by Monia Mazigh
happiness, love, friends, work. And now, in Dubai, a second chance was staring Emma in the face. A man desired her, her job fulfilled her — her heart wanted to cry out, loud and clear, her joy at so much happiness, but something was holding her back.
Emma hesitated, looked at Ezz. Without hiding her emotions, she replied, “Mr. Bibi, your question comes as a surprise to me. I came to Dubai to work. I wasn’t planning on starting all over again.”
Ezz interrupted her. “But why not? Finding love and a career at the same time, what’s wrong with that?”
Emma wanted to tell him what was wrong: not only was Mr. Bibi married, he was married to the very woman who had given her that career.
Ezz continued, “Emma, you know very well that in this country life can be difficult for a woman without a husband and with a child to look after. Forget what people will say. I’ll take care of everything. I sincerely love you and I want to marry you.”
The blood was pulsing in Emma’s veins. She wanted to be swept away by the man’s words. For an instant she closed her eyes and saw herself walking hand in hand with Ezz Bibi through a Dubai shopping centre. But something was missing from that happy image: her daughter, Sara.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry, Mr. Bibi, I have to run. Sara is waiting for me.”
“There’s no hurry. And please, don’t give me your answer before you’ve thought it over. Take all the time you need.”
Emma felt the other couple’s gaze come to rest on her. The woman was looking her up and down as she blushed like a little girl. She was sorry she’d agreed to this meeting.
She hurried out of the coffee shop. Her dreams had disappeared and reality had caught up with her. Me, a second wife, a concubine for Mr. Bibi? A fine way to thank Samia. She strode through the broad aisles of the shopping centre, ignoring the posters, the advertising, the mannequins dressed in glamorous evening dresses. Soon Emma was lost among the crowds of customers — men, women, and children — that had begun to throng this temple of consumption.
The bright lights of the “gold souk,” a succession of luxury boutiques that specialized in jewellery, dazzled her as they sparkled on diamond bracelets and necklaces, precious stones, and watches behind scintillating shop windows. It was as though she’d been swept away to El Dorado, the land where it rained gold dust. She was like a feather blown hither and thither by violent winds, not knowing when it would come to earth.
At last she reached the gateway to the arena. Sara was nowhere to be seen. Her heart beat faster still. In panic her eyes flitted from left to right. She looked closely at the skaters. There was no trace of Sara. Where’s my daughter? O God, do not punish me! I should never have listened to Mr. Bibi’s nonsense. For a brief instant guilt surged through her.
She was about to search the locker room when she saw Sara. There she was seated in the bleachers, rosy-cheeked, fine hair stuck to her sweaty head, a broad smile on her face. “Mummy, how come you’re late?”
Emma did not know whether to laugh or cry. Pale, mouth gaping, she had just experienced the fright of her life. She took Sara in her arms and rocked her gently. “Did you have a good time?” she finally managed to articulate.
“Oh, Mummy, it was terrific! Much better than the skating rinks in Ottawa. Bring me here again.”
Emma continued to hug Sara and sway from side to side. A bizarre thought flashed through her mind: Flee. Escape from this place and wipe Mr. Bibi’s advances from your memory.
But where could she go? She did not know. She could already feel Dubai’s artificial happiness beginning to fade.
47
Brazilia was the name of a little café not far from the campus. It was like a second home for customers of every description — they came to drink a cup of coffee, sip a chai latte, read a newspaper, or simply enjoy a quiet moment. There were down-and-out students dressed like hippies, with braided hair or shaven heads, discussing their courses, their problems, and life in general. They would chatter noisily and crack jokes as they knocked back their daily dose of caffeine. There were other, less visible students, the quieter ones who always sat at the same tables at the back of the café, finishing a project or simply passing the time of day; their murmuring sounded like the lazy buzzing of bees in a flower garden. The occasional professor or civil servant would drop in, lost in thought, totally detached from the ambient din.
