Mirrors and Mirages

by Monia Mazigh

Emma knocked on the door and went in. She stood there like a well-behaved schoolgirl waiting for instructions from her superior. He looked up to acknowledge her presence, then said, “I just have to finish an important message, then I’ll be ready. You can take a seat.”

  She sat down and waited. Mr. Bibi was seated in front of his computer screen. His round glasses with the wire frames lent him a bookish appearance. He was wearing a conservative grey suit, his well-cut hair was combed back, and he had a contented look on his face. Next to his computer stood a family portrait. The office exuded luxury. The mahogany floor matched his desk and bookshelves. A photo showing two men in traditional Emirati dress, heads covered with agals, hung from the wall. The two men were smiling and shaking hands. It was Mr. al-Arish, the CEO, greeting the prince of Dubai.

  Green plants in all the corners embellished the artificial atmosphere of the room. Tiny recessed halogen lights shone like distant stars from the ceiling, bathing the office in subdued light. White venetian blinds hung across the tinted windows to block the intensity of the sun’s rays as they broke like waves against the glass, attempting to penetrate the building.

  Emma remained seated, lost in thought. Only a few months ago she had been penniless and depressed. Like a shipwreck survivor she had struggled to make ends meet, thanks to her monthly social welfare payments and the few dollars she earned tutoring. But now she lived in Dubai, this marvellous city, and like Alice in Wonderland, she had begun to find her way through the trackless desert. Hope flowed in her veins and life seemed bright once more.

  “The Canadians are waiting for us.” Mr. Bibi had drawn himself up to his full height in front of her. He seemed a bit tense. Emma shook herself from her reverie and followed him towards the meeting room with its massive oval table, its conference phones, and its high-backed executive chairs.

  When Mr. Bibi and Emma entered the room, the members of the delegation were already seated, each with his laptop open in front of him. Ahmed and Lili, two of Emma’s colleagues, were already there.

  Emma took a deep breath. She was determined to do her best and to succeed.

  40

  What kind of ceremony would you like? Sally typed, her slender fingers moving rapidly and unerringly across the keyboard. She’d been chatting with Sam, her future husband, for the past few minutes. Sally was much more comfortable with him when they exchanged messages on the computer. She was no longer apprehensive, embarrassed, or timid, as she had been when Sam first sent his anonymous messages. Her stomach wasn’t in turmoil, her head didn’t spin, nor did her hands sweat or her heart beat faster the way they had when she read the first poems from The Boy Next Door.

  For an entire week following Sam’s visit to her parents, Sally had not answered his messages. Everything had happened so fast, and she was frightened. And then one night she had a curious dream: She saw herself all alone, dancing in the centre of an immense room. A knock came at the door. “Who is it?” she asked. No answer. Then suddenly Sam’s face appeared, as though in supplication. She awoke late in the night, happy and at peace. She was convinced the dream was a premonition, and she promised herself she would relate it to one of the sheikhs she corresponded with on the Web.

  The sheikh’s answer could not have been clearer: My daughter, he is the one for you. He has asked for your hand, do not let him go, and by the grace of God everything will be fine.

  Tears came to Sally’s eyes. She had only described her dream. The online sheikh knew nothing about Sam but was explicitly advising her to marry him. It was then that she answered Sam’s messages. She was by turns open, considerate, and effervescent, finally emerging from the hard and brittle shell she had formed after his visit. Ever since then her parents, Fawzia and Ali, had been preparing the house to receive the wedding guests. Only a few weeks remained.

  We could have two small ceremonies, one in the afternoon for the men and the other in the evening for the women, wrote Sam in response to Sally’s question.

  She smiled, delighted. Sam respected her views and did everything she wished, offering suggestions that perfectly matched her vision of the world. I couldn’t agree more, she answered immediately.

  But before Sally could type another question, Sam surprised her with a poem. My dream, my hope, my moon in the sky . . .

