by Monia Mazigh
Louise contemplated the decor as though she were seeing it for the first time. She thought about her future. In a few months she would graduate and become a nurse; she would soon be reaching one of her first goals in life. Still, her relationship with Ameur had ended in failure. Life was more complicated than she’d imagined. She’d begun to understand that it did not always conform to one’s desires. For sure I can’t have it all — religion, a degree, a husband, and my mother’s approval. But I’ve made up my mind. It may be painful, but I’ve got to stick to it, she mused, almost aloud.
Deep fatigue overcame her; it was time for bed. In her bedroom, the prayer mat Ameur had given her caught her eye as it lay folded atop the bed. She no longer wanted even to look at it — too many memories. She picked up the rug and brought it to her face. Then she hugged the finely woven cloth in a final farewell to Ameur and placed it on a shelf in the closet. Tomorrow I’ll go to the Arab convenience store and buy another. Much better that way . . .
57
The detention centre where Sam was being held was located on the outskirts of Ottawa. Sally and her father had an appointment to meet Mr. Ladder right outside the main entrance to the building.
It was Sally’s first visit to a prison. She felt her whole body shiver. A tall metal fence surrounded the structure and a handful of cars were parked in the parking lot. Correctional officers stood guard at the entrance and exit. Surveillance cameras were everywhere. Despite the veil that covered her face, Sally felt each of them focusing on her. She felt sick to her stomach and her hands were shaking. She wanted to turn tail and get away from this dark, forbidding place as fast as she could.
Fortunately, Mr. Ladder appeared, and his self-confident bearing reassured her. She walked along beside her father, waiting impatiently for Sam to appear. The two stood aside to allow their lawyer to speak to the officer in charge of visiting permits. Sally saw him pull a document from his black leather briefcase and show it to the officer, who transcribed the information into the computer in front of him, chewing gum all the while. The lawyer turned to Sally and Ali, waiting there silently, flashed a smile, and spoke once again to the officer. Then an expression of relief passed over his face.
He came over to Ali. “The good news is we’ll be able to see Sam. The bad news is that we’ll only have a few minutes with him. The officer claims that he’s received new instructions. For the time being we’ll have to seize the occasion to talk with Sam. Later we’ll see if we can challenge the instructions.”
Sally didn’t understand what was taking place in front of her very eyes. Like a robot she obeyed the lawyer’s orders, because she no longer had the strength to venture a question. She’d stopped thinking altogether. Ali could sense his daughter’s alarm and took her by the hand — how thankful she was for that.
Two corrections officers led Mr. Ladder, Sally, and Ali into a small room. The walls were painted grey. The floor was covered with faded, stain-blotched tiles, and a table and two benches were the only furniture in that cold and soulless place. Sally felt like a visitor from some foreign land. What a contrast with the elegance of the lawyer’s office, and what a difference from the cleanliness of all the other places she had visited in Canada! Sam’s arrest was revealing a face of her own country that she had never seen before. And she did not feel strong enough to accept what she was seeing.
Sally, her father, and the lawyer sat down on one of the benches. A few moments went by. Sally murmured a prayer because she wanted to reassure herself, but she had no idea how she would react when she saw Sam.
At last he appeared. Two husky guards escorted him into the room in handcuffs. He was hollow-cheeked, his thin face had a look of resignation, and his eyes darted this way and that, as if he were looking for something. A faint ray of hope flickered in them when he saw Sally seated there with her father and the lawyer.
The guards removed Sam’s handcuffs and ordered him to sit down on the other bench, then took up positions at the door. For several seconds no one said a word. Sally wiped her tears with a corner of her face veil, in a state of shock. Ali Hussein attempted to smile at Sam. He wanted to be reassuring but his lips were trembling and his smile came out looking like a grimace.
Finally the lawyer broke the silence. “Hello, Sam, I’m your lawyer. We’ve come to visit you. I hope you’re well.”