The café walls were painted light maroon and decorated with photographs of Ottawa dating from the early twentieth century. The light fixtures consisted of globes draped with thick multicoloured fabric that hung within a few inches of the round wooden tables. Clustered around each table were chairs in numbers that varied according to the group that chose to sit there. Warm, bewitching music lent the café an exotic feel.
Louise left work at around four-thirty in the afternoon. She had spent the entire day thinking about Ameur. Each time she was tempted to forget about their appointment, something reminded her of it. When she walked through the waiting room on the way to heat up her lunch, she had the feeling that the hands of the clock were watching her closely, as if to say it was only a few hours until they would meet. Later, as she made the day’s final round, helping several patients make themselves comfortable in their wheelchairs, the numbers on the digital clock flashed as if to remind her that it was time to leave.
Louise changed out of her uniform and into her street clothes. It was warm, but the early autumn was already showing its colours: the leaves were tipped with red. Louise strode towards her appointment, trying to imagine what Ameur would say. Nervous excitement was getting the better of her — she was smiling at life.
At the back of the café she sat down at a free table, ordered a glass of lemonade, and waited. She took a sip, then put down the glass because it was too sweet. Ameur came in with his customary gait, a blissful smile on his face, eyes cast downward, moving towards her.
“How are you doing?” he asked.
“Fine,” answered Louise. “And you?”
Ameur’s face darkened. “My mother and I aren’t getting along too well these days. I don’t want to marry my cousin and Mother is upset. You can cut the atmosphere at home with a knife.”
Louise’s face lit up. “So why don’t you want to marry your cousin?”
Ameur seemed to hesitate, then said, “It’s too complicated to bring her here. There are immigration forms to fill out, and then it takes between eight and twelve months before she can come. I just can’t wait that long.”
Louise was a bit disturbed. She’d hoped that Ameur would tell her that he loved only her, but he seemed in no hurry to say it. There was something else on his mind.
Ameur hated bureaucracy and loved efficiency. Louise was close at hand. He could pluck her right then and there. He caught himself. “And Louise, you know it’s you I’ve wanted from the start.”
Louise forgave him his first mistake. He’d just said what she wanted to hear. She let him continue.
“I’ll be leaving for Hamilton in three weeks. I’ll be looking for an apartment and then starting med school. I want you to come with me. We’ll get married and we’ll live together, far from all our problems here.”
The news burst like a bombshell in Louise’s ears. She took another drink of lemonade, forgetting how sweet it was. “What about your mother? Doesn’t she count for anything? A little while ago you wanted to obey her whatever the cost and you were determined to end our relationship, and now you’re saying all that doesn’t matter anymore. I’d like to know what’s behind this change of mind of yours. I don’t get it.”
Louise’s counterattack took Ameur by surprise. He did not expect to be challenged; he was so certain that Louise was still blinded by love. “Please, Louise, don’t punish me for such a trifle. Over the past months I’ve been thinking a lot, and my mind is made up. We’ve got to marry. It’s what’s best for both of us. What do you say?”
Louise sat there, mouth open wide. Ameur’s words rolled over her like a bulldozer. She had hoped he would tell her about his love, his passion, tell her how sorry he was, but he had done nothing of the kind. He’d come with one idea in mind — get married and settle down.
“I have to think it over. I can’t just leave my job on a whim. I need some time.”
A look of relief suffused Ameur’s tense features. “Call me whenever you feel like it. I’ll wait for you. In three weeks everything will be fine and our new life will begin.”
Louise smiled faintly. Ameur’s proposal had left her ill at ease. “I’ll call you, it’s a pro — Yes, I’ll get back to you.” She got to her feet.
Ameur said goodbye and watched her leave in silence. Once again his eyes shone. His plan was working perfectly. He couldn’t be more satisfied. He was already planning their life together in Hamilton.
