by Monia Mazigh
THE CIRCLE OF dancing women had expanded. Samia was the star of the evening. Her eyes gleamed, her breath came in gasps as she spun round and round. She hoped she’d succeeded in making all the other guests green with envy. She couldn’t be entirely certain, but in the days following this marriage ceremony she would know for sure. The morning get-togethers over steaming freshly brewed Turkish coffee would quickly give her an answer. Tongues would be loosened and the gossip would be flying thick and fast from house to house.
The ceremony was in honour of the wedding of her friend Suzie’s daughter to an Egyptian of Palestinian origin. Little Dina, the bride, was perched atop a broad armchair decorated with artificial flowers and pink and purple balloons. She’d had her hair cut in a pageboy and wore a gown specially imported from Dubai for the occasion. Malicious rumours had had Dina just about ready to move in with her boyfriend, John, a half-Irish Quebecer, but Suzie, in a last-ditch attempt to change her daughter’s mind, had introduced her to the son of a friend.
It was love at first sight, exactly who Dina was looking for: a Westernized young man who spoke perfect English, was slightly effeminate, appeared not to be excessively intelligent, and could tell funny stories that made people laugh until they cried.
“At least he’s a Muslim,” repeated Suzie with a contented air. Then she added, with a burst of laughter, “Poor John — and he’s not even circumcised!”
She was proud to have brought Dina back to the straight path, to marry her to a Muslim, not to mention a Palestinian. A divine gift if ever there was one. The first thing she did was call her sister, who was living in Jordan, and ask her to sacrifice a lamb and distribute the meat to the poor. It was a promise she’d made in her prayers, and they had been answered.
Dina never saw John again, and a few months later everything was ready for the marriage. Those weeks and months had been dreamlike. So much had happened in her life in such a short time. She was a new woman. Her fine words to her friends, warning them not to emulate their mothers, evaporated in the heady atmosphere of the approaching wedding. Her criticisms of tradition fell silent. Dina had surrendered to the invisible hand that with every passing day pulled her closer to her mother and to her roots. With a distant look on her face, an uncertain smile on her lips, she greeted the guests who filed past her with a nod. She had lost the battle against her mother and against her own principles, but tonight all she wanted to do was forget her defeat and turn the page. This was a time not for regret but for celebration. Dina stood up, and a handful of older ladies stared with disapproval as she too began to move to the music.
From across the room Lama watched the beautiful people. She knew most of the women would cover their hair and put on long garments that concealed their cleavage before leaving the reception hall. If a touch of makeup remained on their cheeks and eyelids, a hint of lipstick on their mouths, well, that was too bad. It was night, and no man would see them except for the husbands who came to pick them up.
Lama felt terrible about the way her mother was dancing. What a shameful way to behave! How she hated the hypocrisy. And to top it off, she was still in shock that Dina had decided overnight to drop John, her boyfriend, and fling herself into a new adventure. Did Dina really love her new husband? How could she turn her back on someone she loved one day and embrace a lifestyle she’d always despised the next? Dina, hair dyed blonde and dripping with flashy jewellery that the sister and mother of her new husband had draped around her wrists and neck, didn’t seem worried in the least by the astonishment, the bedazzlement of the guests.
“What a mess,” Lama sighed, over and over. Her mother and two sisters were still dancing. She picked up a morsel of baklava and popped it into her mouth. The aroma of rosewater and the strong taste of honey brought a grimace to her face. She could hardly wait for the party to end.
9
Alice Gendron’s hands were shaking. Read the newspaper? Impossible. She could not concentrate. A brief dispatch caught her eye. Despite her agitation, she managed to read it:
The ambassador of an Arab country has annulled his marriage after learning that his future spouse, who wore a niqab (full-face veil), had a beard and suffered from strabismus, according to a report published Wednesday in an Emirates newspaper. The ambassador had agreed to wed the resident of a Gulf country on the basis of photos provided by the family, which turned out to be those of the bride’s sister, the report added. In the course of his rare meetings with his fiancée, the ambassador had not been able to see her features as she wore a niqab, according to the article. Once the contract had been signed he discovered “when he attempted to kiss his wife, a physician, that she had a beard and suffered from strabismus.” He filed a petition with the court, alleging that he had been “duped” by his parents-in-law, and divorce was granted. The source did not cite the nationality of the diplomat nor of the wife. Women in the Gulf monarchies often wear veils when they appear in public, and some wear the niqab, or full-face veil.
The frail sheet of newsprint quivered in time with Alice Gendron’s trembling hands. How she would have liked to freeze them, to hide them, to cause them to vanish for a moment, to forget them, to forget how unhappy she was. Fortunately there were no other nurses in the staff lounge to observe her state of distress.
The microwave, the mini-fridge, the red couch . . . everything was in order, everything was clean, everything was just as it should be. But the item she’d read was by no means as harmless and banal as Mme Gendron would have found it a year ago, before her daughter became a Muslim. Now her daughter’s actions were calling her and her life deeply into question.