Sam, who until then had kept his eyes lowered to avoid looking at his visitors, raised his head and said in a low voice, “I’m fine, thank you.” Then he turned towards Ali and Sally and said, “Salaam, Mr. Hussein. Salaam, Sally. I am so sorry to have placed you in such a situation. I am really very sorry.” He spoke slowly, his head tilted to one side as though he was afraid of forgetting a letter. His deep-set eyes were filled with sorrow.
“No, do not say such things,” Ali replied. “All our prayers are with you and I hope everything will turn out for the best.”
Sally opened her mouth to speak, but a choking sob stopped her cold. The sight of Sam in such a state stunned her. She remembered the anonymous messages, the sweet words, their telephone conversations, their plans for the future. She couldn’t say anything.
Mr. Ladder came to the rescue. “Listen to me carefully, Sam. We don’t have enough time to talk today. I’ll be back to speak with you at length because I have to know exactly what happened. I’m working on a petition for bail and I’ll need all the details.”
Sam seemed relieved. ”I’m innocent. I never did anything wrong. I only exchanged emails with some people I knew.”
Suddenly Sally felt betrayed. Why hadn’t Sam spoken to her about the people he knew? Why hadn’t he mentioned those conversations? Why hadn’t he said anything about those emails?
“I’m ready to tell you everything I know. I have nothing to hide.” He spoke in such a low voice that Sally could barely hear him.
Finally she mustered all her courage and said, “Don’t be afraid, Sam. We’ll get you out of this place. Hold on, and soon you’ll be a free man.”
Sam smiled and his face lit up. Clearly those were words he’d been hoping to hear. “This may be a test for us. Thank you all for your support —”
He had not quite finished his sentence when one of the guards came over. His loud voice made Sally jump. “Visiting time is over. You must leave immediately.”
They handcuffed Sam once again, and his face took on the look of resignation he’d had at the start of the visit. Then he looked over his shoulder and saw Sally wave at him. He smiled. As he left the room, his slight frame was almost totally obscured by the massive bodies of the two guards.
Outside, the lawyer took his leave of Ali and Sally. She was still stunned by the visit. Today was to have been their wedding day.
58
Daddy dearest,
We’re off and running! The session is underway. The pace is a lot faster than last year. I don’t have any free time — there’s nothing but homework and projects to turn in. Lynne and Mona are working really hard this year. What a difference from before! I’m sure Emma has trained them in excellent work habits. And how are you doing? I’m counting the days until you come back. Above all, don’t change your mind at the last minute. You’ll be here in the middle of winter. What a difference from the smothering heat of Dubai!
Mommy has started doing yoga — her latest discovery. And she’s not seeing Leila any more. Good riddance if you ask me. What a relief not to have to listen to her snarky remarks. I suspect she and Mommy had a falling out over something. She’s stopped calling and never comes over to the house. Which is just fine by me!
I’m seeing a lot of my new friend Louise. We get along wonderfully. I’ve been talking to her about the Emirates. She says she dreams about going there for a visit. Maybe the two of us will go next summer. I don’t really want to work there, but I wouldn’t say no to a short visit. In fact, I’m becoming more and more Canadian all the time. I feel at home here, I’m maki
ng friends, I like my courses, and every day I learn something new about life. Even my arguments with Mommy aren’t like they used to be. I’ve learned to “manage” her, as people say here.
I’m happy that your project with the Canadians is working out so well. What about your associate? Does he still listen to you? Or does he still insist on doing everything his way, playing it by instinct? Why don’t you start a business here? You could use my professional skills, and we’d all be so happy to see you here at home every day. Why don’t we talk it over when you’re with us next December?
Time to go and get back to my studying. I’ve got another project to finish.
