12

Fawzia Hussein was a simple woman, but there was nothing simple-minded about her. Ever since her daughter had thrown herself, body and soul, into religion, she had become sad and melancholy. Before, she would spend much of the day cooking spicy, savoury meals for her little family, and she would always send a nicely garnished portion to one of her neighbours. When she wasn’t in the kitchen, she was in the sewing room, where she turned out tunics and trousers cut from the choicest fabrics in eye-pleasing colours. With the radio-
cassette player at her elbow playing an Indo-Pakistani melody, she would nod in time to the music. Her friends brought her fabrics whenever they returned from trips to their home villages. They would drop by to ask her to sew this or that dress or ensemble. Sewing was Fawzia’s passion: she loved seeing a lifeless piece of fabric transformed in her hands into a nicely fitted tunic or a pretty pair of baggy trousers that were tight about the ankles.

But now Sally left her no room for happiness, for her small daily pleasures. Her daughter’s metamorphosis had cast a pall over everything she held dear; it had confiscated her right to dream and ripped open the fragile wrapping she’d enveloped herself in since her arrival in Canada. Fawzia could not resume her daily routine without thinking of Sally. At first she could not even look at her daughter clad in black from head to toe, walking down the street like a ghost. But it was Sally’s attitude that disturbed her most of all. A kind of scorn, an expression of superiority on her face became more visible with every passing day. Her loving daughter, whom she had called the rose of her garden, had become a black spot, a discordant voice that sang out of tune in their household.

Fawzia was a pious woman who prayed and fasted. She was always ready to lend a hand to newly arrived immigrants. But was the Islam she practised any different from — or not as good as — the Islam Sally had recently discovered? She didn’t read articles on the Internet the way her daughter did, of course. She had no idea what the ulema were saying on a whole variety of subjects. She continued to speak broken English with her neighbours, but everybody liked her, and no one had ever criticized her for being a bad Muslim — no one except Sally. Her daughter never missed a chance to point out that her headscarf had fallen to her shoulders or that her hair was showing or that she should raise her hands up to her ears to begin the prayer.

Sally made her comments with a coldness that tied her mother’s stomach in knots. Is this really the daughter I raised? Is this the same Sally who wrapped her little arms around me and twirled and spun in front of me to show off her dress? she wondered, with brimming eyes. But last night, when she went to wish her daughter goodnight, Fawzia thought she’d caught a glimpse of the old sparkle. A wise, patient woman, she said nothing and asked no questions of her daughter. But before turning in, she prayed fervently, Dear Lord, bring my Sally, my missing daughter, back to me . . .

That night Sally could not sleep. She left her BlackBerry on the bedside table. It was all she could do not to reread the poem The Boy Next Door had sent her. Hadn’t she promised that she wouldn’t even think about it, would never reread those hellish words that had thrown her soul into an uproar and had transformed her into a non-believer? They weren’t obscene words or even vulgar words, but when she heard them issuing from her mouth, she felt like a little girl caught stealing chocolate cookies by her mother. She felt so guilty that sleep was impossible.

Ever since discovering the straight path, Sally had spared no effort to study her religion and to learn the right way to pray. She divided her time between her courses and spiritual readings. She told herself she had no time to lose. This life was worthless — she must do everything to save her soul and those of her poor parents before Judgement Day. The articles she read gave her a strength she had never believed she possessed. No longer the spoiled little girl who got everything she wanted, she intended to prove to everyone how strong she was. Her decision to cover her face was only the first step. It would set her apart from the other girls, the ones who styled themselves Muslims but who were, in reality, sell-outs to the worlds of fashion and advertising.

Her way of dressing was her way of self-affirmation. Her fascination with technology was a divine blessing, a gift from God that opened wide the doors of knowledge. Within the winding corridors of the Internet she’d been able to return to her roots, to rediscover true Islam. Not the Islam of the defeatists and the hypocrites, but an Islam that was unadulterated, rigorous. Not the Islam of political calculation and intrigue, but that of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, and his closest companions. Not the Islam of compromise that some ulema were trying to make people swallow, but a pure and intransigent Islam that would make not one single concession to softness. That poem had disturbed her best-laid plans.

Who was The Boy Next Door? What did he want? Should she ignore him or answer him? Would it be a sin to answer on her BlackBerry? She’d never seen a legal opinion on the subject. But wasn’t the whole thing virtual in any event? The Boy Next Door couldn’t see her, couldn’t hear her voice. Would it do any harm? Would it be undermining one of the pillars of Islam if she were to answer him?

What if he was obsessed with sex, or a mental case? Sally shook her head. It couldn’t be. Eloquent and intelligent words like those could not be the work of a low or evil mind. With a deliberate movement, she picked up her BlackBerry and removed it from its pink case, then scrolled through her inbox. She wanted to reread his words — perhaps she would discover a secret meaning. To her astonishment, up popped a new message from The Boy Next Door.

I call out to you, you flee.

Do not look far,

You’re close to me.

Sally stopped in her tracks. It was impossible to go on. She felt queasy. She had to delete the message and forget the whole thing. But something held her back and she did nothing of the kind. She whispered a prayer, turned off the device, placed it back on her bedside table, and attempted to sleep.