  Sally felt as though she’d been swept up into a world of wonder. Sam had a gift — the gift of making her dream.

  She was just finishing a message when she heard her name. Her mother was calling her from the front door. She sent off a few quick words to Sam to tell him she had to go, then hurried down the stairs with their storm-grey carpeting.

  Her mother was holding two shopping bags, her father several more. In a few moments the hall was filled with shopping bags, overflowing with ingredients and condiments of every size, shape, and description.

  “Sally, can you take these bags to the kitchen?” Fawzia looked dazed and frazzled as she stood in the midst of the wave of white plastic.

  Her husband carried in the rest of the bags and started to laugh. “Well, what are you waiting for? Is it the heat that’s stopped you in your tracks?” He continued to laugh but Fawzia made no reply, so he handed the bags to Sally. She carried them into the kitchen, then came back for more.

  Ali picked his way carefully through the heaps of groceries. “I’m going to take a shower and rest a while. I’ll go to work a bit later.” His mission accomplished, he made his way up the stairs, waddling like an old monkey.

  Sally and Fawzia were alone in the kitchen. Fawzia was stretching her legs to relieve the stress she felt in her entire body. As she massaged her swollen knees with

  arthritis-gnarled hands, she gave Sally instructions. “Open the cinnamon jar in the pantry and fill it with the sticks I just bought — they’re so fresh the smell makes my nose itch! Then take the big jug of oil and put it in the basement. I’ll need it later.”

  Sally did exactly as she was told, and as she did she rediscovered the docility of her childhood. Sam’s love had erased all traces of arrogance, swept away resentment.

  “Mommy, what do you think of two small ceremonies instead of one mixed? One for the men, the other for the women.”

  Fawzia stopped rubbing her knees and stared at her daughter with laughter in her eyes. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Two ceremonies on the same day!” Then she shrugged her shoulders and declared, “It doesn’t matter. I’d do anything to make you happy.”

  Sally took her mother in her arms and kissed her forehead tenderly. Fawzia broke out in goosebumps — her daughter hadn’t hugged her for months. She forgot her swollen knees, stood up, and helped Sally put the groceries away.

  41

  Daddy dearest,

  I’m really upset that you put off your holidays until December. I haven’t seen you for a year now and I really miss you. But because I love you I forgive you and I’ll pardon you, on condition that you keep your promise this time. Lucky for me I’ve got my job at the store — I’m busy all day long and when I come home at night I’m so tired all I can think about is sleeping.

  There’s something else that keeps my mind off your absence: my new friend Louise. We meet a lot at midday for lunch and take long walks in the downtown area before we go back to work. We get along fine, and Louise has become my best friend. She’s completed all her courses and now all she has to do is complete her internship program, then she can start work as a nurse. I’m really happy for her because that was always her dream — to help other people and to ease their pain.

  The fall session is almost here. In a few weeks I’ll be diving into my books and my study notes. This will be a year of decision for Lynne. She’ll have to work really hard if she wants to get admitted to the program she wants. I talked to her about it and she agrees. We’ll see, but I don’t know what she’ll do without Emma. By the way, how is she doing? Has she adapted? I really hope so, for her sake.


  The other day on the phone you sounded so tired, and you mentioned you had a meeting with a delegation from Canada. Funny, isn’t it, those Canadians going all the way to Dubai to sign a contract with your company and here in Canada you couldn’t even find work!

  My summer job ends ten days before classes start up. Mommy promised to take us to Montreal for two days. Well, that’s one way of having a holiday together, but I don’t really know if I’m interested in spending all my spare time strolling through shopping centres. I’ll have more to say, for sure. Please call! Even if you’re really busy.

  Your daughter,

  Lama

  “What are you doing?” Samia asked her daughter, who was writing the final words of her letter.

  Lama, pretending not to hear, slipped her pen back into the pencil case and put the letter pad into the large red bag she used both as a handbag and for carrying her books during the school year. She was sitting on one of the living room sofas, about to get up for some breakfast before she went off to work.

