Mirrors and Mirages

by Monia Mazigh

  Fadi and her former employer had both been parsimonious with their compliments, and at first Emma had believed that Mr. Bibi was like them. He was courteous and considerate towards her, of course. He explained her job, taking time to discuss the smallest details, but he addressed her as he did all his other employees, with a hint of indifference in his voice. But the meeting that had just ended was revealing another facet of Mr. Bibi.

  The Canadian delegation had left for their hotel and the other employees had returned to their desks. Emma found herself alone with her boss. He made a point of telling her how much he appreciated her contribution and the points she had raised during the meeting.

  Emma blushed, stammering, “Thank you, Mr. Bibi, I’m flattered. I’ve done a lot of reading about this technology, so I know its strengths and weaknesses quite well.”

  She was anxious to leave — Sara was waiting — but Mr. Bibi was prolonging the discussion. He was visibly pleased, as though he had just discovered that Emma existed. He wanted to talk to her, as though he needed someone to listen. “From now on you’ll be attending all our meetings and teleconferences with our Canadian partners. I really need your expertise.” He looked at her again with admiring eyes, bid her goodbye, and left the room, leaving her standing there stunned.

  The deluge of compliments had overwhelmed Emma. She remained motionless for a moment, Mr. Bibi’s words ringing in her ears. Then the thought of Sara brought her back to reality.

  Sara was upset because she was the last to leave the day camp. The monitor, a young Lebanese with slicked-back hair and a patronizing attitude, scolded Emma in an arrogant tone: “Madam, the camp closes at five o’clock. A few minutes’ delay is tolerated, but not more.”

  Emma could hardly be bothered to look at him. She hugged her daughter, took her by the hand, and hurried off. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I had an important meeting. We were busy all day. Next time I’ll be here on the dot.”

  Sara quickly forgot the incident and began to describe her day, the camp activities and games. Emma listened distractedly. She could not forget the way Mr. Bibi had looked at her. Why his sudden change in attitude? What could she not forget that strange glitter in her boss’s eyes?

  Emma was relieved to be home with Sara at last. She closed the apartment door behind her and stretched out on the khaki-coloured velvet sofa. The apartment was small and simply furnished, but it was all Emma and her daughter needed: two small bedrooms and a living room with an adjoining open kitchen. She had purchased only the barest essentials, which included a large bed, a small bed, two night tables, a bookcase, and several sets of shelves.

  Emma had also bought a laptop, which she kept on the kitchen table. When she and Sara ate, she moved it to the counter, and then, once the meal was over and the table cleared, moved it back. At night when Sara was sleeping, Emma would spend two hours on the Web, reading up on the latest technological developments in her field in an effort to make up for time lost during the past two tumultuous years. Her self-confidence returned.

  In addition to the furniture, Emma had bought pots and pans, china, utensils, and even a few small electrical appliances — all of it cheap — in the malls where she did her shopping. She had a well-equipped kitchen in which she could prepare tasty dishes for herself and her daughter.

  Emma did not feel like cooking tonight. The events of the day, which should have brought her pleasure and made her happy, had perturbed her and left her feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

  “Mummy, make me rice with chicken and mushroom sauce. We haven’t eaten that for a long time!” Sara put on a pouty face that made her almost irresistible.

  Emma smiled, looked towards her, and got up from the sofa where, tormented by her emotions, she’d flopped down dead tired just a few minutes ago. How could she possibly refuse? “You’re lucky, sweetie. I’ve still got a few pieces of chicken in the fridge. Otherwise it would have to be scrambled eggs,” said Emma, pretending that everything was perfectly normal.

  Sara jumped for joy. “Yippee! I love you, Mummy!” she cried, clapping her hands.

  Emma rinsed the rice and sprinkled the chicken with spices before putting it in the oven. Her movements were mechanical. Her mind was far away. A thought flickered through her mind: Is Mr. Bibi interested in me? She blushed.

