22

Over many long nights, Sally thought it through carefully. She visited all the websites she liked and respected. Nothing prohibited her from communicating with a boy by email. She could not see the boy, could not meet him, and therefore could not be attracted to him. She was sure the whole thing was one hundred percent halal.

But Sally hadn’t factored in one thing: she was caught in the clutches of a faceless virtual love. She had fallen for the tender words, for verses whispered by fingertips. Most of all, the sense of mystery had bewitched her, tempered her religious zeal and softened her intransigence. She was under the spell of the messages, which kept coming, and was seeking one thousand and one reasons to contact the unknown boy.

Besides, he wasn’t entirely unknown to her. For some time he had been signing his messages with an S. She suspected even more that it was Sam. Now she was preparing to answer him for the first time.

Hair falling free over her shoulders, she was seated on the edge of her bed. She wore one of the skirts her mother had bought her, the kind she had refused to wear until now. Her fingers were trembling. Again and again she prayed, “O Allah, protect me from danger!” Then, all at once, as if driven by a strange power, her fingers began to type on the tiny keyboard of her BlackBerry.

In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate. Dear S, I would like to thank you for all the messages you’ve sent me over the last few weeks. Your words are kind, and I’m really touched. I am ready to make your acquaintance, but on condition that you reveal your full name, and that you are Muslim. If you are ready to reveal your identity, I will continue to communicate with you; if not, this will be the last time I write. Sally.

Her fingers started to tremble again. Before pressing the Send button, she hesitated and reread her short message. The tone and the words she’d chosen seemed right. The message was firm and gentle at the same time. Firm enough to keep bad intentions at arm’s length, gentle enough to leave the door ajar.

Sally was proud of herself. By acting this way she had clearly displayed her religious convictions. She was convinced she was behaving correctly and that the sheikhs whom she followed so assiduously would be in complete agreement. She pressed the button. The message was sent.

From far away she heard her mother’s voice calling. She stepped out of her room, went down the stairs, and turned towards the kitchen. Fawzia was frying samosas. She had just stuffed them and was now dropping them one after another into a deep pot of hot oil, leaving them to fry long enough to turn a golden brown before removing them.

“Mommy, do you need anything?” Sally asked her mother solicitously.

Fawzia could hardly believe her ears. It had been a long time since her daughter had spoken to her like that. She smiled and looked her in the eyes. She could sense a change in her daughter’s attitude. Sally blushed and looked away.

Fawzia pretended not to notice and continued to retrieve samosas from the boiling oil. “Can you get me some more paper towels to absorb the oil?”

Sally did as she was asked without a word. She could feel her mother’s inquisitive gaze, and it was as if she knew the whole story about the anonymous messages.

In reality Fawzia knew nothing, but her age and life experience told her that her daughter’s behaviour might have something to do with the emergence of new feelings. Could it be a new-found friend? A budding love? Fawzia was determined to find out. She felt deep gratitude to whoever that person might be.

Sally ate a few samosas — they were exquisite. The cumin seeds her mother had mixed into the dough yielded their fragrance in the mouth, mingling with the piquant and pungent taste of ginger. She wiped her mouth on a paper napkin, made sure her mother was still busy frying samosas, went back to her room, and stretched out on her bed.

She contemplated her BlackBerry on the night table. Nothing. No message had popped up in the inbox. The silence worried her, and her heart began to beat faster. What if The Boy Next Door didn’t write to her again? What if he hadn’t appreciated what she’d written? Remorse swept over her and suddenly she regretted sending the message. But wasn’t she satisfied with the words she’d chosen? No longer, for there was no answer. The Boy Next Door, or S, was ignoring her. What if he wanted nothing to do with her? Then what? Sally wondered, devoured by anxiety and fear. What if the whole thing was just a prank?

She considered logging in to one of her favourite online chat groups and talking it over with the other members, but her heart just wasn’t in it. She was exhausted, as if she’d just finished a footrace. Every muscle in her body felt stiff and sore. She shut her eyes, but the voices of regret would not stop echoing in her head.

She got to her feet and drew the curtains. She needed rest. It was at that moment that she heard her BlackBerry vibrate. A knife pierced her flesh. She picked up the tiny device and checked the sender’s name. FROM: boy next door. SUBJECT: your message.

She scrolled down. The words lashed her eyes like rain against a windowpane. In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate. My name is Sam, the boy in your class. I would very much like for us to see each other.

Sally’s head began to spin. Her eyes glazed over. Her temples throbbed. She sat down again on the edge of her bed, let the BlackBerry fall to the floor, closed her eyes, and held her head in her hands.