by Monia Mazigh
Emma slipped on her shoes and left the house with Sara in tow. Mrs. Bibi had said all she was going to say for the moment. Emma remained silent for most of the bus ride, and Sara too. But as the two drew closer to home, Sara piped up. “Mummy, where are the Gulf countries? In Mexico?”
It was all Emma could do not to burst out laughing. “No, sweetie, farther than Mexico. Closer to Saudi Arabia, where Muslims go for the pilgrimage. Understand?”
Sara was perplexed. “Why does Mrs. Bibi want you to go so far away to work? And me, where will I stay?”
Emma hugged her daughter and said, “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll always be with you. It’s all talk. We’ll see what happens.”
Apparently reassured, Sara didn’t mention the idea again. But Emma could not forget any of what Mrs. Bibi had said. That night she tossed and turned in her bed as she replayed Mrs. Bibi’s words in her mind. What did she mean? Why is she making such a suggestion now? Why does she want to help me when she’s known me for only a few months? What if Mrs. Bibi has actually found me a job in one of the Gulf States? Would I be prepared for the adventure? And just what kind of work could I do over there in any case?
Emma slept very badly that night. How she wished that Mrs. Bibi had never mentioned the idea. Now she would have to wait an entire week to find out what came next. She barely knew whether she was awake or asleep. First she saw herself lost in a desert, then in a blizzard: blazing heat followed by intense cold. She shivered, and felt as though she were drenched with sweat.
In the morning she thought about speaking with her mother. Mrs. Bibi’s proposition had thrown her into confusion, and the sound of her mother’s voice would help her sort things out. But she held back; her mother was ill, and she did not want to disturb her.
The sound of knocking at the door made her jump, rousing her from her torpor. The knocks were faint but insistent. She didn’t know anyone in the neighbourhood, so she was afraid to answer. She peered out her kitchen window but could not make out the person. She decided to pretend not to hear the knocks as they tapped out their cadence on the door.
But what if it’s someone from the city to do maintenance work? What if it’s urgent? she thought. She turned the key and cracked open the door. There in front of her stood the woman she’d seen a few weeks ago smoking a cigarette on her front porch. In her arms she was holding a baby; the child’s curly hair fell across her forehead, and she had a plump face and an impish air. Emma vaguely recognized the little girl, but couldn’t recall where she might have seen her.
She felt relieved and opened the door wide, no longer afraid.
The woman smiled. “Hi, it’s me. My name is Jeanne and I live in the house at the end of the row. And this is Melanie. I’ve got another daughter — she’s in school right now — her name is Cathy.” Jeanne stopped for a moment to clear her throat and then continued, “Anyway, look — I’m a little embarrassed — do you have some matches or maybe a lighter? I’ve lost mine and can’t find it, and I really need a smoke.”
Emma hardly knew what to say. She looked her visitor over. The woman was dressed on a budget. She had a thin face, yellowed teeth, and searching eyes, but a happy look and, most of all, that adorable baby in her arms. Then, all at once, Emma made the connection — the little girl who’d spoken to her a few months ago, just before she moved into the neighbourhood, had been carrying the same baby on her hip.
Emma said, “I think I’ve already met your older daughter, when I was in the neighbourhood for the first time, before I moved in. She asked me where I was going to live.”
“That’s Cathy! What a busybody!” exclaimed Jeanne with a laugh. “She always wants to find out everything about her neighbours. . . . But she’s a good girl, she really helps me out a lot, looking after her little sister when I’m too tired . . .” As though Jeanne’s body sought to confirm her words, a violent bout of coughing swept over her, contorting her features.
For the first time in years Emma was overcome with pity for someone other than herself. “Well, come in then,” she said. “My name is Emma and I’ve got a daughter named Sara. Come in and let me see if I’ve got some matches to spare.”
27
The storm over, Louise awoke to a new reality. She looked closely at the wreckage left by her abrupt break with Ameur. She wanted neither to see him or speak to him. Disgust had taken the place of love. How naive she had been!
