by Monia Mazigh
“It’s my Arabic teacher. You didn’t believe me when I told you how mean she is. You know what she said to me? I was standing up, taking my books from my bag and getting ready to sit down. Then she began to shout at me from the front of the classroom. ‘Hey, you! Yes, you, the fat little cow! Do you think you’re a real Canadian? Well, you’re not above the law. You sit down right this minute. This isn’t Canada, this is the Emirates!’” Sara’s trembling voice was interrupted by sobs.
Emma felt like a volcano about to erupt. With one hand she caressed her daughter’s face while Sara went on with her story.
“Then she came over to me and grabbed my homework, the assignment I did yesterday with you. She looked at it and then tore it up, right in front of the whole class. Then she yelled, ‘Not only won’t you do what I say, you’re a little good-for-nothing!’” Sara stopped for a moment, unable to speak for sobbing.
Emma felt as if Sara, her happy, joyous little girl, had become lost. Before her sat an unhappy child, choking on her sorrow.
“Sara, look at me, sweetie. Tomorrow I’ll have a talk with the principal. The teacher cannot treat you that way. There, there. I promise you it will never happen again.” Emma kissed her daughter and then moved to the driver’s seat. “We’re going home. You’re going to have a rest and we’ll talk about it again, okay?”
Sara nodded. She seemed to be consoled. All the way home, Emma thought long and hard about the two recent events that had disturbed their honeymoon in this magical city. After the embrace of the first days, it was as if Dubai had shown its claws, had begun to sharpen them and to rip at their flesh.
50
Louise couldn’t keep the secret any longer. She was about to burst. She wanted to shout out loud that Ameur had changed his mind, that he was ready to marry her. But she was no longer naive, unlike the first time around. This Louise was still in love but she was bruised, a skeptical Louise, a wiser Louise who had emerged stronger from her first match with Ameur.
True, she had gone to meet him. She still wanted to see his face, to hear his voice, to dream about him. But now she was far less spontaneous, less impulsive, and — most of all — very suspicious. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, but I’ll be on my guard. I’m not going to get caught in his game another time, she said to herself as she tried vainly to reach Lama.
Her friend’s home line was always busy. Louise expected that Lama would be upset with her because she’d met Ameur again, but she was convinced she’d made the right decision. How could I have known what he wanted from me, what he wanted to tell me?
At last the line was free. She heard the childlike voice of Mrs. Bibi. “Salaam, ya habibi. . . . You want to speak to Lama? I’ll call her.” Her voice reverberated in Louise’s ear.
“How’re you doing?” piped up Lama, a bit short of breath.
“What were you doing?” Louise asked, curious.
“I was watching the news on Al Jazeera. They’re rioting in Egypt because the price of bread went up. Everything looks like it’s about to fall apart over there.”
Louise went on, not missing a beat. The news didn’t interest her. “I’ve been calling you nonstop and the line’s always busy.”
Lama muttered, “It’s Mother. Always the same story, gabbing with some friend of hers. I’m not kidding, she must have been on the phone for more than an hour.”
Louise burst out laughing. All Lama could do was criticize her mother and her habits. There was no way she could accept her as she was.
“I’ve got news for you. I saw Ameur at the Brazilia. He says he’s ready to marry me. Do you think his mother will allow him?”
Lama did not respond.
“Hello, Lama! Are you there?”
Lama was in a state of shock. She had worried that Louise might meet with Ameur, but his marriage proposal stunned her. “You can’t be serious,” she finally managed to sputter.
“Yes, I swear it’s true. Listen, Lama, I realize my behaviour upsets you, but put yourself in my place. I wanted to find out why he wanted to see me. It was too much for me.”
Lama wanted to show her friend how much she disagreed. “And how do you feel? Are you happy at last, now that he wants to marry you?”
Louise let out a sigh. “Lama, spare the sarcasm. It’s not like you. And you know what? I don’t feel one bit happier! I don’t understand Ameur’s sudden change of heart. It’s strange. I want to believe him but I have plenty of questions — and most of all, plenty of fears . . .”
