eyes disappeared. His dream had turned to dust. Fatma, his mother, had other dreams for him. He had no
choice but to submit; he could not rebel against her. He was a captive of the inevitable.
Louise made her way through the corridors of the university as if on automatic pilot. She wanted to get outside, into the sun. She hoped to find comfort in the clear skies of this early spring day. Maybe then she would feel better and could think clearly about her future. What could she hope for after what she’d just heard? How would she ride out the storm?
Snow still lay in mounds on the sidewalk. Smaller heaps melted indolently under the fierce rays of spring sunlight. Water flowed in tiny rivulets that joined, then divided into several smaller streams. Louise walked staring straight ahead, looking at no one. She could see only Ameur’s mouth, his body language, the way he raised his eyebrows. His words darted back and forth in her head like autumn leaves that could not decide where to alight.
She wanted to forget, to shut her eyes, to forget Ameur and that adventure that had carried her so far from home. She had always felt so confident, so happy at finding both a man to love and a faith to guide her in life. And now that man had rejected her in order to obey his mother and to ingratiate himself in her eyes.
Louise had never felt so miserable before. She walked along, crossing one street after another, hands thrust deep into the pockets of her green windbreaker, strands of hair hanging down on her forehead, staring off into the distance. A feeling of shame swept over her — a feeling she’d never known before. Shame at her own arrogance, at the way she had mistreated her mother. She wanted to scrub Ameur’s face from her memory, but his clear, bell-like voice, his charm, and his eloquence kept returning, haunting her. Her body was the victim, her mind the executioner. She wanted to shriek, to lash out, to flee, to break his hold on her — all in vain. The executioner was too strong, impregnable, pitiless. Her mind would give her no peace.
Unconsciously Louise had found her way home. She slipped into the apartment. The sight of the furniture, the paintings on the walls, the bibelots arranged on small tables, all reminded her of reality. In them she could feel her mother’s organization and devotion, and she felt secure. She went into her room, the little room that as recently as yesterday she thought she would be leaving for good. Ameur’s words this morning had brought her back to earth, shattered the beautiful plans she had been making for months on end. Her bed was meticulously made. Her white desk was in perfect order.
On her night table lay a copy of the Qur’an. From it she would ardently read an extract every evening before going to sleep. She felt a twinge in her heart. Her prayer rug was folded up beside her chair. She looked at it with bitterness. Ameur had given it to her the day she became a Muslim. It was a handsome red carpet, interwoven with gold thread in geometric motifs that reminded her of a bed of tulips in the centre of a garden. She unrolled it and knelt down. But she no longer knew what to do; it was as though she had forgotten all the prayers she once knew by heart. Sobbing overcame her. Body shaking, she bent forward, her forehead touching the ground, and murmured, “My God, I am lost. Guide me, for I do not know what to do . . .”
25
Sally had been right. She’d sensed it from the start, and today she had proof, right on her BlackBerry. Sam had lifted the veil that concealed his identity. He’d greeted her as a Muslim. He wanted to meet her! How had Sally, the cautious girl, the one who wore the niqab, who took religion so seriously, come to this? “But what did I do wrong? What did I do that was haram? Absolutely nothing,” she whispered, as if in her own defence. “I didn’t speak to him, didn’t shake his hand. I only read his poems, and answered his messages only once and no more.”
Sally was caught in her own trap, like a spider captured in its web. And like a captured spider, she struggled to escape. Her first reaction was to answer Sam’s request with a no, but she hesitated. How could she have let things develop so far, only to destroy them at one blow, as she was about to do? “I have to think this through,” she said to herself.
She was apprehensive and at the same time felt the call of adventure. She couldn’t retreat. How could she erase from her memory all those messages she’d received from The Boy Next Door? She’d read them time and time again. She could not deny the impact of his words on her, on her emotions, on her relationship with her parents. Even though their connection was a strictly virtual one, it had become vital for her.
Sally was not prepared to bring it to an end. For if Sam loved her, why not meet him, become acquainted with him, perhaps even — who knows? — marry him. She blushed at the thought of a face-to-face meeting, but just as quickly promised to behave according to God’s law, which reassured her. In evoking His name Sally felt stronger, better prepared to deal with any eventuality. Her faith would guide her, of that she was convinced.