  Ever since her divorce from Fadi she had not even thought about men. Sara was her only concern. What a ridiculous idea! Mr. Bibi is a married man. There was nothing untoward about his words. I did my job and he congratulated me. What’s wrong with that?

  The morsels of chicken sizzled away quietly in the oven while Emma incorporated the mushrooms into the thick brownish sauce that was simmering on the front burner. Furtively she stuck her finger into the pot to test the seasoning. “I forgot the salt,” she said out loud.

  Sara came running into the kitchen. “Did you call me, Mummy?”

  Emma smiled. “Set the table, sweetie. It’ll be dinner time soon.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation Sara got out the placemats, the glasses, and the knives and forks. Emma felt as though she were floating on a cloud. No matter which way she turned, Mr. Bibi’s eyes were following her.

  44

  Louise did not want to heed the faint voice within her warning her not to call Ameur. She preferred to avoid the look of reproach in Lama’s eyes. The encounter with Ameur had snapped her awake. Her entire being was alive again after the brutal break that had thrown her into despondency.

  Today a curious feeling flooded over her, urging her to forget Ameur’s weakness, to forgive his treachery. She would contact him, give him another chance. Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe he convinced his mother. If he hasn’t, why did he insist I speak to him? she wondered, in an ultimate attempt to convince herself.

  But what was driving Louise to call Ameur was above all the solitude she felt deep inside. Even though relations with her mother had improved and the two women were making every effort to accommodate each other, mistrust and doubt still lingered, a dark cloud ready to burst at any moment. Louise was still afraid to speak to Alice about her beliefs. With Lama she shared friendship, happiness, confidences, jokes, and tears. But Louise was looking for more: the warmth of a glance, the unspoken words whose meaning was conveyed by a smile.

  She had finished her prayer. Now, seated on the edge of her bed, she picked up her phone and dialled Ameur’s number. Her heart was throbbing. Should she wait for him to answer or simply hang up?

  Suddenly Ameur’s voice came to her rescue. “Salaam, Louise! I saw your number on my screen. I hope you’re fine.” His voice seemed calm.

  Louise had gooseflesh. After a moment of silence she replied, “I’m fine, God be praised. When we met, you asked me to call you. So here I am.”

  He laughed quietly. “That’s just like you. You never forget —”

  Louise interrupted. “This time I’ve decided to forget what you did. I, uh . . . I mean, how you listened to your mother and dropped me.”

  There was an embarrassed silence as Ameur fumbled for words. “I didn’t drop you, Louise. It was you who got up and walked out and burned all the bridges. I’m always thinking of you.”

  Louise felt as though her heart was about to burst through her chest. Ameur’s words had turned her inside out. “So what about your cousin, the one in Egypt? Aren’t you supposed to be marrying her?”

  That was the question that had been burning her lips, but Ameur did not answer it.

  “I don’t want to discuss these matters on the telephone. Why don’t we meet some place? I’ll be leaving for Hamilton in three weeks. I’ve been admitted to med school at McMaster University.”

  “Congratulations. I didn’t know,” she said, with a tiny tremolo in her voice.

  “How about tomorrow afternoon, in the little café just across from the university? Say, at five o’clock?”

  It was as though Louise co
uld see Lama shaking her head — her imagination was playing tricks on her! She thought it over for a moment, then said, “Okay, I’ll be there, right after work.”

  She could hear Ameur’s steady breathing. She would like to tell him how much he’d made her suffer, how badly he’d deceived her, but she only whispered, “See you soon.”

  Ameur responded and they hung up.

  Louise sat on her bed, the telephone in one hand and a small decorative cushion in the other. Conflicting feelings collided within her: joy and fear, happiness and concern, hope and despair. She felt strong enough to face up to Ameur but still too weak to confront his charm, or to resist it. Should she tell Lama about the meeting? she wondered, and then recalled her friend’s words: Don’t trust that guy. He’s a mama’s boy. Modern enough to have a Canadian girlfriend but not modern enough to marry her. Those words had been an anesthetic balm on her still-open wounds.

