13

Louise looked downright ridiculous in the new prayer outfit she’d bought at the Arab convenience store down the street, the one that sold halal meat and Middle Eastern spices but had recently begun to sell headscarves imported from Turkey and inexpensive prayer garments from the United Arab Emirates. It consisted of a long skirt, with an elasticized waistband, that came down to her ankles, and a large scarf with a hole in the middle that fitted over the face while the rest of the fabric covered her shoulders, arms, and midsection.

She was standing in the living room on the tiny silk carpet her mother had bought last year to bring herself “some pleasure after all the years of hard work,” as she never tired of repeating. Louise knelt, forehead touching the floor, then got to her feet and bent over, her hands resting on her knees, then put her forehead to the floor once more, her mouth silently forming the words of the prayer. Her mother’s sudden entry into the room released a bolt of tension. Pretending to be engrossed, Louise kept praying, but for all her efforts, her head began to spin.

Alice Gendron, lost in her memories and breathing heavily after climbing the stairs, began to seethe with anger at the sight of her daughter, dressed like a beggar, her eyes lowered in concentration, toes aligned on the handsome Persian carpet she’d worked so hard to buy. She wanted to explode in fury, to vomit up the words that seemed trapped in her throat, to free herself of the stress that had been building over the past weeks. She wanted to make a scene, to show Louise how much she was suffering deep down and how betrayed she felt. But she swallowed her hurt and rushed off to the refuge of her bedroom. It was strange — she simply didn’t have the strength to force a confrontation.

Louise no longer knew what she was saying as she mechanically recited the words she’d memorized from the little book her friend Ameur had lent her. Her mother’s unexpected appearance had had the effect of a volcanic eruption. Everything turned upside down in her mind; she didn’t know whether to keep praying or to stop. The words to the prayers that she’d repeated so often and learned so well were swept away, as by a desert wind.

Louise was not afraid of her mother. She loved her, respected her, and was inspired by her, by the strength of her character and her willpower. She shared her hopes and fears, but she had never been afraid of her. Her mother was her best friend, the sister she’d never had, her missing father, everything. But ever since Louise had spoken openly of her wish to become a Muslim, things had changed. Alice no longer spoke to her as she once had. In fact, she was constantly angry at her, she of all people, who rarely judged anyone, even telling her, “Ever since you met that guy Ameur and his Muslim Students Association you’ve stopped thinking for yourself.”

Her words hit Louise like poisoned darts piercing flesh. She would never have dreamed that her mother would speak to her that way, or that she would accuse her daughter of losing her discernment and her good judgement. This was the woman who had trained her almost from infancy to ask questions, to criticize, to take nothing for granted. This was the mother who had told her, time and time again, not to judge others before she knew them.

Louise had always applied those principles, and they had served her well. Her relations with her mother were calm, tender; the two were meant for each other, and no obstacle came between them, no cloud had ever darkened their clear blue sky. But since she had come to know Ameur and the other Muslim students, Louise and Alice were like strangers under the same roof. Louise spoke more and more of religion, and Alice felt increasingly ill at ease with every passing day.

It wasn’t simply that Alice felt her past and all its unhappiness raising its ugly head. Rather it was the sinister, surreptitious invasion she sensed in the religion her daughter had accepted. Louise wanted to share with her mother what she had learned about Islam, but every day Alice withdrew further into her protective shell. She was certain that her daughter’s curiosity would soon evaporate, that it was a flash in the pan. To her it was a passing identity crisis, a little like the young people of her own generation’s fascination with communism: a passionate but ephemeral flirtation.

But for Louise it was a combination of love and faith. The attraction she felt for Ameur and for his words, and the way he lowered his gaze timidly when he spoke to her — it was a search for her missing father, for her missing faith, for a passion for the divine, for all that she had never experienced, never felt. Her mother had always given her the right to choose, but this time it was different. Now she wanted to pluck the fruit that had been forbidden to her. Louise found herself up against a wall that she was not even allowed to touch.

Alice had waited patiently for things to calm down, for her daughter to return naturally to the right path. But instead, things took a turn for the worse. The pot was about to overflow. Louise had become a Muslim, a practising believer — exactly what Alice loathed most in this world.

When she’d finished her prayer, Louise touched her forehead to her mother’s beautiful Persian carpet and whispered, “Help me, dear God. Give me strength and courage and soften my mother’s heart.” Then she stood up, removed her prayer garment, folded it up, and went to place it in her wardrobe.

Her mother had seen her praying. The two women kept a wary eye on one another like two hens, each in her corner of the room, ready to attack. But neither dared to confront the other. Louise did not know if her mother would continue to tolerate her presence. Alice looked on as her daughter sunk deeper and deeper, day by day, into that foreign religion of hers. Without saying a word, the two expected the worst. Louise’s love for her mother tormented her, and so did her new life as a Muslim. Alice was torn between maternal love and her personal convictions. The two suffered in silence. And they waited, watchful.

Louise was deeply attached to both Ameur and her mother. She did not want to lose either. She wished only that her mother could accept what she had become. Ameur gave her his full support but said she had to be patient with her mother — even though she was a non-believer, she must not be harsh with her. That advice transformed Ameur into a hero in Louise’s eyes, a noble and gallant Prince Charming who extended his hand even to those who despised him.

“Only a few months more, then I’ll finish my degree and by the grace of God we’ll marry, I promise.” Louise lived with those sweet words in her mind, and with the hope that her mother would change her mind and accept her choice.