This time she decided not to answer Sam before she talked it over with her mother. At first the very idea seemed foolish, considering her mother’s laxity in religious matters, but rapidly it began to appeal to her. What an excellent way to rebuild bridges between her and her parents.
Her mind made up, she stood to pray. The need to thank God for guiding her onto the right path overwhelmed her. Her prayer completed, she was surprised to find herself hoping that her encounter with Sam might lead to marriage . . .
Fawzia was in the small room she had transformed into a sewing workshop, putting the finishing touches on an orange tunic. The finely woven fabric slid through the sewing machine and slipped through her fingers as though attempting to escape its fate. The tunic was destined for one of Fawzia’s friends; it would be ready in a few days time, she had promised. She was in a fine mood, humming the refrain of a popular song. Ever since her daughter had become so affectionate again with her and her husband, Fawzia had returned to her old routines and reawakened to life.
Needless to say, Sally wasn’t ready to abandon the niqab, but for Fawzia it was no longer the end of the world that she’d feared when it all began. She had become accustomed to seeing her daughter dressed that way. Gradually, beneath the frightening long black sack dresses, she had rediscovered the daughter she had known before. Fawzia was waiting patiently for the day when she would discover the secret behind the change in Sally.
She was startled to see her daughter standing in front of her. Fawzia had not been expecting a heart-to-heart talk, but Sally’s eyes were so filled with emotion that she understood this moment would be decisive. With a sudden movement, she lifted her foot from the pedal. The orange fabric slipped to the floor. Fawzia, hardly noticing it, smiled at her daughter and said, “What is it, Sally? Is something on your mind?”
Sally knew her mother was good at putting people around her at ease, but she hadn’t realized how truly skilful she was. She pulled up a stool, sat down, and said, “There’s this boy who’s been sending me messages on my BlackBerry for some time. Up until yesterday I didn’t answer him, and now he says he wants to meet me. Sam is his name; he’s in my class. He got my email address from one of my friends. I hardly know him . . .”
In an effort not to give the wrong impression, she hurriedly added, “But I swear I’ve never spoken to him. Only one message, the one I sent yesterday.”
Fawzia was stunned. She knit her brows as she attempted to digest all this information at once. For a split second Sally feared she’d made a terrible mistake by confiding in her mother; she didn’t know what to think.
Fawzia bent over and picked up the piece of orange fabric from the floor. She smiled. The mystery was solved. Sam was the one who had returned her Sally to her. She had to meet him. Looking at her daughter, she said, “He’s in your class, you say? What does he look like? Is he a good boy?”
Sally blushed. “I don’t know, I never looked straight at him. He always sits at the back of the lecture hall. Anyway, he looks nice . . . or at least normal . . .”
It was clear to Fawzia that Sally was already interested in this boy. “You may invite him to our house. I’ll speak to your father.”
Sally could hardly believe her ears. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
26
“Did you ever think of working in an Arab country?” Mrs. Bibi asked Emma one day, out of the blue.
Emma didn’t know what to say. She was putting on her coat; Sara was already waiting at the door. Was Mrs. Bibi serious or did she want to share something that had popped up at one of her morning get-togethers with her circle of friends?
The weekly two-hour tutoring session had just ended. Emma’s two pupils were showing signs of progress and she was doing everything she could to bring them up to speed. The girls had fallen well behind. There was no way she could repair the damage done over the past few years in mere months, but it was apparent that her two charges were responding to her prodding and making a greater effort to solve the problems. There was still a lot of work to be done.
Emma stared at Mrs. Bibi, incredulous.
“I swear on my daughters’ heads, my question is serious…” Mrs. Bibi continued, straightening her skirt, which showed her knees, and brushing a wisp of hair from her forehead.
“To tell you the truth, I’ve never thought about it,” Emma answered.
“Well, start thinking about it. If you’re interested, I’ve got a fabulous idea for you!”
“What do you mean?” Emma exclaimed. “What country are you thinking of? Not Tunisia, I hope!”
Mrs. Bibi looked upset. “Of course not! What I mean is… a rich country, a place with a lot of opportunity, good pay, good shopping, everything you need…you know what I’m saying?”
Emma stood there gaping. Mrs. Bibi wanted to find her a job in Dubai or another Gulf country?
Suddenly Mrs. Bibi looked tired, exasperated.
“You know what, we’ll talk it over another time. Bye-bye, my dear. But think it over — I’m very serious.”