Hugs and kisses,
Your daughter,
Lama
It was almost nine o’clock at night. Lama was in her room. From the next room came faint noises: her sisters whispering as they did their homework together. Lama shrugged. The two girls were still behaving like kids, totally oblivious to the world around them. Maybe one day they’ll realize that they’ve grown up and that they won’t be Mommy’s little darlings indefinitely. Lama sighed, rubbed her eyes as if to eradicate the slightest urge to sleep, and then sat down in front of the computer.
In her room at the end of the hall, Samia Bibi lay face down on her green yoga mat. Her short legs were stretched out behind her and her head lay lightly on the mat. Unblinking, her eyes were focused on a point. Her slightly fleshy arms were spread out, each thrown to one side. Samia breathed deeply, trying not to forget the instructions Angela, her yoga instructor, had given her. She lay motionless for a moment and then raised her legs behind her head, her arms forming a V, her chest compressed by the weight of her stomach. She felt herself as light as a feather, as if she were about to take flight. This was the best position for eliminating bad thoughts.
Jealousy had just about thrown her into depression. Luckily she’d chanced upon an ad for yoga lessons being given in the neighbourhood, and it had changed her life. It was love at first sight. The yoga positions helped her focus on her body, listen to her breathing, and not be obsessed with doubt. Around the same time, Samia had stopped seeing Leila. There were no more morning get-togethers over Turkish coffee, but now she had something else to satisfy her. Her only remaining weakness was shopping.
But evening gowns and elegant ensembles no longer interested her. No, it was clear she had enough. Now she only had eyes for sportswear such as yoga tanks, special tops to restrain her breasts and display her navel, and pretty bands that kept her hair in place. Samia bought all the new outfits, because she couldn’t get enough. They made her feel young and beautiful, the way she’d felt when she lived in Kuwait and dreamed of the Prince Charming who would rescue her, who would carry her away from that living hell.
59
Emma could hardly believe what was happening. In a few minutes she would be seeing her mother again, after so many years of absence.
It had all happened so fast. A week earlier she had resigned her position in Mr. Bibi’s company and made up her mind to return to Canada. It had taken her a few months to sort out her feelings. Dubai was a mirage in the middle of the desert and a mousetrap for the vulnerable. But Emma was not prepared to take a bite of that tempting cheese in exchange for her dignity and her principles. It was true that she felt a powerful attraction for Ezz Bibi, and perhaps she had just missed the chance to start her life all over again. But at what price? Never could she have forgiven herself for betraying Samia, who had been so generous to her. Never could she have agreed to play second fiddle in the strange relationship between Ezz and his first wife.
Sara was happy about leaving. She didn’t want to be humiliated in front of her classmates anymore. Emma knew the Arabic teacher would not change her attitude, and enrolling Sara in another private school would only postpone the problem.
In the middle of the night a telephone call had awakened Emma. “Emma, it’s me, Aunt Zohra, your mother’s sister. Can you hear me?” asked the voice of an elderly woman.
“Auntie Zohra! How are you?” Emma’s heart was beating as if it would burst. Something terrible must have happened; otherwise Auntie Zohra would not be calling her at such a late hour. She thought of her mother. O God, let her be alive, she prayed.
Auntie Zohra coughed, then said, “Everything is fine, just fine, my little one. Your mother is a bit sick. She’s got a nasty case of the flu. When I went to visit her yesterday, she whispered in my ear, ‘I really miss Emma. I’m afraid I’ll die before I see her again.’ At first I didn’t want to mention it to you because I didn’t want to upset you. You know, when you get old, you think a lot about death. I haven’t been able to get my sister’s words out of my mind, so I decided to let you know.”
Emma’s eyes flooded with tears. The call made her forget her own worries. How well she remembered Auntie Zohra, who always had on hand a box of halva chamia — “Damascus-style halva,” they called it in Tunis. It was made of ground sesame seeds and sugar. Auntie Zohra would pass it around to all the young nieces and nephews who came calling. Emma adored that halva, which was cut into small bites that disintegrated as soon as you touched them. She liked it best spread with butter on a slice of bread. Emma could still taste its sweetness.