Louise had turned her back on her liberty to enter a hermetic world, a closed space where women looked like identical articles for sale. The idea of Louise in a veil made her shudder. She didn’t even want to glance at the newspaper. She hoped a hearty laugh and a good breakfast would sweep away her nervousness — at least, that would have been the solution before Louise’s life fell over a precipice, dragging her down too. Mme Gendron pushed the newspaper as far from her as she could, as though she hoped to erase from memory what she’d just read.
Alice’s world had collapsed. Everything had become strange, abnormal, bizarre. She could not understand what had driven her daughter to choose that path. It can’t be her choice! Alice insisted, in a final effort to deny reality. They must have brainwashed her at university, I’m sure of it. She was furious with herself, with her stupidity and her naivety, but most of all she was furious with Louise. Why didn’t I see it coming? All the to-and-fro, all the so-called conferences with those Arab friends of hers. Wasn’t that obvious enough? I should have put my foot down, showed more severity, more foresight. I should have spotted the problem before it got out of hand . . .
But how would she have gone about it, she who’d always been so open-minded, so confident? It would be against her philosophy of education to stick her nose into her daughter’s life. She hadn’t brought up her daughter with threats, with the fear of punishment. Above all, she hadn’t wanted to treat Louise as she had been treated. She’d always allowed her to express herself, to show her curiosity, to ask questions.
Religion had been absent from Alice’s life for years. Her childhood memories, which were dominated by religion, were bitter ones. There were moments of nostalgia when she felt like turning back to the past, when she looked hard for a glimmer of faith, a tiny twig of happiness, but she could find nothing. The pain was too sharp, her resentment too strong. So she closed her eyes and tried to forget, to concentrate on the present. That was her only source of happiness. But today, even that light had begun to flicker, and it threatened to die, extinguished by Louise’s capricious behaviour.
In becoming a Muslim, Louise had reintroduced the spectre of a dark past into their household. And she was trying to nurture the flame of faith with another religion, a foreign, terrifying, unknown religion that sent chills down Alice’s spine. How could my da
ughter have caved in to her friends’ pressure? How could she have agreed to sacrifice her liberty, to lock herself away in an archaic and chauvinistic moral system, one that was underdeveloped and anti-feminist? How could she have thrown over all that had been won after years of struggle for the emancipation of women, and now submit herself body and soul to the grip of a religion that stood for the exact opposite?
What has happened to Louise? Does she really hate me that much? she repeated, over and over.
Just then the door opened and her friend and co-worker Christiane came into the room. They’d been working together for years. Christiane knew almost everything about Alice; they talked over their worries, their everyday problems, their workplace disagreements, and their arguments with the physicians. It didn’t take her long to notice how strained Alice’s face looked.
“What’s the matter? You’re white as a sheet. Are you feeling okay?”
Alice could not answer. She would have liked to start sobbing, to let her friend comfort her, but fear held her back, took away her voice. Was it fear of being seen as an unworthy mother, a mother who had failed to train her daughter to discern freedom from illusion? Or was it shame at displaying her vulnerability?
The words came with a rush, only to catch halfway in her throat, blocked by fear. Alice Gendron was a strong woman; she would not let misfortune get the best of her. Louise’s metamorphosis would not beat her. She was not about to lower her guard. But deep down inside, for the first time she felt a tiny crack, the smallest fissure. Was mother-love getting the better of her or was she getting older and weaker? Ideas tumbled over one another in her mind. What should she answer? She had no idea. Christiane stood there, motionless, staring at her friend.
“I’m not feeling too well, that’s all. I’d better take a day or two off and get some rest,” she managed to blurt out. But her face betrayed her. She wanted to hide her hurt, to escape, to avoid Christiane’s inquisitive eyes. She wanted to be alone, to think things through.
Alice Gendron took the bus home. She lived in an apartment not far from the University of Ottawa. A handsome building, a bit old but clean and well kept. In the vestibule she came to a stop in front of the mailbox. Reluctant to open it, she hesitated for a moment, then dropped the key into her purse and headed for the stairs. Her apartment was just like her: clean and organized. Ever since she had become a nurse in Montreal she had worked and put money aside to buy a little home one day, a place where she could feel secure with Louise, somewhere she could relax after a long day’s work.
The first years in Montreal had not been easy. She divided her time between work, housekeeping chores, and her daughter. She never saw Pierre again, and he never paid her a cent in child support. At first she attempted to seek him out, to talk to him, to smooth over their differences, but it had all been for naught. He wanted nothing to do with her.
As she slowly made her way up the stairs she remembered Pierre’s eyes as he stared at her coldly, without emotion, as though they were total strangers, as though they had never lived and dreamed together.
“I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to keep the child,” she’d said in a quiet voice, head lowered, as they sat on a park bench watching children play in the sandbox.
Pierre had not answered. His lower jaw was trembling slightly. Then from between clenched teeth he said, “It’s me or the baby. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Then he got to his feet, turned on his heel, and walked away.
Alice watched the children at play and wiped the tears that trickled down her cheeks. A single thought flashed into her mind: It will be the baby. Yes, it will be the baby.