Lama, apparently having found her voice, broke in. “So why don’t you ask him those questions?”
“Please, Lama, enough with the snide remarks. Listen to me. I was stuck. I had to see him, had to follow my heart. I felt so alone. I wanted to rub everything out, start all over again. But life isn’t a fairy tale, not the way I feel today it isn’t. Funny, I thought I’d feel happy, but I feel exactly the opposite. I’m not even sure he’s really sincere.” With a lump in her throat, Louise paused to take a deep breath.
Lama seized the opportunity to speak up. “Aha, at last! Now you’re beginning to grasp what a hypocrite that guy is. Me, I’ve known he’s two-faced for a long time. But you, you’re letting your emotions take you for a ride. All you see are his dark eyes, all you hear are his honeyed words…”
Louise tried to defend herself. “You can say whatever you want, I forgive you. I thought his proposal would make me happy, that I’d jump for joy, but nothing of the kind happened. In fact, I’m feeling more hurt than before. Inside I’m bleeding, Lama.”
When she heard the pain in her friend’s voice, Lama backed off and attempted to smooth things over. “Okay, fine, let’s declare a truce. I won’t hold it against you that you met him. If we get together on Saturday, we can talk it over some more.”
Louise quickly agreed. Their friendship was what counted. Ameur was not going to come between them.
“So, Saturday it is,” Lama exclaimed, as if nothing had happened.
By the time she put down the handset, Louise was feeling better. Lama might be hard on her but she was her best friend, and she wasn’t about to carry a grudge. Besides, Lama was right to be upset. In her heart she gave thanks to God for placing such a strong friend on her path. The urge to pray swept over her. Without her prayer robe, her head uncovered, she dropped to her knees, forehead touching the floor. “O my Lord, I am so grateful. Protect me from danger and guide me onto the straight path.”
For the first time since she’d become a Muslim, the words came to her naturally. No need to remember the complicated formulas Ameur had written down in her notebook. Slowly, surely, his ghost was disappearing.
51
Information about Sam was coming out in dribs and drabs. The media were talking about a major plot: ten young Muslims, all converts, were planning to blow up the House of Commons. The police boasted about the arrests, but the population was divided on the issue. One group believed everything they heard on television or read in the papers. Then there were the skeptics who doubted everything and criticized everything that was said or written. Finally there were the indifferent, who frowned and changed the channel when the reports flashed across their television screens. And Sally and her family were right in the middle of it.
Sally, her eyes red and her face puffed up, was sitting in the kitchen with her parents. Ali, a hangdog look on his face, was like a little boy saddened by the loss of his best friend. Ali had found in Sam the son he never had. He had appreciated his simplicity, the way he looked him in the eye, his frankness. For months now, as he drove his taxi through the streets of Ottawa, Ali had been constructing a dream in which he saw droves of grandchildren, outings in the park, family vacations in Pakistan. Now it had all gone up in smoke. He couldn’t tell whether it was the beginning of a nightmare or a light fog soon to be burned away by the sun.
Fawzia had resisted her fatigue from the marriag
e preparations and the drama that was unfolding before their very eyes as best she could. She was doing everything to support her daughter, to console her, to strengthen her morale. But she also had to call the guests to alert them that, “due to extenuating circumstances,” the wedding would be postponed to a later date. At the other end of the line Fawzia heard the ohs and ahs of disappointment, but no one asked too many questions. Nor did she see any need to provide a detailed explanation of the postponement. People would figure it out for themselves soon enough.
Sally was torn between the pain of seeing her fiancé arrested and a powerful wish to find out exactly why. “Mommy, he says he’s innocent. I hope so, but what was he doing with that group? It doesn’t make sense . . .” She wept until her cheeks were wet.
Ali had to turn his head away because he could not bear to see his daughter in such a state.
Fawzia said, “In a few days, insha’Allah, we’ll know why. Your father will speak to a lawyer and you can visit Sam. Be patient, my darling. Every unhappiness will surely end.”
