Mirrors and Mirages Page 7

  At that the sheikh wheeled out his heavy artillery, running through narratives attributed to the Prophet, warning all participants in the forum against music and the wiles of Satan. As she read the words, Sally gulped painfully. She had no idea what she should do. It was as if the question hardly concerned her. After all, she did not listen to music and read only the poetic words of The Boy Next Door.

  Each time she glanced at one of his messages, Sally was transfixed for hours. The only way to put them out of her mind was to get back to her books. And to think that she’d once considered giving up her worldly education to devote herself full-time to studying religion!

  When Sally announced that she planned to give up her courses in computer programming at the University of Ottawa, her parents were not intimidated. They had no intention of leaving the choice to her, as they had with the niqab. More, they brought up several arguments to prove their point: not only was she committing no sin, the search for knowledge was a religious duty. It wasn’t the same kind of opposition that had followed her decision to wear the niqab. Then, their objections had been timid and confused. No, this time they were adamant. Their opposition was fierce and unbending in defence of what little remained of their dream, like a still-leafy branch hanging from a tree just charred by lightning. They grasped it with all their might. Sally’s academic career represented the years of sacrifice since they’d immigrated to Canada. They had invested their sweat, their savings, their reputation, and the best of themselves. Then had come her caprices, the life choices that left them stunned and heartbroken. They were determined not to allow Sally to run roughshod over them.

  This time Sally didn’t have a chance. Her parents wouldn’t make any concessions. Cornered, heavy-hearted, she signed up for her final session at the university. But with her gifts and enthusiasm for computers, she quickly got down to work and forgot that just a few months before she had almost — on her own initiative — put an end to the long years of study and toil.

  She had been sitting in front of her computer since early morning, working on her session project. As she reflected on how proud she was of her work, a thought flashed across her mind. She had no idea by what mental process she remembered a phrase that The Boy Next Door, her secret admirer, used frequently: In my thoughts, you are / like a precious stone . . . Turning away from the keyboard, she stood up and walked over to the mirror.

  Her room contained a large bed and the worktable where she kept her computer. She had removed all the pictures that had been hanging on the wall since her childhood. They were haram, a form of adoration of things created by man that turned people away from their ultimate purpose — the adoration of God, the One and Only. Even the collection of miniature elephants carved from wood that her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday lay hidden deep in one of the drawers of her night table. Sally had adored those little elephants, especially the extraordinary attention to detail. The sight of them, all different sizes, one behind another, tails hanging down and tusks raised high, reminded her of her parents’ native Asia. In them she saw her roots, a sense of discipline side by side with untamed nature.

  But ever since Sally had discovered the true faith, she never once restored those impious statuettes to her night table. When she consulted her favourite website, she learned that keeping them was a form of shirk, pure polytheism. Idol worship, her favourite sheikh had declared without a moment’s hesitation. She wanted to throw them into the wastebasket straightaway but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead she placed them in a box, which she consigned to the bottom of the drawer. There, in the darkness, far from her eyes, those symbols could have no effect on her faith. She did not want to look at her carved wooden elephants again; they only reminded her of her futile attachment to material things.

  In one corner of the room stood a bookcase where religious books rubbed shoulders with computer manuals. Sally’s two great loves: faith and computing. Standing in front of the mirror, Sally scrutinized herself. Her jet-black hair framed a diminutive, fine-featured face. Her black eyes stood out against her pale skin. But those same soft eyes gave off an artificial severity. It was a severity that gave her the appearance of a confused young girl searching for identity, crying out for moral support.

  Sally stared long and hard at her reflection in the mirror, so long that she forgot about her project, which was due soon. Picking up a stick of black kohl, she swept it across her eyelids. Deftly she repeated the movement, as if to ensure that the black pencil had left its mark. Focusing once more on the face in the mirror, she was surprised at how much more mature she looked, how different from the clumsy adolescent of only a few minutes before. The words of The Boy Next Door echoed in her mind:

  Beneath your black veil

  I see your body

  Patiently I wait in my corner

  Perhaps one day I will be yours

  At that moment her BlackBerry began to vibrate. Her stomach knotted and she sighed. Then she turned towards it in haste, anxious to see who had sent her a message.

