by Monia Mazigh
“Are you travelling, madam?” he asked.
“Yes,” Emma answered in a low voice. “I’m going to work in Dubai.”
She had hardly finished her sentence when the driver continued, “Oh, you’re fortunate, madam! Me, I’m originally from Pakistan. Ali’s my name and I’m trained as an engineer. When I came to Canada, I couldn’t find work in my field, but, thank God, I’m earning my living now. As you can see, I’m an old man; I don’t have any ambition. You’ve got to try your luck when you’re young, your age . . .”
On and on he went, about his daughter, who was born in Ottawa and who had just received her degree in computer science and was getting married in a few months; about his wife, who was a wonderful cook. He ended every sentence with the same expression: “God be praised!”
Emma’s mind was far away and she was barely listening. She held Sara’s hand as she answered mechanically, “Yes. Yes, that’s right.” Her mind had already taken flight for Dubai. She could only think of the new life that was awaiting her over there. But then, suddenly, she felt unsure of her decision. Maybe she had acted too fast. But did she really have a choice? Caught between poverty and the humiliation of receiving welfare and a decent, well-paying job, what was she supposed to choose? She had been trapped, cornered. No doubt about it — the trip to Dubai was a life preserver.
Ali the driver pulled up in front of the international departures entrance, removed the two suitcases from the trunk, and placed them at Emma’s feet. She already had the fare in hand.
“Thank you, madam, and most of all, good luck. Who knows, maybe you’ll return to Ottawa one day. You never know . . .”
Emma smiled politely. She wanted to tell him that she was turning the page, that she would never turn back. But Ali and his taxi had already vanished.
She located a baggage cart and Sara helped her lift the two suitcases onto it. Pushed by four hands, the cart clunked slowly forward, carrying what remained of their life in Ottawa. The public address system blared through the airport. The countdown had begun.
Emma shivered and broke out in gooseflesh; suddenly she felt like dashing out of the airport. She thought of Jeanne, alone now with her two daughters, trapped in illness and poverty. Then she thought of her mother, how happy she was that her daughter would be closer to her and that she would be able to work in a dignified manner. Emma’s hands clutched the handle of the luggage cart. She looked at Sara, smiled, and began to move at a decisive pace towards the check-in counter.
34
The festival season was in full swing. Tourists thronged Ottawa’s ByWard Market. Some licked at ice-cream cones to cool off while others lounged beneath the umbrellas at sidewalk cafés as they watched the passing crowd.
The farmers’ stalls overflowed with fresh produce from the surrounding countryside. The intense colours of the fruits and vegetables caught the eye of even the most indifferent passersby. Plump, sweet-smelling strawberries nudged up against tiny blueberries that glistened like dark pearls. Groups of tourists crowded around the stalls, popping samples into their mouths as they inquired about the price of this or that.
Then there were the florists’ stands, with their flowering pots hanging like rainbows from the metal poles that held up the canopies that in turn protected their ephemeral existence. Elsewhere, flats of flowers were set out in ranks like well-disciplined soldiers as they waited patiently for someone to carry them away.
The window of a pastry shop exhibited its impeccably decorated, almost joyous cakes, decorated with blanched hazelnuts and mango slices artfully laid atop chocolate curls. Lama and Louise were salivating as with their eyes they wolfed down the delicacies on display, wondering if they dared walk through the shop door and succumb to temptation.
“What do you think of that cake over there, the one with the fine layer of rose-coloured jelly?” asked Louise, turning to her friend.
Lama wrinkled her nose and hesitated. She would prefer one of the fat cigars stuffed with crème pâtissière and garnished at both ends with finely chopped almonds.
Since Louise had opened her heart to Lama about Ameur, the two girls saw each other almost every day. They would meet after class, chatting about everything and nothing, about their future, about politics, about boys, about religion. They agreed on most things, and about one thing in particular: they must never stop talking to each other.
