25

Sally had been right. She’d sensed it from the start, and today she had proof, right on her BlackBerry. Sam had lifted the veil that concealed his identity. He’d greeted her as a Muslim. He wanted to meet her! How had Sally, the cautious girl, the one who wore the niqab, who took religion so seriously, come to this? “But what did I do wrong? What did I do that was haram? Absolutely nothing,” she whispered, as if in her own defence. “I didn’t speak to him, didn’t shake his hand. I only read his poems, and answered his messages only once and no more.”

Sally was caught in her own trap, like a spider captured in its web. And like a captured spider, she struggled to escape. Her first reaction was to answer Sam’s request with a no, but she hesitated. How could she have let things develop so far, only to destroy them at one blow, as she was about to do? “I have to think this through,” she said to herself.

She was apprehensive and at the same time felt the call of adventure. She couldn’t retreat. How could she erase from her memory all those messages she’d received from The Boy Next Door? She’d read them time and time again. She could not deny the impact of his words on her, on her emotions, on her relationship with her parents. Even though their connection was a strictly virtual one, it had become vital for her.

Sally was not prepared to bring it to an end. For if Sam loved her, why not meet him, become acquainted with him, perhaps even — who knows? — marry him. She blushed at the thought of a face-to-face meeting, but just as quickly promised to behave according to God’s law, which reassured her. In evoking His name Sally felt stronger, better prepared to deal with any eventuality. Her faith would guide her, of that she was convinced.

This time she decided not to answer Sam before she talked it over with her mother. At first the very idea seemed foolish, considering her mother’s laxity in religious matters, but rapidly it began to appeal to her. What an excellent way to rebuild bridges between her and her parents.

Her mind made up, she stood to pray. The need to thank God for guiding her onto the right path overwhelmed her. Her prayer completed, she was surprised to find herself hoping that her encounter with Sam might lead to marriage . . .

Fawzia was in the small room she had transformed into a sewing workshop, putting the finishing touches on an orange tunic. The finely woven fabric slid through the sewing machine and slipped through her fingers as though attempting to escape its fate. The tunic was destined for one of Fawzia’s friends; it would be ready in a few days time, she had promised. She was in a fine mood, humming the refrain of a popular song. Ever since her daughter had become so affectionate again with her and her husband, Fawzia had returned to her old routines and reawakened to life.

Needless to say, Sally wasn’t ready to abandon the niqab, but for Fawzia it was no longer the end of the world that she’d feared when it all began. She had become accustomed to seeing her daughter dressed that way. Gradually, beneath the frightening long black sack dresses, she had rediscovered the daughter she had known before. Fawzia was waiting patiently for the day when she would discover the secret behind the change in Sally.

She was startled to see her daughter standing in front of her. Fawzia had not been expecting a heart-to-heart talk, but Sally’s eyes were so filled with emotion that she understood this moment would be decisive. With a sudden movement, she lifted her foot from the pedal. The orange fabric slipped to the floor. Fawzia, hardly noticing it, smiled at her daughter and said, “What is it, Sally? Is something on your mind?”

Sally knew her mother was good at putting people around her at ease, but she hadn’t realized how truly skilful she was. She pulled up a stool, sat down, and said, “There’s this boy who’s been sending me messages on my BlackBerry for some time. Up until yesterday I didn’t answer him, and now he says he wants to meet me. Sam is his name; he’s in my class. He got my email address from one of my friends. I hardly know him . . .”

In an effort not to give the wrong impression, she hurriedly added, “But I swear I’ve never spoken to him. Only one message, the one I sent yesterday.”

Fawzia was stunned. She knit her brows as she attempted to digest all this information at once. For a split second Sally feared she’d made a terrible mistake by confiding in her mother; she didn’t know what to think.

Fawzia bent over and picked up the piece of orange fabric from the floor. She smiled. The mystery was solved. Sam was the one who had returned her Sally to her. She had to meet him. Looking at her daughter, she said, “He’s in your class, you say? What does he look like? Is he a good boy?”

Sally blushed. “I don’t know, I never looked straight at him. He always sits at the back of the lecture hall. Anyway, he looks nice . . . or at least normal . . .”

It was clear to Fawzia that Sally was already interested in this boy. “You may invite him to our house. I’ll speak to your father.”

Sally could hardly believe her ears. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.