  17

  Louise had met Ameur at the University of Ottawa, where they had enrolled in the same biology course. She wanted to become a nurse like her mother. Ameur had signed up to complete the course requirements for his undergraduate biology degree and planned to enrol in med school.

  Ameur’s parents were Egyptians who had been living in Canada for quite a few years. Ameur had been born in Ottawa and had always lived there. He was a dynamic young man, very active in the university Muslim student organization, and an excellent speaker. Words flowed from his mouth like the clear, fast-flowing waters of a mountain stream. He had a talent no one could deny. His curly hair was closely cut and his sparse beard was barely visible; with his dark skin he could have been Mexican. Ameur was a good practising Muslim: he didn’t go out with girls, didn’t drink, and spent most of his time studying or managing the Muslim Students Association, of which he was president.

  His only secret was that he wanted to marry a girl with blue eyes. It was a lifelong dream that he’d never spoken to anyone about, not even his mother, Fatma, who had raised him to respect their traditions and their religion. Ameur knew that he wouldn’t be committing a sin, that his thoughts were pure, and that one day, God willing, his wish would come true in full legitimacy and with the benediction of his parents. All he had to do was find a young Muslim wife with blue eyes. When he met Louise, it was love at first sight. All he could see was her eyes. He dared not look her over — that would be against the precepts of his religion — but his furtive glances inspired him to dream of Louise and of the day when they would be married.

  One day Ameur and Louise found themselves in the same group for a class project. Alice Gendron, Louise’s mother, would call it pure coincidence, but Ameur was certain that God had brought him and Louise together. She was attracted by the way he spoke: no sooner did he open his mouth than she stopped whatever she was doing to listen to him. He switched readily from French to English, and he could explain concepts to Louise that would have taken her days to comprehend. That was Ameur’s way of courting her. Nothing dangerous, nothing illicit. Just words.

  But gradually the words evolved into conversations, and then into meetings. Ameur didn’t want to give Satan an opportunity to tempt him, so he arranged to see Louise in the university cafeteria, at the library, or in the Muslim Students Association office. The two of them were never alone together. They chatted about their courses, but Louise wanted to know more about Ameur, about his principles, his values. He was different from the others. It wasn’t his physical presence or his exotic appearance that drew her to him, but the way he’d been raised, what he believed in, his goals in life.

  Ameur never missed an opportunity to tell her about Islam, about the pillars of the faith, about the moral standards it propounded and the prejudices that surrounded it. He gave her books that she devoured in a day or two and that made her ask even mor
e questions. Ameur wanted what was best for Louise. He dreamed of the day when he could marry her, the girl with the blue eyes.

  Louise had discovered Ameur and Islam at the same time. With every passing day she became more attached to both. At first she was drawn more strongly to Ameur, to his manners, his way of speaking, his intelligence, but gradually she discovered Islam and could no longer do without it. She read whatever came her way, whatever helped her deepen her knowledge. She had a thirst that could not be quenched. Her mother had brought her up far from religion because she wanted her daughter to be free. Of course Louise felt free, but she also felt a yawning void deep inside her. She hadn’t found a satisfactory answer to the questions of death and human suffering. With the Muslim religion she felt more enlightened and ready to face the existential questions that were tormenting her. She had found the spiritual reassurance that she had been seeking.

  Ameur did his best to calm Louise’s new-found religious enthusiasm. He reminded her how important it was to respect, to obey, and to please her mother. Patience would help her avoid many errors. “Be patient, and God will reward you,” he told her. But Ameur’s gallant and delicate manner swept her away. She could feel the flame of her faith swaying at his words; calmed, she let herself be soothed by the magic of his speech. She listened religiously, like a little girl, as he talked, and resolved to wait until her relationship with her mother improved.