Louise had begun a training course as a nurse in a palliative care unit. There she kept company with death on a daily basis and witnessed the suffering of the terminally ill. She did not regret her decision to become a nurse; in fact, every time she put on her work clothes and began looking after her patients, she felt her decision had been crucial. Still, metaphysical questions haunted her. Death was her constant companion. She witnessed it come to rest in sick bodies wracked by pain and reduced by suffering, even as the patients sought for hope in a word, a gesture, a glance. Louise sometimes found answers in her new faith, but just as often she did not, and it was then that she raised her doubts with Lama.
Her friend had found a job as a cashier in a small downtown grocery store, where she worked from early morning until four o’clock in the afternoon. Her father had made up his mind to stay in Dubai for the summer and to take a winter vacation with the whole family over the New Year’s holiday. Louise and Lama met every day at lunchtime to stroll along the Rideau Canal and enjoy a bite together. This day, they’d met at the ByWard Market and shared a tuna sandwich. Now it was time for dessert.
Finally, after much hemming and hawing, Lama opted for a mille-feuille with crème pâtissière, while Louise chose an almond tartlet. They stepped out of the pastry shop, as proud of their accomplished decision-making as if they had just completed an exhausting round of negotiations at the United Nations.
“Mmm, this crème pâtissière is delicious,” said Lama, licking her lips. Louise was just finishing the last bite of her tartlet, and she nodded in agreement.
On Wellington they stopped not far from Parliament Hill. Hungry office workers were pouring out onto the streets. Two determined joggers strode past in the heat, their water bottles bouncing on their hips. As they ran by, red-faced and sweating, Louise exclaimed, “Wow, what determination! How I’d love to have the courage to deal with my problems and my convictions the way they do!”
“Why not? What’s holding you back?” Lama responded as she shook pastry crumbs from her blouse.
“My mother’s love . . . I just can’t handle it by myself. Last fall I wanted to wear the veil. I made all the preparations, bought scarves, long skirts. I wanted to prove to myself who I was, to prove my new convictions, but I could never do it. Even my love for Ameur wasn’t enough. I feel so weak, so unlike those runners defying the heat, the fatigue, and thirst.”
“Why don’t you explain your ideas to your mother? Why don’t you try to talk it over with her, give her your side of the story?” asked Lama, forgetting for a moment that she could barely talk to her own mother.
“I did it, time and time again — tried to tell her. It’s a big waste of time because she thinks I’ve been brainwashed…She doesn’t want to accept that the path I’ve chosen isn’t the same as hers. But in spite of everything I really love her, and I have the feeling that I can’t really break free from her. It’s like she’s always looking at me critically, wherever I go and whatever I do —”
Lama opened her mouth and was about to speak when she noticed Louise’s expression had changed. Her face was suddenly livid. They had just passed the Langevin Block, the building that houses the Privy Council and the Prime Minister’s Office, and turned onto the Sparks Street pedestrian mall. Louise was staring at a man walking towards them. Lama recognized him — it was Ameur. He had on his customary blue pinstriped shirt and a pair of jeans; his hair was close-cropped. A smile on his face, he was heading straight for them.
35
It was a tiny shop, hardly noticea
ble from the outside and almost impossible to find, wedged in between a pizzeria and a video store. Passersby could easily mistake its entrance for the second door of one of the adjacent businesses. But once you had stepped through that narrow entrance, you were immediately transported a thousand leagues away from Ottawa, to faraway India or Pakistan.
The first thing to strike you would be a pungent odour that would follow you all the way home: the combined scent of cloves, cinnamon, curry powder, cumin seeds, and star anise, along with that of powdered mango, bay leaves, fresh papaya, and pudgy purple eggplant. It was a veritable Ali Baba’s cavern of treasure, and its resident genie was the proprietor, a certain Mr. Kamal, a curious fellow with beady, darting eyes, a bald head, and a bulging belly that made him look like a down-and-out clown.