How could he have dropped her at his mother’s whim? How could he have forgotten his promises? It was betrayal, wasn’t it, a lie! Wasn’t he the one who constantly reminded her of the importance of good behaviour, of the need for a proper understanding of religion. Didn’t he realize he was at fault? He had outright lied, had misled her! If he felt too weak to confront his mother, why did he even bother with her in the first place? Why build an entire relationship based on some faint hope?
Louise was as furious with herself as she was with Ameur. How immature she felt, how incapable of making the right choice. What if Mum is right? Maybe I am nothing but a numbskull, someone who’se been brainwashed, she thought. If I’d never met Ameur I would never have become a Muslim, and I wouldn’t be so unhappy today! Louise could only look on as the stable, coherent world she’d constructed collapsed before her very eyes. Ameur had bewitched her, and had dragged her into a labyrinth from which she could not escape.
Alone with her thoughts, she was terrified of telling her mother that Ameur had dropped her for a cousin. That kind of ending to the story would only confirm Alice’s predictions. Louise could already hear her saying, See, if you’d only listened to me none of this would have happened. And that was the last thing she wanted to hear. Deep down, she knew her mother would not turn her back on her, but she was not yet ready to face those reproachful eyes.
She wanted someone to talk to, someone who would understand and would not judge. That person’s name had to be Lama. The two of them got along very well, so why not confide in her? Lama was in the best possible position to help — she came from the same culture as Ameur but had grown up here, in Canada, which put her between the two worlds. She could see things from another point of view. And Lama had a critical mind, Louise had noticed at meetings of the student association. Lama was just the person she needed.
The two girls met in the university cafeteria, a noisy place crowded with students of every size and shape. Some ate while they read the newspaper, while others congregated to chat and laugh boisterously. There were solitary ones and ones who hung out in groups, all of them gathered in the same huge dining room. Lama and Louise found a table off to the side and sat down facing each other.
Louise spoke first. “Lama, I look on you as a special friend, and that’s why I asked to see you. You know I became a Muslim a few months ago, and that I was getting ready to marry Ameur…but now it’s all off. Two days ago he told me that his parents, primarily his mother, don’t want him to have anything to do with me. They prefer that he marry one of his cousins in Egypt . . .” She blushed and her voice quavered.
Lama listened attentively, heart throbbing, as Dina’s face during the wedding ceremony flashed across her mind.
“I feel like Ameur has betrayed me with his words and promises. I can’t understand why he’s acting this way, and worst of all, I can feel my faith wavering — I who was so strong. Well, I’m finding out just how vulnerable I can be, and how easily someone could change my life.”
Anger at Ameur swept over Lama. Could this be the reason for the mistrust she’d always felt towards him? Maybe Ameur’s gentleness concealed a weak personality; maybe he was caught between tradition and modern life, trapped by a desire to please everybody at the risk of losing everything. That was exactly what Lama had always criticized so sharply. She was against her mother’s hypocrisy, against her sisters’ egotistical, self-interested obedience, against their community’s superficial attachment to its dusty archaic principles in the name of religion wh
ile at the same time lies, backbiting, and envy were everywhere.
She looked Louise in the eye. “You’re not the only one who’s furious with Ameur. I’ve been banging my head against that wall for years. Ameur is one of those guys who want to be stronger than tradition. He played with fire like a little boy playing with matches, but his mother was quick to call him to order and crack down. He thought his education and his intelligence would make him invulnerable, but reality caught up with him. Louise, you’ve just discovered one aspect of the problems I run into every day. I understand exactly how hurt you are. If you want to know the truth, I’m glad it happened now — at least that way you’ll be vaccinated.”
A faint smile played across Louise’s face but almost immediately turned to a frown. “When I became a Muslim, I thought I was giving meaning to my life. I thought I was freeing myself from domination of all kinds. It looks like I misunderstood everything. I just don’t know what to think anymore . . .”