But Sally was used to finding answers immediately on the Internet and she couldn’t wait. “Who else was arrested? Why didn’t he ever tell me about them? And why did those guys want to attack Parliament and kill people?”
Sam had never breathed a word to her about politics, nor about violence. Sally had always found him peaceful, gentle, balanced. She couldn’t recall a single remark, a single comment, anything that Sam might have done in her presence to indicate any violent affiliation or ideology. “And what if Sam is a schemer, someone who leads two lives, who lured me into his trap? What do I really know about him, anyway?”
Sally knew Sam’s name and address. She knew that his mother lived in Quebec and that he visited her regularly. In fact, his mother was expected to attend the wedding. Sally also knew that his father lived in Saudi Arabia and Sam had never seen him except in photographs. His father had left Canada, never to return. And she had heard about Marc, his boyhood friend, who worked at a computer company. That was all Sally knew about Sam’s circle.
“Gang of young extremist converts . . . terrorist plot . . . planned attacks . . .” Sally felt as though she were playing a bit part in a movie. Who could have imagined that her life would take such a turn? Doubt gnawed away at her. She was beginning to see herself as the victim of an elaborate manipulation instigated by Sam, but then his plea, as reported by Marc, returned to haunt her: I am innocent.
Those three words illuminated the darkness that surrounded her. She hung fast to them, like a shipwreck survivor in a storm.
52
Liliane Khoury, the principal of Sara’s school, was Lebanese. A woman who carried herself with a certain elegance, she wore her hair short and held her head high, her shoulders curved ever so slightly forward and her glasses pushed up on her forehead to keep her bangs out of her eyes. She was probably in her fifties, but nothing about her betrayed her age as she strolled up and down the corridors, supervising the pupils as they entered their classrooms. Emma had met her when she registered her daughter at the start of the school year. She found the principal to be courteous but a bit chilly. Liliane Khoury spoke impeccable French, rolling her r’s and from time to time adding a yaani to remind whomever she was with of her Arab identity.
The day after Sara’s brush with her Arabic teacher, Emma left the house early to take her to school. She left a message on her office receptionist’s voicemail to say that she would be delayed. She avoided speaking directly to Ezz Bibi.
Emma waited patiently in the room just outside the principal’s office. The secretary, still a bit drowsy, offered her coffee. She declined.
“A glass of water, then? Madam Khoury will be here any minute,” replied the secretary with a nod. She left the room, rolling her hips.
Emma rehearsed the speech she had prepared the night before. After the bell had rung and the pupils lined up and entered their classrooms, a strange silence settled over the building. Emma could hear the principal’s footsteps approaching.
“Madam Emma, how are you?”
The principal was smiling, her voice firm, as she held out her hand. She unlocked the door to her office and showed Emma to a chair. Emma went over the story, taking great pains to repeat the Arabic teacher’s exact words. The principal jotted down notes on a pad of paper, a look of concern on her face.
“I am aware that this lady, who is very experienced, can be very strict, but I have difficulty imagining how things could get so far out of hand. I shall look into the matter, I assure you.” With these words she ended the meeting and showed Emma, speechless, to the door.
Emma felt that the principal had not taken her story seriously. She suspected that Madam Khoury did not like such complaints, which might damage the reputation of the school and upset its routine. She felt as if she had been dismissed; she felt humiliated and desperate, and more like returning home than putting up with another day of dealing with Ezz Bibi.
Why do you insist on pretending to be one of those courageous heroines who never betray their principles when all around you there’s nothing but hypocrisy and deceit? After all, Ezz Bibi is a wealthy man. He’s polite, respected by his employees. He really seems to love you. It was that nasal voice again, hissing in Emma’s ears. She shook her head to silence it.
As Emma headed for the school parking lot her mind was racing. This is no place for me. I’ve got to find a way out as fast as I —
She stopped in her tracks. A man was standing in front of her car. The silhouette was familiar. She wanted to turn around then and there, but Ezz Bibi had already spotted her. He waved. What does he want with me now? What’s he doing here? How did he know I was at Sara’s school?