  But Ameur had wormed his way back into her life, and she no longer needed Lama. Her heart would guide her. She could trust it.

  45

  Only a few days were left before Sally and Sam’s wedding. It was late August. The days were warm but the nights were cooler now.

  Fawzia Hussein was scurrying to and fro like an ant. Everything was organized, everything prepared. The food was cooked and packed into the fridge; the house was spotless and ready to welcome the guests. Ali Hussein had moved the armchairs from the living room to the garage to make more room. For the day of the ceremony he’d rented plastic chairs covered with white fabric, with a large pink knot on the back of each.

  Even though Sally was anxious at the prospect of moving on to another stage of her life, she’d managed to decide what had to be purchased. Nothing luxurious or extravagant, but everything they would need to live together as man and wife: sheets for the double bed, china, kitchen utensils, curtains for the windows of their small apartment.

  Sam had rented an apartment in a high-rise building not far from his parents-in-law. It had a bedroom, living room, kitchen, and bath. He’d put some money aside from his summer job and soon he would begin receiving the bursary that would finance his master’s program. The couple would be able to live comfortably. Sally’s father had insisted on helping them by buying their furniture. At first Sam had refused, but he finally came around.

  For her part, Sally had purchased some pretty gowns to wear indoors to please Sam. As she was a little confused about what was permitted to be worn in the house in the presence of her husband, and was too shy to ask her mother, she had gone online to consult the fatwa sources. There she’d found the answers to her questions. With relief she’d gone to the nearest shopping centre and bought two nice-looking short dresses, a pair of fitted pants, and several pieces of fine lingerie. She blushed as she tried them on in her room in front of the mirror. She didn’t recognize herself. How good she looked in a dress that showed off her slender figure and the gentle curve of her hips. Who would ever recognize her in that revealing and provocative outfit, her the pious girl who never showed a patch of skin? She looked herself over one more time, thought of Sam, smiled, and shrugged. The sheikh made it very clear — there’s nothing wrong with being beautiful for my husband, she thought as she hung her new clothes in the closet.

  She sighed. She missed Sam’s messages. They often spoke on the phone and exchanged emails, but the sense of mystery, of being secret allies, that had once surrounded their relationship had slowly dissipated, and she regretted it. She longed for the palpitations, for the powerful emotions that followed each anonymous message. But she was counting on the days after the wedding to reinforce her links with Sam and to rediscover those lost emotions.

  Sally opened her closet again and took another look at the red sari she would wear on her wedding day. Her mother had drummed into her that the marriage wouldn’t be real unless the bride wore a sari. Sally could not refuse. In any case, she would be in a room full of women. There she could uncover her hair, apply henna to her hands and feet, put on makeup, and wear whatever her mother desired.

  It was an elegant garment with highlights embroidered in gold thread that Fawzia had brought back from Pakistan several years ago. She’d hidden it away as a surprise for Sally on the occasion of her wedding. When her daughter decided to take the niqab, Fawzia had feared she would never wear the fine red sari, but Sally was no longer as stubborn and inflexible as she used to be. She stroked the soft, delicate fabric, draped the shawl over her hair, and then put it back on the hanger that held the sari. She was just about to close the closet door when her father called from downstairs.

  “Sally, come quickly!” His voice didn’t have its usual upbeat tone. Instead, it was full of apprehension and incredulity. Sally rushed from her room and hurried down the stairs, upset that her father had shattered her dreamlike mood.

  Ali was in the living room, where the women would gather; the only furniture that remained was the television set and a chair. The voice of the newsreader echoed in the empty room, and the white and pink garlands that her father had hung from the walls tossed back and forth as Sally came bursting in. “It’s terrible! Listen!”

  Ali was seated in front of the television, wide-eyed. The perpetual smile had disappeared from his face. Irritated, Sally first thought that her father was about to embark on one of his endless monologues about political tensions between India and Pakistan.

  “What’s going on?” she managed to mutter, feigning curiosity.