Fawzia Hussein was bustling up and down the narrow aisles, absorbed in her shopping. Her headscarf had slid onto her neck and shoulders. A few drops of sweat trickled down her broad, arching forehead, and she pulled a tissue from her purse and patted it dry. The fan Mr. Kamal had installed near the counter with the cash register was totally unequal to the task of dissipating the scorching heat that overwhelmed the city. Farther off, you could hear the humming of a venerable air conditioner, but its effect was intermittent at best, as if the merchandise that filled the shop to overflowing had intercepted the fresh air.
Mrs. Hussein paid no heed to the heat; after all, it reminded her of the land of her birth. She was feeling on top of the world. The things she had to buy were special — they were for the reception she was busy organizing for Sally’s marriage to Sam. She could not afford to overlook a single ingredient! When she found a spice she was looking for or the particular kind of flour she needed to make a certain type of bread, in a low voice she summoned Ali Hussein, who, meek as a lamb, would break off his discussion with Mr. Kamal and come over to relieve his wife of her selection, then place it on the counter. A small pile of packages had already accumulated, but Fawzia kept on summoning her husband to pick up more purchases.
Now almost finished, she carried a large bag of basmati rice over to the counter and set it down alongside everything else. She had found all she needed. The next step would be to prepare the appetizers and store them in the freezer until the day of the reception.
Absorbed by the task, Mr. Kamal rang up her purchases with his sausage-like fingers as Ali placed them atop one another in plastic bags. The cab was parked outside; he had taken the morning off work to accompany his wife on her grocery-shopping expedition.
“Ali, did you put everything in the bags?” Fawzia asked.
Meanwhile Mr. Kamal was counting his money, his laughing eyes squinting so much that only a bit of skin and an eyelash or two showed.
“Yes, it’s all there — the spices, the vegetables, the rice, the flour, everything,” answered Ali, all smiles. When he stepped outside the shop, Fawzia was standing there, the bags at her feet. He opened the trunk and began to place them one beside the other. When he finished, he went back inside to say goodbye to Mr. Kamal.
The merchant was happy to have begun his day in such fine style. He was drinking water from a bottle, his head thrown back. When he heard Mr. Hussein step inside, he almost choked, pulled the bottle from his mouth, and wiped his lips.
“So sorry, my friend. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Ali said, stretching out his hand. The two men bade each other a warm goodbye.
“Thanks so much. See you soon,” called out Mrs. Hussein from just outside the store.
But Mr. Kamal didn’t hear a word; he’d picked up the bottle of water and begun to drink again.
The couple got into the car. On the radio the announcer was saying, “And with the humidity, today’s high will feel like about thirty-eight degrees.”
Paying no attention, Fawzia Hussein mopped her brow again. “I’ll begin with the sauces and prepare the rice and do the frying the day of the reception. I can heat everything else in the microwave. Is that okay?”
Ali handled the steering wheel expertly. “Everything you cook is terrific. It’ll all be delicious, for sure.” Fawzia accepted the compliment with as much delight as if she were hearing it for the first time.
The couple was overjoyed that their daughter had agreed to marry Sam. From the very first meeting, the two of them had agreed that Sam would be an ideal future husband for her. He was well brought-up, cultured, and polite, and best of all, he was a Muslim. Just recently, the university had awarded him a bursary to begin his master’s program in computer science. He would be able to rent an apartment and marry Sally.
But Sally had been hesitant and wanted to think it over.
ON THE DAY of that first encounter, no sooner had Sam left than Fawzia and Ali sat down in the living room with their daughter. The trays with their few remaining slices of fresh fruit and the bowls of dried fruits and nuts were still on the coffee table. Ali scooped up a handful and began to nibble away like a mouse while Fawzia looked at her daughter in silence.
“So, what do you think of Sam?” Sally’s father asked. “Do you like him?”
Sally had just lifted the veil from her head and face, and she blushed. Her father had taken her by surprise — she hadn’t expected such a quick reaction. Her normally self-assured expression had evaporated and she seemed nonplussed. “I don’t know. He seems nice enough, but no more . . .”
Fawzia, who’d been silent up to that point, piped up. “Take your time, sweetie, there’s no hurry. We’ll all have to think it over. After all, it’s your future, not ours.”