48
Ali Hussein was not dreaming, not seeing things. His eyes were not playing tricks on him and he wasn’t making it up. The blurred image he’d seen on the television screen had indeed been Sam, his future son-in-law, Sally’s fiancé.
It took a long time to convince Sally that The Boy Next Door, the man she loved and who was about to become her husband, was in custody on terrorism charges. The hours that passed were long, and during those interminable hours Sally’s life completely changed direction.
Gone were her connections with the religious websites and discussion forums. She spent hours on the telephone seeking an answer to the doubts detonating in her mind. She had not watched television for such a long time, but now she sat riveted in front of the screen, staring again and again at the blurred and shaky videos taken by excited journalists who pursued the accused in an attempt to identify them. She rediscovered her old reflexes, zapping from one channel to another in an effort to understand what had happened, to convince herself that the tall, slender silhouette she was looking at was not Sam. But no matter which channel she switched to, the story was the same. Listening closely, she understood that everything was confused, murky, impossible to confirm; the news coverage was based on hypotheses. The commentators and journalists really knew very little.
The media spectacle, in which fear, sensationalism, and voyeurism had overcome information, was of no help at all to Sally in facing the storm that was sweeping over her. “Is that really Sam?” she kept repeating. “And if it’s really him, how did he get mixed up in something like this?” Her convictions were weakening by the minute.
A frigid silence descended over the Hussein household. Fawzia’s joyous cassettes went quiet; Ali’s contagious laughter came to an abrupt stop; Sally retreated into terrified silence. The only sound to break the deathly stillness was the journalists’ voices echoing from the television set.
Sally dialled Sam’s number again. Her fingers were trembling. She could feel her knees buckling beneath the weight of her body. Every time she called she hoped she would hear his voice, calm and collected, telling her that everything was all right, that it wasn’t his back that she had seen on television, but the only response was the monotone of his voicemail.
“I’ve got an idea!” Ali Hussein blurted as if awakening from a deep sleep. “Why don’t we call the Ottawa police and tell them how wor —”
He didn’t finish his sentence. His wife interrupted him, eyes gleaming, mouth quivering. “You’re not calling anybody! For the time being we don’t know what’s going on. Yes, it’s true, the pictures look a lot like . . .” It was as though her mouth could not bring itself to utter the word Sam. “. . . like Sam, but we can’t be sure. Maybe it’s someone who looks like him. I think the best thing is to wait a little longer, until tonight . . .”
Sally’s gaze swung from her father to her mother, and an immense sadness swept over her. She was moving into uncharted territory; she was a survivor of a shipwreck without a life jacket.
But they would not have to wait until the evening. One of Sam’s old friends, whose name Sally recognized from the guest list for the wedding, called. “Hello, my name is Marc. May I speak to Sally, please?”
Questions swirled through Sally’s mind like moths seeking light. “It’s m-me,” she managed to stammer.
“Sally, I’ve got bad news for you.”
Those were precisely the words that Sally feared hearing, words that had haunted her ever since she first saw the images on the television set.
“Sam called a few minutes ago. He’s in the Ottawa Detention Centre. He’s too upset to call you, so he begged me to do it. He gave me your number. He wants a lawyer.”
Sally couldn’t bear to hear anything more. Her ears were roaring, the wedding tambourines were pounding. She blurted out, “Thank you for calling, Marc.”
“I don’t know anything about what’s happened. I’m so sorry. But Sam wanted you to hear something else — he says he’s innocent. I’m really sorry,” Marc repeated. “I’ll call again if I have any news. Good luck . . .”
Sally hung up. Ali and Fawzia rushed over to her.
Her mother was first to speak. “What is it, darling? You look dizzy. Was Sam arrested?”
Sally flung herself into her mother’s arms, sobbing like a baby. Ali felt more and more useless. Standing there, hands in his pockets, a look of confusion on his face, he murmured some incomprehensible words.
“Yes, it’s him, Mommy. It’s him, all right. Sam is in jail.”