  Samia appeared upset that her daughter did not answer her. In a higher than normal voice with a shrill edge of exasperation, she said, “You’re not answering your mother, or what?”

  Lama feigned surprise. “You were talking to me? I didn’t hear.” Lama had learned how to avoid confrontation. She would slip out adroitly in order to avoid the futile quarrels and the interminable exchanges that would always end with one of Samia’s monologues lamenting about life, fate, and disrespectful youngsters who had no consideration for their parents.

  “I’m going to get a bite, then I’m off to work.”

  Samia admonished her. “Don’t come in late like last time. It’s not proper for a young lady of your age.”

  But Lama was already in the kitchen, where she spread yogurt on a piece of pita and dusted it with a few pinches of dried thyme. Then she rolled it up and took a bite out of the fat cigar. “I told you, there was a fight on the bus last time. That’s why I was late.” Her mouth was full as she spoke. She poured some tea into a saucer and swallowed it to get the lump of bread down, then added, “No, don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”

  Lama’s last words were lost on Samia. Her mother had already returned to her room, telephone in hand, not knowing quite what to do. If I call him to see how he’s doing, he’ll get suspicious. Maybe he’ll think there’s some problem at home. She stopped short and placed the handset atop her dresser. That Leila, always putting nasty ideas in my mind. I’ve got to be smarter than her. I know Ezz too well — he would never do such a thing. But Samia couldn’t get Leila’s perfidious words out of her head.

  She stood in front of a rack of dresses in her walk-in closet. Packed in against one another were gowns of every colour and description, something for every occasion. She selected a long green dress and then, like an automaton, picked up the telephone. She’d made up her mind: she was going to speak to her husband. After all, what could be more normal than for a wife to wonder what her husband was up to? She glanced at her watch; it was nine o’clock in Ottawa, which meant that it was five o’clock in the afternoon Dubai time. She dialled the number. There was a faint click, then a long ring followed by silence, then another ring.

  Where could he be at this time of day? Usually he’s the last one to leave the office. She held the handset to her ear for several seconds. The sound of ringing, over and over again, worried her.

  She didn’t feel like going over to her friend Suzie’s for coffee. She put the long green dress back in the closet. I’ll call her, tell her I’m not feeling well . . . She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag.

  Her fingers were shaking. She opened the balcony door, lit up, inhaled deeply, and ran her hand across her forehead. The pulse in her temples was throbbing like a tambourine. “I never should have helped Emma go to Dubai. I should have gone myself, with the girls,” she murmured, hunched over, one hand on the balustrade and her cigarette in the other.

  42

  Alice Gendron had understood for some time that her daughter was no longer seeing Ameur. She was relieved. It was only a matter of time before Louise gave up this new religion of hers and their relationship could get back to normal. Besides, the two women were more and more on the same wavelength. They chatted a bit in the morning before leaving for work, and at night they would eat together most of the time.

  A few nights ago Alice had even shared a humorous recollection with her daughter. She had almost missed her bus when her jacket caught on a piece of metal protruding from the bus shelter. “I thought someone was holding me back, and I was thrashing around for dear life. People were staring at me — I must have looked completely crazy.”

  Alice convulsed with laughter as Louise, half surprised and half curious, listened to her mother, fascinated. “So how did you finally get loose?”

  “Lucky for me, a man standing nearby figured out what was happening and unhooked my jacket. It was too much, let me tell you!” Alice finally managed to explain between bursts of laughter.

  Louise laughed along with her, delighted to see her mother happy in her company.

  “The bus driver waited for me. I was really a sight!” Alice shook her head and wiped a tear of mirth from her eye.

  But happy interludes like that one didn’t last long. All Louise had to do was retire to her room to pray or be discovered reading the Qur’an in the living room for coldness to fall between the two. They would avoid each other’s eyes, Alice’s nostrils would flare, both their bodies would stiffen, and mother and daughter would become strangers once again, unable to speak to one another across the chasm gaping open between them.