  It got worse instead. A year after meeting Ameur, Louise decided to become a Muslim. She had reached the point of no return. She was full of self-assurance — her new faith gave her life meaning. Ameur supported her in her first moments of doubt, but he had also spoken to her about the challenges her decision would force her to confront. Time and again he insisted that she must convert not for his sake but out of conviction.

  Louise was happy to have encountered faith and love at the same time. She knew that Ameur’s love was enough for her, that she did not have to venture onto the shifting and controversial ground of faith. Why had she crossed the line that separates emotion from spirituality? Isn’t it a sign from God who, in His wisdom and knowledge, made Ameur the instrument that guided me to the Truth? she reassured herself, as if to banish all doubt.

  Unfortunately, her mother saw things quite differently. She hated that her daughter had fallen for that boy. She was convinced he had cast a spell over Louise. She believed fervently in the principles of secularism, of equality between the sexes, and of the primacy of law over religion. It was clear that her daughter’s conversion was a sign of submission and servitude, a shameful surrender of her freedom. This woman, who had stood tall and made her own way, saw in Louise’s behaviour a flagrant example of dependency. A grave mistake. A death sentence . . .

  18

  Emma was on the bus. Sara was seated next to her, looking at the pictures in a children’s book. The big day had come. She was on her way to Samia Bibi’s house to meet her daughters, Lynne and Mona, and hopefully to begin tutoring them in math. She, the queen of bad luck, couldn’t have expected better. For an engineer who ate numbers for breakfast, what could be easier than coaching two teenagers?

  Mrs. Bibi had seemed pleasant enough on the phone, and very accommodating. “Of course there’s no problem. You can bring your daughter along. Both of you are welcome.”

  What more could Emma want? An Arab Muslim family would pay her bus fare and for the time she would spend helping their two daughters with math in order to bring up their test scores. She couldn’t have been happier. She was about to break out of the isolation she’d fallen into after her divorce and her move to the new neighbourhood.

  For the occasion she had put on one of the suits she used to wear to work. She even applied a bit of makeup to hide the pallor of her cheeks — she wanted to look her best. Mrs. Bibi’s house was at the other end of town, an hour’s bus ride. It’s nothing. I’ll have something to look at, and Sara will amuse herself during the ride, thought Emma.

  Sara was delighted to be accompanying Emma, but most of all she was happy that her mother was returning to life, reborn after so many months of pain and solitude. Sara was young, but sensitive. Instinctively she understood much of what her mother was going through. The breakup of the family and the months they’d spent in the shelter had brought them closer together; they’d become partners. As Sara leafed through her book, her eyes gleamed and a faint smile played across her tiny lips.

  The streets of Ottawa had begun to fill with cars, taking people home after another day’s work. Emma knew this part of town only vaguely. Staring off into the distance, she watched the houses and the vehicles speeding by. Finally the bus came to a stop at the corner she was looking for. Emma took her daughter’s hand and they got off. A chilly wind was blowing and stray snowflakes clung to their clothing or fluttered to the sidewalk. Sara stuck out her tongue to catch one. Emma hurried; she wanted to arrive on time.

  Mrs. Bibi’s residence was located on a dead-end street, an island of quiet and luxury. It was a large house with a white stone facade. Sculpted lions guarded the massive wooden front door, a reminder of the house’s original Italian owners. Stray dry leaves whirled across the grass, and bushes wrapped in heavy grey fabric reminded her of huge eggs. Emma rang the doorbell. The few seconds she waited seemed like an eternity; her knees felt weak.

  Then the door opened and a slender, made-up woman emerged from behind it: Mrs. Bibi. “Welcome, Emma, come on in.” Then she looked down at Sara. “This is your daughter? Oh, what a cutie! Mona, Lynne, come! Mrs. Emma is here.”