Her head was spinning. Mr. Bibi smiled at her. She felt as though she were suffocating, as though she could hardly swallow.
“I was expecting to give you the good news at the office this morning. The receptionist told me you would be late, and I know that you always drive Sara to school.” Ezz Bibi was impeccably dressed as usual: suit well pressed, matching tie, hair combed back, moustache nicely trimmed.
Already discouraged, Emma felt as if her knees were about to give way; she began to sway. Ezz Bibi noticed nothing. A hot wind had sprung up, and grains of sand were beginning to fly every which way. She feigned a smile, muttered a greeting, and looked Ezz in the eye.
“Mr. al-Arish has agreed. We will be signing a contract with the Canadians, and you will be promoted to project director. What do you think? Isn’t it terrific news?”
Emma did not know whether to laugh or cry. Ezz Bibi was trying to buy her with a promotion! She smiled. “I am very grateful for your confidence, Mr. Bibi —”
He interrupted her. “Ezz. Call me Ezz, if you please.”
She pretended not to have heard, and went on. “It’s a great honour for me, Ez — Mr. Bibi.”
He wanted to stop her but let her continue. Emma kept talking, though she was saying nothing. She had only one aim: to ward off Mr. Bibi’s advances and get away as rapidly as she could.
Ezz Bibi let her go on and on, but a single question burned on his lips. “Tell me, Emma, did you think over what I asked you the other day? I always believed I was a patient man, but now I realize I’m not. I’m really anxious to hear what you have to say.”
He moved close to Emma. She could feel the touch of his shoulder against hers. Her heart beat faster — physical contact made her feel vulnerable. Her face had turned purple and the flood of words from her mouth dried up. Looking desperately for a way out, she stammered, “Mr. Bibi, you are married, the father of three girls. I know your family in Ottawa. Mrs. Bibi welcomed me into her home and showed confidence in me. I will not bite the hand she held out to me. I cannot accept your proposal. No, I could never do such a thing.”
Emma’s whole body was shaking but she was relieved to have spoken up. Mr. Bibi stood there, motionless. He’d list
ened to her without a word, fingering the keys to his car, which was parked next to Emma’s. A shroud of sadness slipped across his eyes. Emma thought she saw the spark she’d noticed as they left their meeting with the Canadian delegation slowly fading.
“Is that your final answer?” he asked.
She hesitated. The high-pitched voice inside her whispered: You’re crazy to reject his offer. He really loves you. And you’ve got to admit it: you’re in love with him — your heart beats faster when you see him, you mumble like a teenager. You’ve got a chance to rebuild your life with a mature man, not someone who’s still stuck in adolescence like Fadi, and now you’re saying no? You’re thinking about Mrs. Bibi, aren’t you? Well, too bad for her if she couldn’t keep her husband with those extravagant tastes of hers . . .
Suddenly Emma felt like reaching out to take Ezz Bibi’s hand, to accept his proposal, but the words were already taking shape in her mouth: “Mr. Bibi, my decision is irrevocable.”
He smiled and his face once more assumed its mask of indifference. Then he waved goodbye and got into his car. Emma stood leaning against hers as he drove away. The desert wind was blowing harder and clouds filled the sky. A sandstorm was on the way.
53
Samia Bibi was feeling lower by the day, but her anxiety level was soaring. Ever since her friend Leila had made those insinuations about Ezz and Emma, she couldn’t think of anything else. Unable to concentrate on day-to-day life, she spent hours languishing in a dream world.
When she talked to her husband, everything seemed perfectly normal. They chatted about their respective lives and his upcoming visit to Ottawa for the winter holidays. There was nothing to indicate that trouble might be brewing, but still doubt gnawed away at her.
What if I flew to Dubai without telling him? Maybe I’d find out what’s really going on, she said to herself, lounging in bed in her pyjamas, her mind wandering, doing everything she could to avoid starting another day full of unanswered questions. But she came to her senses rapidly. I couldn’t leave my three daughters alone at home. What would people say? They would think there’s a problem, and it would look like Leila was right after all.