Mirrors and Mirages

by Monia Mazigh

  Curled up in a ball, she lamented her fate. Then, all at once, a wonderful idea occurred to her. Why don’t I throw a party? I’ll invite Leila and all our friends, I’ll have something else to think about, I’ll forget the whole business, and most of all, Leila won’t be able to run around saying there’s something wrong with me, that poor Samia is upset, that she can only think about her absent husband! The idea shook her out of her lethargy.

  She threw off the covers, jumped out of bed, and strode out of the bedroom. Lynne and Mona’s laughter filled the house. The two girls were stretched out, each on a sofa, in the living room, watching a film. Samia turned on the burner to brew herself a cup of Turkish coffee, then picked up the telephone from the kitchen counter. The girls’ constant giggling was getting on her nerves, so she called out, “Quiet down, you two! I’ve got some important calls to make.”

  She’d left the coffee pot unattended on the stove. Tiny brown bubbles hissed and sputtered on the burner, like tiny rivulets of lava pouring from an erupting volcano as the coffee boiled over. Samia smiled — her mother had often told her that spilled coffee was a good omen. She wiped up the mess, poured what was left into a minuscule cup, took a sip, and began to call her friends.

  Samia spent the next two days in the kitchen. She made kibbeh, soaking cracked wheat in water, then mixing it with minced lamb until it formed a smooth paste; she shaped the mixture into elongated balls that she stuffed with pine nuts and fried ground meat and then fried them in hot oil. Other delicacies were not far behind: miniature triangular savouries, each stuffed with spinach, meat, or cheese; grilled eggplant purée; vine leaves stuffed with rice and meat; ground chickpeas seasoned with lemon juice, garlic, and tahini. She threaded chicken and shrimps on skewers for grilling on the backyard barbecue. She ordered sweets from Praline, a Lebanese pastry shop that sold tiny cakes filled with pistachios, toasted almonds, and hazelnuts, in addition to tasty classic French pastries. Samia wanted the best of both worlds — traditional and Arab, Western and Eastern — side by side to give her guests greater choice and to tantalize their taste buds.

  She forgot her sadness and the demons and dark thoughts that had been tormenting her. She wanted only to dazzle her guests and to find some peace of mind. And she succeeded — almost.

  All the guests had confirmed, all except Leila. Her daughter was sick, and she had no one to look after her. “Dearie, I’m just devastated, but I can’t make it. My little one is ill,” Leila repeated over the telephone, a malicious edge in her voice.

  It was too late for Samia to postpone the party to accommodate her friend. She knew that Leila’s slightly indisposed daughter gave her a perfect excuse not to witness Samia’s high spirits contradict the rumours she’d been spreading.

  SAMIA HAD LEFT nothing to chance. She’d put out jugs of mango and kiwi juice, Thermoses full of tea, pots of coffee. Tables covered with embroidered cloths were piled high with sweets. The ladies filled their plates with food, then sat down either in the dining room or on ottomans placed casually on the garden patio.

  Dressed in a Moroccan caftan she’d purchased in Dubai, her hair done up in a chignon with curls that fell about her ears, Samia was in splendid form. She hadn’t put on too much makeup — it was all a matter of simplicity of the kind you’d expect from the queen of the party.

  “Your mother’s a wonder!” Louise whispered to Lama.

  Lama shrugged. Her mother’s behaviour had ceased to impress her long ago. The two girls were sitting on bamboo chairs in the garden. Candles had been lit to keep the mosquitoes away and provide soft light as night began to fall.

  “So, what’s next for your lover and future husband?” asked Lama, eyes sparkling mischievously.

  Louise jabbed her with an elbow. “Come on, Lama, cut the funny stuff. Who said he was my future husband?”

  Lama was wide-eyed. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind again!”

  Louise turned serious. “Lama, I’ve been thinking it over and I think I’m better off without Ameur. I thought I could forgive him. It’s true that I rushed off to see him because I thought I would give him a second chance, but I overestimated myself. I’m still too angry with him. I’ve made up my mind I’m not going to see him again, or even call him.”