Lama nodded sympathetically. “I’m warning you, it’s only the beginning.”
They stayed there for hours, talking it out. Louise’s eyes glistened with tears, but her heart felt lighter. There was revolt in Lama’s voice, but also happiness at finding a friend who was also in search of the truth.
28
Samia Bibi hadn’t been joking when she asked Emma about working in an Arab country. Besides, she wasn’t the type to joke. She searched for happiness in the nice things, the pleasant things in life: a beautiful dress, a cigarette, expensive sheets, top-quality clothing for her daughters, good-humoured friends who enjoyed a fine cup of Turkish coffee flavoured with cardamom. From the day she had met Emma she’d read the sadness in her features, recognized the signs of misfortune in her eyes. In Emma’s face she saw something of herself, as if in a bright, sharply focused photograph that reminded her of her own misfortune. And that imagined photo had bothered Samia. There was more than kindness in her concern for Emma; she was acting to protect her own happiness. She wanted to replace Emma’s image with something better, one with the smile of a TV personality, a shining face surrounded by sparkling stars. But she didn’t know quite how to begin. First she had to learn more about her life, about the reasons for her sadness.
During their conversations, Mrs. Bibi had taken note of Emma’s separation from her husband, the distance that separated her from her mother, her solitude and humiliation, not to mention the unemployment and poverty that had become her lot. Mrs. Bibi understood that she could not repair Emma’s relationship with her former husband, nor could she convince her to return to live with her ageing mother, but she was certain she could find work for Emma with her husband’s business in Dubai. After all, Emma was an educated woman who spoke English, French, and Arabic; she could certainly find an opening in a country with a constant need for qualified manpower. Not to mention that Emma was Muslim, so she would quickly become accustomed to life in the Emirates.
The only weaknesses in her plan were how she would convince her husband to hire Emma, and how Emma, the beneficiary, would react to the suggestion. But dwelling on the negatives would have been to ignore Mrs. Bibi’s determination and perseverance when it came to the search for happiness. All she needed was a good strategy and a little time for her plan to come to fruition. Before talking with her husband in Dubai, she concluded that it was necessary to convince Emma to accept the idea of leaving Canada. She would have to make the prospect of working in Dubai an attractive one, persuade her to use her abilities rather than stay in Ottawa and live on her meagre monthly welfare stipend. That wouldn’t be hard for Mrs. Bibi. She knew Dubai well, and the attractions and drawbacks of living there. She would paint Emma the most glowing possible portrait of the city.
The idea brought a smile to her face. She glanced over towards the kitchen. The floor shone; the double refrigerator she’d just bought was bursting with provisions; high-priced china and silverware filled the cupboards. So much space! What a striking contrast to the tiny house where she and her three daughters had once lived, suffocating in the heat. Immense traffic jams every morning, and no sooner did they end than they would begin again when the offices and shops closed for the day.
But what had irritated her most was the quality of the Arab women whose company she kept — that was the reason she had no intention of returning. Those women, who came from everywhere, were too superficial for her; they completely lacked class and dreamed only of making money and returning to their own country to build a house. Mrs. Bibi felt that she herself was above such wretched considerations. She was searching for joie de vivre, for fine food and beautiful objects, and very occasionally she would read a book in English to remind herself that she had once studied English literature. In Canada she had found women of another kind to help her forget her solitude — women more accustomed to Western culture, women who appreciated the value of the things they bought, women who knew how to stroke her vanity. Those were the principle reasons why she did not want to live in Dubai.
But for Emma things would be completely different. She could find work in her field, could be appreciated for what she was and for what she could do. She could enjoy life to the fullest, meet other people and escape from the isolation that seemed to be engulfing her more with every passing day. Helping others in their lives was Mrs. Bibi’s way of coming to terms with her own life, of giving it meaning.