Ali slurped at the finger he’d stuck into his mouth to remove a piece of cashew lodged between two molars, then returned to nibbling on the salted nuts.
Fawzia picked up the trays and headed for the kitchen. “I’m going to do the dishes and clean up the house a bit.”
Sally went off to her room, her parents’ words spinning in her head. Things seemed to be moving too quickly. In fact, everything seemed to be whirling at top speed: her thoughts, the furniture, even the walls. She stretched out on her bed. All at once she regretted that she’d gone ahead and replied to The Boy Next Door. Then she spied her BlackBerry on the night table. Things were getting serious. Marriage was looming on the horizon. She felt a powerful urge to muster all her remaining energy and smash that little machine. She restrained herself but didn’t even want to look at it. She tossed it into her night table, alongside the collection of miniature elephants. It was pure impulse, but it brought her a bit of relief.
Then she heard the BlackBerry hum. It was the alert for a new message. She hesitated. What should she do now? Ignore it or read it? Her heart began to beat faster. A few seconds later she pulled open the drawer, took the BlackBerry between her hands, opened the inbox, and read the sender’s address.
The anonymous messages were over. Everything was clear: the email was from Sam Lamarche.
36
“What are you trying to say, anyway? Emma would never do such a thing! She’s so well-behaved, so discreet. Why, you hardly notice she’s there. Plus she’s not really what you’d call a great beauty . . . Eh? Just what are you hinting at? No, really! Listen, I know my husband. He adores me, even though we’re far apart. He’d never even look at another woman . . . Do me a favour, will you? Let’s change the subject. By the way, what’s Suzie’s new friend’s name? The one from Montreal, I mean.”
Samia Bibi was lounging in her backyard in the shade of a broad parasol. No one could see her, so she was not wearing her headscarf. Her glossy hair fell across her forehead. Her clear, bright voice rose and fell among the flowerbeds, the sculpted bushes, and the arching trees that protected the garden from the eyes of passersby. She was wearing Bermuda shorts; her pale legs that only rarely saw the sun rested upon a low wicker table that also held a tall glass of water, a small vial of nail polish, a pack of cigarettes, and an ashtray. Seated on a rattan sofa upholstered with plump cushions covered with ma
roon fabric, cellphone glued to her left ear and a cigarette in her right hand, she’d been chatting for a good twenty minutes with her friend Leila.
Leila was familiar with Emma’s story. She knew Samia had helped her find work in Dubai with her husband’s company. It was a friendly warning, no more — Emma might just steal her husband. After all, she knew almost nothing of “this divorcee’s” past. Samia Bibi was upset by Leila’s thinly veiled insinuations. What business was it of hers, sticking her nose into matters that didn’t concern her? I never asked her for her opinion, so why is she always hinting that maybe Emma will try to take Ezz away from me? How can she judge Emma, or my husband? She doesn’t even know them!
She put down the telephone. She was getting angrier and angrier with Leila. With a sudden gesture that revealed her frayed nerves, she pushed her hair behind her ears, then lit another cigarette as she thought over what Leila had said. Are you crazy or what, helping a divorced woman get work in your husband’s company? You don’t know what Tunisians are like. They’re headstrong women, emancipated. I hear that some of them even use black magic to steal the hearts of the men they want . . . the words stung like darts. Of course she knew Leila was blowing things out of proportion; it was nothing but stories she’d heard from people who couldn’t be trusted in the first place. Gossip. Nothing but gossip.
Emma was a respectable woman, and she knew it. She could see it in her eyes at their very first meeting: an educated woman who’d run into bad luck, a girl from a good family who had no bad intentions. Just who does Leila think she is, anyway? That prim and prissy one who divorces her first husband on account of impotence, then goes and marries his brother! But for all the arguments that Samia could muster, Leila’s words sent chills down her spine. Ezz has never cheated on me. He loves me and he loves the girls. All he wants is our happiness. Okay, so we only see each other during vacations, and I don’t know for sure what he does there all alone in Dubai. One thing’s certain though: he works day and night to make us happy.