  Lama was startled. She hadn’t expected Louise to show such determination concerning Ameur. She said with a smile, “Louise, one of my mother’s friends — over there, the one in the yellow dress — thinks you’re really cute. She asked Mom if you were married. She’d like to know if you want to become her daughter-in-law.” Then she burst out laughing as Louise nearly choked on a half-eaten kibbeh.

  Her mouth still full, Louise managed to sputter a few words. “Well, you can tell her quite frankly that I’m not ready just yet . . .”

  54

  It was supposed to be the day of Sally and Sam’s wedding, but the ceremony had been cancelled. Fawzia and Ali had taken down the garlands. The red sari with the gold embroidery hung from its hanger in Sally’s closet alongside her new dresses. The dishes that Fawzia had prepared remained in the fridge. The only occupant of the apartment the young couple had rented was silence. What joy could emanate from it? Ali was considering subletting the place for a few months while they waited to see what would become of Sam.

  Sam’s name had been made public, along with those of the other members of the group. The media frenzy had begun to subside; the story was no longer making headlines. Only the security experts kept attempting to analyze what could possibly drive young Canadian converts to turn against their own country. Sally spent hours in front of the television, hoping to glean a bit of information or an explanation that would help her understand what had happened. It was a waste of time: she hadn’t learned anything new.

  Today, she was certain, the meeting with the lawyer her father had hired to represent Sam would help her get a better grasp of the situation. Later, in company with the lawyer, she would visit Sam at the detention centre.

  The office of Mr. Ladder, the barrister, was located in one of downtown Ottawa’s tallest buildings. He was a criminal lawyer who had helped many people who found themselves in difficult circumstances. Ali had paid a substantial sum to retain his services. He wanted his daughter to be happy. And he wanted Sam to be a free man.

  Sally accompanied her father. She wanted to find out exactly what Sam was accused of, to discuss his defence, and to find out if he could be released on bail. She held her breath as the luxurious elevator with its mirrored walls carried them to the seventeenth floor. Her father, standing beside her, forced himself to smile to lessen the tension. Sally felt like weeping.

  An elegantly dressed woman received them. “We have an appointment with Mr. Ladder,” Ali Hussein said in a low voice.

  The woman smiled, picked up the handset, and said in a loud voice, “Your ten o’clock appointment is here, Mr. Ladder.” She turned to Sally and her father, smiled again, and asked them to take a seat in the waiting room, where low smoked-glass tables were strewn with magazines.

  Sally was determined to keep her mind clear and free. Nothing would distract her. Ali Hussein picked up a newspaper and started to read.

  They did not have long to wait. Fifteen minutes later the lawyer appeared, heading towards Sally and her father with a determined stride. He was a tall man whose penetrating gaze shone from behind his round glasses; his curly salt-and-pepper hair lent his face a youthful look despite his fifty-some years. “Come with me, please,” he said, stretching out his hand to Mr. Hussein and nodding slightly towards Sally.

  He beckoned towards a corridor that lay beyond the wooden door. Sally and her father followed him. The lawyer opened the door to a large room, its floor covered with thick beige carpeting. An oval table occupied the centre of the room and several pieces of abstract art hung on the walls. “Please take a seat.”

  An uneasy silence followed. Mr. Ladder opened one of the fi
les he carried, glanced at it, and began. “Obviously I am seeing you today to share with you what I have been able to find out about Sam in the course of my telephone conversations and my discussions with the Crown prosecutor. Sam is suspected of belonging to a terrorist cell of young men who were plotting an attack on Parliament. These young men purchased sixty-five fifty-pound sacks of ammonium nitrate to make a bomb and kill people here in Ottawa. Of course, you understand that I am simply summarizing the Crown’s allegations. None of this directly implicates Sam, but I must consider all the elements of the government’s case and talk with Sam to find out more before moving on to the next step.” He cleared his throat, then continued: “Do you have any questions?”

  Sally couldn’t restrain herself any longer. “But Sam never said a word about any such group or about any plot. He’s a student. He was going to start work on his master’s in a few weeks. He doesn’t have time for that kind of activity!”