Sally repeated the same words over and over as Fawzia tried to comfort her.
“There, there, my darling, everything will be fine, insha’Allah. I’m sure there’s been a terrible mistake. You’ll see.”
49
Ever since the meeting at the café, Emma’s life had taken a new turn. She loathed going to work, pretending that everything was perfectly normal and chatting nonchalantly with her colleagues. She could not face Ezz’s admiring gaze. He was still awaiting her response and she did everything to avoid being alone with him.
Every day had become a veritable torment that tore at her skin and ripped it to shreds; every day this torment penetrated her skull like a constant roar. Stretched out in her bed after kissing Sara and turning off the lights, she relived the scene in the Café Madeleine. She recalled Ezz Bibi’s mirthful eyes, his imperturbable bearing, his preposterous explanations, that Clark Gable pencil moustache of his. My Lord, how will I ever get out of here? How will I escape this trap? Poor Samia, if she only knew . . .
Emma was trapped. If I resign without providing a valid reason I’ll lose two months’ salary and I’ll end up penniless in a foreign country. And if I stay, I’ll have to live with Ezz Bibi’s invasive, piercing stare. How can he imagine marrying a second woman without divorcing the first? It may be legal in this country, but how can he even think of such a thing? Doesn’t he care about his daughters, his wife, their friends? Is this his way of taking revenge on Samia for refusing to return to Dubai with him? Is Ezz Bibi using me to humiliate his demanding wife?
Emma was lost in a labyrinth of fantasy. One moment she imagined herself dropping everything and fleeing with her daughter, never to see this country or Mr. Bibi again, and the next she imagined herself married to him, radiant, forgetting Samia and his daughters in Canada. Worst of all, Emma felt attracted to Ezz. She was drawn to his self-confidence, his courtliness, the insistent way he spoke to her and looked at her.
And as if that wasn’t enough, Sara, who adored her new life, had begun to complain about her teacher. The incident had taken place a few days after the marriage proposal. Sara was registered in a private school where her courses were in English, but she also had classes in Arabic and French. She had much more homework than back in Ottawa, but Sara liked to read and to study.
She was finding Arabic difficult. Sara spoke the language but had difficulty reading it, and she could not write long sentences. The Arabic teacher, a very strict Egyptian woman, shouted at her pupils and threaten
ed them if they did not finish their homework. “If you don’t do as I say, you will have to copy the same passage one hundred times over!”
Telling the story to Emma, Sara placed her fists on her hips and raised her voice. Then she frowned while shaking her finger at an imaginary classroom, imitating her teacher. “I don’t want to go to Arabic lessons anymore. That lady scares me. She’s really mean.”
Sara sighed when she did her homework. Her handwriting was shaky, but she did everything she could to avoid erasing her letters and having to start all over again. Emma encouraged her to be patient. It wouldn’t be long before her marks improved, and then she wouldn’t be afraid.
“No, Mummy, that’s not it at all. It’s not just my marks, it’s the teacher who scares me. She’s really, really nasty.”
Emma laughed in an attempt to calm her daughter. She didn’t want things to get blown out of proportion. “Sara, you’re exaggerating. You’ve seen 101 Dalmatians too many times. Your Arabic teacher isn’t Cruella. She’s just a bit too strict.”
But Sara was right, and the situation got worse. One day when Emma picked up Sara after school, she found her daughter with puffy eyes and a red face.
Emma stopped in her tracks. “What happened?”
Embarrassed, Sara did not dare tell her. She whispered, “I’ll tell you all about it in the car, Mummy.” She shook her head and sniffled as she tried to hold back tears.
“Tell me what happened, sweetie. Did someone hit you? Speak up. I have to know.”
Sara did not answer. Her miserable appearance was breaking Emma’s heart. Almost running, she took her daughter by the hand and led her to the car. They sat down in the back seat, far from the eyes of passersby. Sara, feeling safer, began to speak.