  “A big police operation today in Ottawa. They arrested a group of young Muslims — they’re talking about a terrorist plot.”

  Sally frowned. She couldn’t figure out why her father was so concerned.

  As if riveted to his seat, Ali turned towards Sally and said, “I think Sam is one of the people they’ve arrested.”

  Her father had to be joking, she thought. And as if Ali had read his daughter’s mind, he said, “Sally, it’s true, I’m not teasing you. When they showed the young men wearing handcuffs and looking down at the ground, one of them reminded me of Sam, the way he moved. I think he’s one of them.”

  Sally didn’t know whether to believe her father or not. She picked up the handset from the small table in the entry hall and dialled Sam’s cellphone. His familiar voice caressed her ear: “This is Sam’s voice mail. Please leave a message . . .”

  46

  “Would you like to marry me, Emma?” Ezz Bibi’s voice was flat, as if the words he’d spoken were both simple and futile, as if he hadn’t thought through the implications of his question. From behind his round eyeglasses, he scrutinized Emma’s face. The hard and distant look of the first days had completely vanished; the cool remoteness of the first few months had given way to growing intensity following the meeting with the Canadian delegation.

  Emma’s fingers toyed with the handle of a cup of steaming coffee that she hadn’t touched yet. She felt as though she were sinking into her chair, as though heavy chains were dragging her down into a subterranean cavern. She feared that someone might have overheard Mr. Bibi, and turned her head to make sure no one happened to be near them. But everything seemed half-asleep in the coffee shop — the Madeleine, decorated in the Parisian style with small round tables with red-checked tablecloths, its refrigerated showcases full of cakes, croissants, cheeses, and cold cuts. No one was paying any attention to this particular couple’s conversation.

  It was ten-thirty in the morning on a day when offices and businesses were closed, too early for regular customers. The waiter who’d brought them their coffee and an almond croissant dusted with confectioner’s sugar for Emma hardly seemed awake. He took off his glasses and meticulously wiped them with the bottom edge of his T-shirt, totally absorbed in his work.

  Emma looked around for her purse. She wanted to reassure herself by holding on to something familiar. So there had been something to her fears and doubts of recent weeks. Ezz was smiling, his expression an open question. Sh
e turned away, not wanting to see the sparkle in his eyes.

  Emma did not want her gaze to meet his; she felt trapped between the attraction she felt for this man and her disgust at the idea of betraying the woman who had come to her aid. She shivered.

  As though he could read her thoughts, he protested vigorously. “There’s nothing wrong, Emma. I’ve been living here in Dubai for years. I’m all alone. Samia is minding our daughters in Canada. Am I to blame if I meet another woman, fall in love, and marry her?” When he spoke of Samia and his family, Ezz turned emotionless, as if he were talking about work.

  Emma’s hands were shaking. She thought of Sara and their ice-skating excursion to the big rink at Dubai Mall. Emma had rented skates and a protective helmet for Sara, who glided gracefully over the sparkling ice, around and around the rink, waving at her mother.

  Sara could amuse herself. “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. I’ve got a meeting with my boss right here in the mall,” Emma told her daughter as she left the rinkside. She’d agreed to meet Ezz Bibi in a nearby café.

  “There’s something I have to tell you. I’d like to see you tomorrow,” Ezz had told her the previous night before leaving the office. Emma found his request strange. She felt awkward, certain that Mr. Bibi was hiding something from her. Her first reflex was to refuse, but how could she say no to her boss? How could she not agree to a request that at first glance seemed perfectly innocent?

  Now her legs felt so unsteady she could not get up to leave. A couple came in and the waiter shook himself awake and went over to greet them and take their order. The man and woman were speaking French.

  Emma’s head was spinning, her heart pounding; she had no idea how she should react. She thought back to Tunisia, to her wedding with Fadi. How happy she had been, with her mother by her side and her mind bursting with ideas for their future life. Fadi had held her hand and whispered in her ear: “We’ll never part. Never.” Then everything had gone up in smoke —