Those were the ideas that filled her mind as she focused on the eggplant purée she was preparing. After emptying it into a shallow bowl, she finely chopped some sprigs of parsley as a garnish and dribbled a few drops of olive oil over the mixture. Then temptation overcame her. She dipped her finger into the bowl, pulled it out, and licked it. Her eyes gleamed — she was satisfied with her work.
The ringing of the telephone interrupted her train of thought. “Ah, Leila, it’s you. I was just about to call. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about Suzie’s dress. What a disaster! She looked like a sack of potatoes. I saw it yesterday, at the reception at her place . . .”
29
Sam was expected at the Husseins’. He’d accepted the invitation Sally sent him by way of an answer. Sally was happy that at last she would meet The Boy Next Door, the one who had captured her attention, her BlackBerry, and her heart.
Without even knowing him, Sally felt that she had loved this young man for months. She wanted to know everything about him, and most of all, why he was interested in a girl like her. The other question that intrigued her was whether he really was a Muslim. In his message he used the Islamic form of greeting, but was it simply out of respect, a way of getting closer to her, or was it out of conviction?
For Sally, everything was clear-cut. Either Sam was a Muslim and she was prepared to get to know him better and even to marry him, or he was an impostor, in which case she would have to forget the whole sorry episode and never speak of it again. One thing was certain: she would marry no one but a Muslim, and not just any Muslim but a real Muslim — one who prayed five times a day, went to the mosque, and wore a beard. At the thought of the beard, she hesitated. Sam did not have a beard. She made up her mind that once she had a good idea of his intentions and his convictions, she would ask him to grow one.
Sally’s parents were happy too. Above all, they wanted to ascertain the lad’s true intentions, to find out if he was a good boy, polite and well educated. For them the question of religious practice could come later. “The foundations have to be solid. All the rest is secondary…” Ali kept repeating as he turned over in his mind the idea that his daughter might soon be married.
Fawzia could think only of the festivities to come. For the occasion she would prepare a veritable feast: biryani, a dish made of chicken and rice, tiny bouquets of deep-fried breaded cauliflower flavoured with coriander, lentils in a spicy sauce with morsels of lamb, a green salad, and little semolina cakes in a light syrup flavoured with cinnamon and cardamom.
Sam arrived right on time, and Ali greet
ed him at the door. He was a tall, slender young man with sad eyes. He was simply dressed, with worn running shoes on his feet. The two men barely looked at one another. Sam dared only raise his eyes furtively to glance at Mr. Hussein. Sally’s father felt awkward as well. Smiling to mask his embarrassment, he invited the visitor to follow him to the living room.
The contrast between the two was stark, almost comical. Sam, skinny, frail-looking, and reserved, towered over Mr. Hussein, a short, stocky, jovial man who masked his nervousness with a series of jokes that only he laughed at, spoke of his birthplace, and made comments on politics mingled with the latest National Hockey League results. Despite Ali’s accent Sam did his best to follow. He managed to pick up the odd word, smiling occasionally but not daring to speak.
Mrs. Hussein entered the living room, followed by Sally. Fawzia was wearing a vibrantly coloured traditional dress, a muslin shawl barely concealing her hair, and her eyes sparkled. Sally was dressed as usual except that the veil covering her face was white — her mother had insisted so strongly that finally Sally had given in. She stood close to her mother, not even daring to look at Sam. Fawzia, with her exuberant personality and her relaxed and poised manner, helped lighten the atmosphere of the meeting. Everything seemed to have been waiting for her so that the real discussion could begin.
Fawzia placed a platter of fruit on the table and handed Sam a small saucer. He thanked her and immediately served himself. Then she passed saucers to her husband and daughter.
“Sally, would you please bring us the pineapple juice, the water, and the ice cubes? I left them on the kitchen counter.”
Sally left the room and Fawzia began. “Mr. Sam, we are very happy to see you. Sally told us that you wanted to meet her, and we are delighted. So, you are in the same class as Sally?”