  With one hand Mrs. Bibi patted Sara’s head and with the other closed the front door, her voice carrying as far as the top of the stairs. Lynne and Mona, who were standing there, exchanged glances, grimaced, and then made their way downstairs to join their mother and their new tutor.

  The luxury dazzled Emma. It was as though she had stepped into a palace straight out of The Thousand and One Nights. Never had she seen such an immense house. Everything about it breathed wealth, from the furniture to the white marble floor, the carpets, and the soaring ceilings. The decor was an extravagant combination of styles, colours, and fabrics. Emma felt intimidated and confused. She followed Mrs. Bibi without uttering a word. She was not certain she wanted to work for these people. But the little voice deep inside her was quick to pipe up: It’s your chance to earn a little money, to pull yourself out of the solitude that’s dragging you down day by day. Don’t miss your chance!

  Mrs. Bibi was almost beside herself, delighted to have found a female teacher who was an Arab and a Muslim to help her two daughters master mathematics. She wouldn’t have to worry her head because they would have better marks soon. She led Emma and Sara into a smaller room. There the furniture was simple compared to the luxury of the entry hall.

  Mrs. Bibi motioned to Emma to sit down and they faced one another. “Would you like something to drink? Some mango juice, a cup of tea, some Turkish coffee perhaps?”

  Emma did not know what to say and Sara remained silent. Not waiting for their response, Mrs. Bibi excused herself and left the room. Lynne and Mona made their appearance. They greeted Emma politely and sat down on the sofa across the room from her.

  Emma attempted to dissipate the artificial shyness of the two teenagers. “So, you’re in grades ten and eleven?” she asked them, as if to confirm what she already knew.

  “I’m in grade eleven,” said Lynne nonchalantly.

  “And I’m in ten,” Mona continued coolly.

  They were both wearing tight jeans and bright-coloured sweaters that made them look alike, although Lynne was round-faced while Mona’s features were a bit more angular. Emma asked them about their math courses and what they found difficult. The girls gave detailed answers but showed no enthusiasm.

  Mrs. Bibi reappeared, carrying a large silver tray with a teapot, two porcelain cups, a bottle of water and a bottle of juice, and a plate of cookies. She filled a glass with juice and ha
nded it to Sara, who didn’t budge, glancing self-consciously at her mother for permission. Emma smiled at her and Sara picked up the glass, muttering a barely audible thank-you. Mrs. Bibi poured two cups of tea, one for herself and one for Emma, which she placed on the small table beside her.

  Out of the corners of their eyes Lynne and Mona were looking Emma over from head to toe, as if they hardly knew what to think. Judging by her questions she seemed smart enough, but she looked dated to them, a bit schoolmarmish in her grey suit and badly fastened headscarf, as if she’d just stepped out of a old-fashioned book. Their mother ignored them, offering them neither tea nor cookies. It was Emma who interested her.

  “Have you had a chance to talk with the girls? What do you think? Would you like to start next week?”

  Her questions came thick and fast, hardly leaving Emma the time to think.

  Lynne chewed on her right thumbnail while Mona scrutinized the ceiling. Sara sipped at her glass of mango juice. Head lowered, she examined the flower pattern of the carpet at her feet.

  Emma hesitated for a moment, then said, “I’m an engineer by training. I can certainly tutor your daughters in math. I can come every Saturday afternoon, one hour for Lynne and one hour for Mona. And if they need help, they can always call me.”

  A cloud of disappointment passed over Mona’s face, but she continued to study the ceiling. Lynne stopped biting her thumbnail. A radiant smile illuminated Mrs. Bibi’s features. The two girls stood up and left the room without a goodbye.

  Mrs. Bibi asked Emma, “Would two hundred dollars a week suit you?”

  Sara was still staring at the carpet. She thought she could make out a large bird with round eyes, a long beak, and wide-spreading wings.

  Delighted, Emma accepted; it was a godsend in these difficult times. She motioned to Sara that it was time to leave. Her daughter forgot her imaginary designs and got up.