33

Emma couldn’t keep her eyes off her watch. She could barely contain her impatience; the minute hand was moving too slowly. Soon the taxi that would take her and Sara to the airport would arrive. Two large suitcases stood poised in the vestibule. She had attempted to cram all she owned into those two cases — books, toys, clothing — everything folded and carefully packed. Her furniture was gone, all donated to the Salvation Army, returning whence it had come.

She would preserve her memories of Canada in her mind. It would be impossible to forget those years, from her first days in Montreal in a dormitory room to today, perched on a stool in a nearly empty house that would soon open its doors to another family, give shelter to other children, witness the unfolding of other lives. She would always remember the sleepless nights in the university computer centre as she put the finishing touches on her session projects. Nothing could remove from her memory the days following her marriage to Fadi: how happy she had been, how confident in the future, how proud of her life. She would never forget her joy at Sara’s birth, nor the pain and the tears that followed her divorce. The conflicting feelings collided deep inside her; she couldn’t drive them entirely away. Childhood memories tumbled over those of her life in Canada. She sat there staring out into space while Sara skipped rope in the kitchen.

Emma glanced out the window just as a glossy black car pulled up in front of the house. The taxi! The time had come. Emma stood up, double-checking her papers. Her passport, her daughter’s passport, her work visa, everything was right where it should be. Sara stopped skipping and tucked the rope into a pocket of one of the suitcases.

“The taxi is waiting. Time to go,” Emma exclaimed, as she adjusted her headscarf.

Slowly she opened the door and pushed the two suitcases onto the stoop. The driver, a husky man in his fifties with dark skin, got out of the car and came up to Emma. “Salaam! How are you, madam?”

“Salaam. I am fine, thank you,” Emma replied. She was a bit startled to hear the driver greet her in the Islamic manner. It could only have been because of her headscarf that he recognized her as a Muslim, and he’d surely intended to put her at ease.

It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, and the trees wore their full coat of green. Jeanne was smoking a cigarette as she watched her two daughters splashing in an inflatable pool on the front lawn. The driver carried Emma’s suitcases to the car and placed them one after the other in the trunk. Emma waved to Jeanne, who walked over to say goodbye to her neighbour. Two worlds of sadness met as they fell into each other’s arms.

“You’ll send us a card from Dubai, promise?” said Jeanne with a motherly smile.

Sara was looking at her young neighbours as they bobbed in and out of the water, laughing and sputtering. A few leaves floated on the surface of the pool. Sara felt like staying to play with them.

“I will, for sure,” stammered Emma, her throat constricted with emotion.

Jeanne broke into nervous laughter that finished with a spasm of coughing. Then, with a kind gaze, she watched Emma and Sara climb into the taxi. Jeanne and her daughters waved goodbye, and Emma and Sara followed suit. The driver took his seat and then the car drove off.

“Are you travelling, madam?” he asked.

“Yes,” Emma answered in a low voice. “I’m going to work in Dubai.”

She had hardly finished her sentence when the driver continued, “Oh, you’re fortunate, madam! Me, I’m originally from Pakistan. Ali’s my name and I’m trained as an engineer. When I came to Canada, I couldn’t find work in my field, but, thank God, I’m earning my living now. As you can see, I’m an old man; I don’t have any ambition. You’ve got to try your luck when you’re young, your age . . .”

On and on he went, about his daughter, who was born in Ottawa and who had just received her degree in computer science and was getting married in a few months; about his wife, who was a wonderful cook. He ended every sentence with the same expression: “God be praised!”

Emma’s mind was far away and she was barely listening. She held Sara’s hand as she answered mechanically, “Yes. Yes, that’s right.” Her mind had already taken flight for Dubai. She could only think of the new life that was awaiting her over there. But then, suddenly, she felt unsure of her decision. Maybe she had acted too fast. But did she really have a choice? Caught between poverty and the humiliation of receiving welfare and a decent, well-paying job, what was she supposed to choose? She had been trapped, cornered. No doubt about it — the trip to Dubai was a life preserver.

Ali the driver pulled up in front of the international departures entrance, removed the two suitcases from the trunk, and placed them at Emma’s feet. She already had the fare in hand.

“Thank you, madam, and most of all, good luck. Who knows, maybe you’ll return to Ottawa one day. You never know . . .”

Emma smiled politely. She wanted to tell him that she was turning the page, that she would never turn back. But Ali and his taxi had already vanished.

She located a baggage cart and Sara helped her lift the two suitcases onto it. Pushed by four hands, the cart clunked slowly forward, carrying what remained of their life in Ottawa. The public address system blared through the airport. The countdown had begun.

Emma shivered and broke out in gooseflesh; suddenly she felt like dashing out of the airport. She thought of Jeanne, alone now with her two daughters, trapped in illness and poverty. Then she thought of her mother, how happy she was that her daughter would be closer to her and that she would be able to work in a dignified manner. Emma’s hands clutched the handle of the luggage cart. She looked at Sara, smiled, and began to move at a decisive pace towards the check-in counter.