“Auntie Zohra, tell me the truth! Is my mother really sick?”
The elderly lady seemed to hesitate, then stammered, “Not at all, my little one. Don’t you worry your head. But you know something? I think it would be best for you if you came to see her.”
“Insha’Allah, Auntie Zohra, I’ll do everything I can.”
The call went on for just a few moments more before the elderly woman hung up, not wanting to disturb her niece any longer.
Emma could not get back to sleep. Auntie Zohra’s attitude had been ambiguous. She suspected that her aunt was hiding her mother’s true condition from her. If not, why all the talk about death? Emma knew that people of her mother’s generation never spoke of death directly, but she had gotten her aunt’s message: Your mother is gravely ill. Come to her bedside as fast as you can.
Emma’s official reason for resigning was to care for her sick mother. Ezz Bibi’s reaction was cool and businesslike. He handed Emma her last paycheque and thanked her with no display of emotion. “I wish you all the best . . . Emma.” He had hesitated before pronouncing her name, but forced himself to do so.
Emma looked straight at him. Ezz Bibi knew how to control his emotions. He remained stone-faced. “Thank you, Mr. Bibi, for your understanding, and for giving me the opportunity to work with you.”
Ezz Bibi opened his mouth, but then he turned and walked out of Emma’s office, leaving her speechless and sad.
EMMA’S TAXI PULLED up in front of her family home. Sara was close beside her. It was a small house, located in Ariana, an inner suburb of Tunis. Long ago it had been the country’s rose capital. In the springtime you could smell their perfume as you strolled down its narrow lanes. But the bitter stench of passing cars and trucks had replaced all of that.
The garden was not as well-kept as when her father was still alive. The white paint had begun to peel and the garden gate was rusty. The shutters were closed. Her childhood home looked abandoned, a house of ghosts. Emma’s heart sank, and she was overcome with guilt. Why did I let so many years go by without coming back? How could I let my mother live alone in this house? The telephone calls were not enough, that’s clear. I should have come much sooner, she thought.
Emma pushed open the garden gate with her foot and set her luggage down on the ceramic-paved path. Sara was wide-eyed, half curious and half surprised by the place.
Emma shivered. She’d forgotten how the damp cold of Tunis could pierce you to the bone. No one knew she was coming. Even Auntie Zohra had no idea. The night before, when she had called her mother to find out how she was doing, she hadn’t breathed a word. “How are you, Mum?” Emma had asked.
“God be praised, I’m fine. I al
ways pray for you and your daughter.”
Emma knew that her mother would never ask her to come home just for her. She would have been too reluctant to interrupt her daughter’s career.
She came to a stop in front of the blue door. The laughter of her childhood surged up from her memory. She saw herself happy, watching an old comedy on television with her parents. Emma’s hand was shaking as her finger pushed the doorbell. The few fruit trees in the yard, denuded and contorted by the cold, oscillated like the hands of an ancient clock.
Then the blue door opened and an old woman appeared. Her face was wrinkled, her back bent. Was Emma hallucinating? Was this really her mother? It was only her benevolent gaze that Emma recognized. How frail she had become!
Emma could not contain her emotion. Everything came surging to the surface: Fadi, the divorce, poverty, Dubai, Ezz Bibi’s strange proposition . . . The river overflowed its banks and its rushing waters flooded the lowlands. She threw herself into her mother’s arms.
Sara looked on in silence. A scrawny cat with a motley coat made its way across the road, mewing noisily. No one noticed it go by.
Glossary
Shahada: the testament that all Muslims must utter in order to adopt their new faith.
The Night of Power, which occurs during the month of Ramadan, is sacred to Muslims. Many believe that one’s wishes will be granted on that night.
Fatwa: a ruling in response to questions of daily life or any other subject, usually issued by a religious authority such as a sheikh or an imam.
Ulema: a generic term used to describe Islamic scholars; singular: alim.