  The lawyer did not appear to be bothered that a young lady whose face was covered had spoken to him quite so vigorously. “Exactly. That’s what I’m trying to figure out, by talking with Sam and closely examining the Crown’s case for prosecution. For the time being, we have to convince the judge that Sam can be released on bail until trial.”

  Ali smiled timidly and asked, “Do you think it’s possible the judge will agree?”

  “He might, but there’s no guarantee. I’m working on it, but we must be prepared for every eventuality. I will need letters of guarantee from people who know Sam, and we will also need a bail fund. I can suggest to the judge that Sam wear a GPS bracelet so that his movements can be traced. In a word, we must leave nothing to chance.”

  The lawyer’s words left Sally feeling ill at ease. She did not like legal jargon, and as a computer specialist, she wanted immediate results. Mr. Ladder glanced at his watch to indicate that he had another appointment.

  “Can we visit Sam this afternoon?” Sally asked.

  “Oh yes, I almost forgot to tell you. I’ve obtained an authorization from the detention centre. You will be able to see him from two until three this afternoon. I’ll see you then at the centre.” He gathered up his files and left the room. As Sally and her father watched him go, Mr. Ladder waved, turned on his heel, and returned to his office.

  “Now what do we do?” Sally asked her father.

  “We go home. After, we’ll go to the detention centre.”

  “Do you think they’ll let Sam go free?” she asked when they were in the elevator.

  The question appeared to surprise Ali. “Of course they will! I’m really optimistic. By the grace of God, Sam will be released.”

  Sally fell silent and under her breath began to recite a prayer. She felt her BlackBerry vibrate in her handbag but she let it ring. As the elevator made its way down, she continued to pray.

  55

  Emma had never seen anything like it. Powerful, violent winds carrying clouds of sand swept across the city. The fine grains stung the skin like mosquitoes, working their way into eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth. They put teeth on edge and grounded aircraft, slipped beneath doorways and through cracks in windows and into automobiles; they rushed along like a herd of wild animals, depositing a fine layer of beige that reduced visibility to almost nothing on highways, buildings, and bridges.

  Like a strange fog, the sand rattled against the car windows with a high-pitched whine. The sandstorm hit as Emma and Sara were on their way home. Emma could see cars in front of her zigzagging across the highway as though their drivers had lost control, as though they were drunk. She slowed down and began to say a prayer, sitting bolt upright, rigid with fear.

  The magic of Dubai, its luxury automobiles, its skyscrapers that gleamed by day and by night, had vanished, hidden by minuscule grains of sand that blew their scorching, putrid breath across the city. In the parks, bushes lurched to and fro in the gusting wind, so violently that they seemed to be shaken by demons of the desert. Only the palm trees, heads held high, resisted the sandstorm. Tall and straight they stood, their fronds dancing in the midst of the whirlwind.

  Emma and Sara finally reached their apartment safe and sound. For a while Emma had been afraid they might not make it. A fine layer of sand covered the tables, the kitchen counters, and the floor.

  Sara was worried. How would they ever get rid of all that dirt?

  “It’s only dust, sweetheart. At least we’re safe indoors. We’ll mop it all up later.”

  “You know something, Mummy? I like blizzards better than sandstorms. I don’t like the taste of crushed glass in my mouth.” She laughed and grimaced at the same time to show her disgust.

  Emma peered out the window. The wind was subsiding and thunder rumbled across the sky. Sara huddled close to her mother. Soon fat drops were striking the windows with a deafening roar. After the sand and the wind, now driving rain was pouring down on the city. Rushing streams sprang up in the streets, carrying before them plastic bags, cigarette packs, and other refuse. In an instant, broad puddles formed. The city’s storm drains, built for an arid climate, were overwhelmed by the sudden onslaught, blocked by a mixture of sand and garbage. Manhole covers popped open, spewing geysers of brownish water.