Alice laboriously lifted one foot and then the other. The stairs seemed steeper than usual, almost interminable. How far away all that seemed. She’d left Montreal, and in Ottawa she had found a wonderful job and a few good friends. And above all, her daughter, Louise, grew up peacefully, shining light every day on the dark pages of those black days.
Alice was panting. She took a deep breath and turned the key. As she opened the door, she felt as though she would collapse. No, it was not a bad dream — she was wide awake. There, standing in the middle of the living room, dressed in a strange costume, Louise was praying.
10
Emma felt lost in her new home. After three months at the women’s shelter she’d lost the notion of personal space. During those hellish months she and Sara had felt crushed, suffocated, overwhelmed by the metal-framed beds and the dresser where they stored their belongings.
The new house was too big for her. And yet it was a small house, with a tiny kitchen, a ground-floor living room, and two bedrooms and a bathroom on the second floor. The stairway was narrow, the rooms cramped. The kitchen consisted of a counter held up by cabinets whose doors would barely close. Years of constant use had worn the floor bare.
And yet, Emma was happy. She hugged Sara tight, as if afraid of losing her in this still empty and soulless place. She’d double-locked the door. The neighbourhood didn’t exactly inspire her with confidence. Tomorrow she would buy a security lock; that would put her at ease.
The living room was small but it had a large window that opened onto a minuscule backyard, the same kind of backyard she’d noticed when she came by for a look. Tucked up on one side and falling to the floor on the other, pink curtains bleached by the sun and covered with dust framed the window. The municipal employees who had cleaned the house before Emma’s arrival surely thought it best to leave them as they were.
Emma walked towards the window, glancing furtively from side to side as if afraid of finding something untoward. Night was falling. At the rear of the yard she could make out a rusted bicycle and a bag of discarded junk. Weeds, dry and brittle, covered the ground, waiting to vanish with the first snow.
She stood still for a moment, lost in thought. Sara was sitting on the floor, leafing through some books she’d discovered in a cardboard box. All Emma could think about was her life over the past few years. Everything had happened so fast: graduation, the job of her dreams, her marriage to Fadi, Sara’s arrival. She had been floating on a cloud of happiness; everything was beautiful, tinted in shades of pink. And then the wind had shifted. Things began to fall apart. Her descent into hell began.
One year after Sara’s birth Emma was still torn. Should she stay at home with her daughter or return to work? Her job was demanding: she was an engineer working for a high-tech firm. Deadlines had to be met, and she feared she couldn’t keep up the pace as well as look after her child. Her husband was indifferent. The idea of sending Sara off to daycare didn’t seem to bother him; he insisted that Emma keep working.
But for Emma, the prospect of placing her daughter in some daycare centre while she continued to work exhausting hours was heartbreaking. Her sleep became troubled, and she began to resent her husband and his increasing obsession with his projects and his career. The Fadi of before seemed to be fading away. Day by day he was gradually turning into someone else. She knew it.
Was she to blame? Had Sara’s birth turned their lives inside out? What had caused the rift that was now widening between them? Those were the questions that plagued Emma. Fadi, the easygoing young man she met during her last year at Montreal Polytechnic, was no longer the same.
She could see herself strolling beside him down Sainte-Catherine Street, watching the people rush by dressed in their office clothes, with serious expressions, their features strained by tension. Fadi was making humorous comments that made Emma burst out laughing, or telling stories of his childhood in Beirut.
“I remember clearly when the whole family would go out for a stroll after sunset along the Corniche. A mulberry-syrup seller had a stand there. I was wild about mulberry juice, so my father would buy me a glass. How I loved the sweet taste, and there was just a touch of sour that made me tingle . . .”
Emma listened attentively as she tried to imagine Fadi’s favourit
e childhood haunts. Then he turned to her, looked her in the eyes, and said, “One day I’ll take you to Lebanon. We’ll stroll along the Corniche and watch the sun set behind the Pigeon Rocks at Raouché.”
Emma blushed and said nothing, closing her eyes as if to capture the enchanting scene in her memory. As if to make good on his promise, he invited her then and there to a small Lebanese restaurant. He ordered two plates of shish taouk, rice, and green salad. When the dishes appeared, he made a face. “Like Mother always said, nothing can compare with the restaurants of Beirut, but you can always dream . . .”
They wolfed down the chunks of over-grilled chicken, the slightly glutinous rice, and the oily salad. They were so happy to be alone together that they hardly noticed the cheap meal in front of them. Emma, cheeks ablaze, was eating and giggling all at once.
But all that was dead now, dead and buried. As the years passed, the insouciant, optimistic young man with the ready smile had turned cold, calculating, unsmiling, attracted by the prospect of promotion and the lure of money. All that mattered was his ambition; his eyes were closed to the world around him. Only he counted.
Even though she could see him changing, Emma tried to pretend that nothing was wrong. She enrolled her daughter in a daycare and applied for transfer to a department where it would be easier for her to get home early and spend more time with Sara. She called her mother every weekend to tell her about her life, with all its ups and downs.