  Alice had come home from work early so she could take the rest of the day off. She felt like making the most of one of the last fine days of summer. She’d returned home, taken a shower, and, feeling fresher, picked up a book and sat down on the balcony.

  Her balcony garden was a miniature work of art. It did everything a garden should: it was cool and calming and had an ambiance that was propitious for daydreaming. Flowers, herbs, and green plants thrived in clay pots. There was even a container of cherry tomatoes; the tiny red globes dancing in the breeze could have been rubies, half hidden amongst foliage suspended between the concrete walls of the city. Sitting on the balcony and reading went hand in hand. She forgot time and worry, escaping for hours on end only to emerge rested, relaxed, at peace and on the verge of sleep.

  A few ice cubes floated in a tall glass of water. Alice hadn’t noticed the time go by — the novel she was reading had carried her off into another world. Suddenly she heard Louise’s footsteps in the hallway.

  “Mum, are you there?”

  Alice glanced at her watch. Five o’clock. Louise was coming home from work. Without moving, she replied, “I’m here, on the balcony.”

  Louise joined her mother. The two women looked each other over. Alice quickly grasped that Louise wasn’t her usual self. She looked drawn. There was something on her mind. “How was your day?” she asked.

  Not wanting to mention the meeting with Ameur, her daughter found a good alibi. “It’s terrible what I see every day. There’s so much suffering. One of my patients died. It was more than he could bear —” She stopped short and tears filled her eyes. How she would have liked to share her emotions with her mother, talk to her about meeting Ameur, about her feelings towards him, about the question he’d asked her before leaving . . . but her mother would lose her temper and their relationship would suffer yet again. Talking about work was less risky, a path with fewer pitfalls. Her mother would understand and give her advice.

  “But, darling, that’s life. You do everything you can, but there comes a time when you can do no more…”

  Tears were now running down Louise’s cheeks. She wiped them with the back of her hand. “You’re right, Mummy, I take everything too personally. I think I’ll go and lie down for a while.”

 
; It was an excellent excuse for her to be alone. The afternoon’s encounter had thrown Louise’s plans into turmoil. Ameur’s face, his smile, his voice, his eyes — everything about him still drew her in. And she had thought she was immunized! Love still lurked within her, concealed in a writhing nest of emotions, but like a tamed tiger, it crouched, ready to pounce at the first sight of a chunk of raw meat.

  Should I see him again or just turn the page? she wondered as she lay on her bed. Why would he try to talk to me if everything is over between us? Then a new thought flashed through her mind. What if he has something important to tell me?

  Again and again she went over the encounter with a fine-toothed comb, analyzing every word, visualizing all the possible outcomes, imagining herself once again with Ameur, married and happy. Then she remembered the expression on Lama’s face. She hadn’t seemed too enthusiastic about her talking with Ameur. I should listen to Lama. She’s the one who stuck by me when he betrayed me, she concluded.

  Alice’s voice shook her out of her daydream. She got up and looked in the mirror. She felt lost.

  Her mother’s voice rang out again. “Louise, have you seen the tv remote?”

  Shaking herself out of her stupor, Louise hurried out to the living room.

  43

  “You were simply mag-ni-fi-cent! We really clinched the deal!”

  Mr. Bibi gazed at Emma in admiration. A new kind of spark glistened in his black eyes. Emma couldn’t recall ever having seen him in such a state since she’d begun to work for him.

  No one had ever complimented her so generously on her work, not even Fadi, her ex-husband. She had finally adjusted, but in reality she liked to be encouraged with a smile or a word of congratulation, the way her father in Tunisia had reacted when she came home from school with good marks. He would pat her on the head, pay her extra attention, and pray for her. Alas, her father was gone, and Emma no longer heard those words of praise that had touched her heart and urged her forward.