  As Emma contemplated the power of nature she reflected on her own life. For all the hesitation and fears of recent weeks, she felt proud and confident. She had resisted Ezz Bibi’s advances and her own doubts. She had feared she would prove weak and vulnerable, but today’s encounter had demonstrated that she was much stronger than she thought.

  Her and her daughter’s dignity were worth more than any promotion. She had not yielded. Just as this burning hot land fought back tooth and nail against the extravagances of wealth to assert its deepest nature, Emma had repulsed Mr. Bibi’s egotistical and mindless advances. She had succeeded in tearing herself free from the bewitching curtain of the city that held her prisoner.

  Outside, the storm was abating. The heavy rain had become a drizzle. Sara was lying down on the sofa, looking at a comic book.

  Emma smiled and sat down beside her. “Sara, today I made a big decision and I want to talk to you about it.”

  Sara put down the comic. Her eyes were wide, a faint smile on her lips. “Well, are you going to tell me what it is?” she sighed.

  Emma fell silent for a moment, searching for the right words. Her eyes shone. “Sara, this country is not for us. I’m resigning. We’re going back home to Ottawa.”

  Sara threw her arms around her mother’s neck. “Hooray! That means I won’t have to see Cruella anymore! Is it really true, Mummy?”

  “Yes, it’s true. Tomorrow I’ll go and see Mr. Bibi. Then we can go home.”

  Suddenly Sara was worried. “But Mummy, how will we live back there? You won’t have a job.”

  Emma touched her daughter’s hair and caressed it lovingly. “Don’t you worry. We’ll get by. I’ve saved some money, so we’ll see what happens.”

  Now Sara was dancing on the tips of her toes, twirling back and forth. Emma joined her and they held hands like professional dancers. As Sara executed pirouettes, Emma accompanied her, humming her favourite song. Outside, night had fallen. The cars that had sought shelter during the storm reappeared on the streets. From the window their headlights shone like the eyes of a wolf pack in the darkness. Oblivious, Emma and Sara danced on, laughing and singing.

  56

  Louise came home from the party at Lama’s house feeling light-hearted and happy. She had felt quite at home. She knew she could confide in Lama without fear of being judged. Ameur’s shadow was fading and she felt alive again. Their last meeting had given her insight. She had really made up her mind not to get involved with him again.

  It was completely dark when Louise closed the door furtively behind her. Alice Gendron was watching TV in the living room.

  Louise sat down in an armchair beside her mother. “Hi, Mum,” she said.
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  “Hi,” Alice replied, almost inaudibly.

  At the sight of her mother’s drawn features, Louise tried to lighten things up. “I ate too much! My tummy is about to burst!”

  Her mother pretended to listen to her, not saying a word.

  “Lama’s party was great. The weather was just perfect for eating and talking outside. It did me a world of good. I even forgot about Ameur.”

  Louise had rarely spoken his name in her mother’s presence. Now she wanted to see her reaction.

  Alice looked at her daughter, startled. “Why are you telling me this? It’s your life to live,” she exclaimed.

  “I know. But I want you to know that I’m not under anybody’s influence. Ameur is no longer part of my life.”

  Louise sensed her mother’s satisfaction, but Alice was not letting anything show. Her face was impassive. “Even though that boy is not part of your life anymore, are you still insisting on being a Muslim?”

  Louise bit her tongue, let her mother finish her sentence, and then replied, “Mum, yes, I’m a Muslim and I’m going to keep on being a Muslim. It’s my spiritual choice and I’m going to live with it. It has nothing to do with my relationship with Ameur. Just because he’s left my life doesn’t mean I’ll change my religion.”

  Alice closed her eyes. That was her way of showing her disagreement and indicating that she didn’t want to hear anything more about it.

  Louise would have liked to talk with her, but she realized that her mother was not ready to listen. Alice switched off the television, put the remote on the table, and went to her room.

  Louise was alone in the living room. Silence filled the empty space. From far away came the rumble of a bus making its way along the main street. The room was in perfect order, spic and span, not a particle of dust on the knickknacks that lined the shelves. The colourful design of the Persian carpet contrasted brilliantly with the dreary appearance of the other furniture.