34

The festival season was in full swing. Tourists thronged Ottawa’s ByWard Market. Some licked at ice-cream cones to cool off while others lounged beneath the umbrellas at sidewalk cafés as they watched the passing crowd.

The farmers’ stalls overflowed with fresh produce from the surrounding countryside. The intense colours of the fruits and vegetables caught the eye of even the most indifferent passersby. Plump, sweet-smelling strawberries nudged up against tiny blueberries that glistened like dark pearls. Groups of tourists crowded around the stalls, popping samples into their mouths as they inquired about the price of this or that.

Then there were the florists’ stands, with their flowering pots hanging like rainbows from the metal poles that held up the canopies that in turn protected their ephemeral existence. Elsewhere, flats of flowers were set out in ranks like well-disciplined soldiers as they waited patiently for someone to carry them away.

The window of a pastry shop exhibited its impeccably decorated, almost joyous cakes, decorated with blanched hazelnuts and mango slices artfully laid atop chocolate curls. Lama and Louise were salivating as with their eyes they wolfed down the delicacies on display, wondering if they dared walk through the shop door and succumb to temptation.

“What do you think of that cake over there, the one with the fine layer of rose-coloured jelly?” asked Louise, turning to her friend.

Lama wrinkled her nose and hesitated. She would prefer one of the fat cigars stuffed with crème pâtissière and garnished at both ends with finely chopped almonds.

Since Louise had opened her heart to Lama about Ameur, the two girls saw each other almost every day. They would meet after class, chatting about everything and nothing, about their future, about politics, about boys, about religion. They agreed on most things, and about one thing in particular: they must never stop talking to each other.

Louise had begun a training course as a nurse in a palliative care unit. There she kept company with death on a daily basis and witnessed the suffering of the terminally ill. She did not regret her decision to become a nurse; in fact, every time she put on her work clothes and began looking after her patients, she felt her decision had been crucial. Still, metaphysical questions haunted her. Death was her constant companion. She witnessed it come to rest in sick bodies wracked by pain and reduced by suffering, even as the patients sought for hope in a word, a gesture, a glance. Louise sometimes found answers in her new faith, but just as often she did not, and it was then that she raised her doubts with Lama.

Her friend had found a job as a cashier in a small downtown grocery store, where she worked from early morning until four o’clock in the afternoon. Her father had made up his mind to stay in Dubai for the summer and to take a winter vacation with the whole family over the New Year’s holiday. Louise and Lama met every day at lunchtime to stroll along the Rideau Canal and enjoy a bite together. This day, they’d met at the ByWard Market and shared a tuna sandwich. Now it was time for dessert.

Finally, after much hemming and hawing, Lama opted for a mille-feuille with crème pâtissière, while Louise chose an almond tartlet. They stepped out of the pastry shop, as proud of their accomplished decision-making as if they had just completed an exhausting round of negotiations at the United Nations.

“Mmm, this crème pâtissière is delicious,” said Lama, licking her lips. Louise was just finishing the last bite of her tartlet, and she nodded in agreement.

On Wellington they stopped not far from Parliament Hill. Hungry office workers were pouring out onto the streets. Two determined joggers strode past in the heat, their water bottles bouncing on their hips. As they ran by, red-faced and sweating, Louise exclaimed, “Wow, what determination! How I’d love to have the courage to deal with my problems and my convictions the way they do!”

“Why not? What’s holding you back?” Lama responded as she shook pastry crumbs from her blouse.

“My mother’s love . . . I just can’t handle it by myself. Last fall I wanted to wear the veil. I made all the preparations, bought scarves, long skirts. I wanted to prove to myself who I was, to prove my new convictions, but I could never do it. Even my love for Ameur wasn’t enough. I feel so weak, so unlike those runners defying the heat, the fatigue, and thirst.”

“Why don’t you explain your ideas to your mother? Why don’t you try to talk it over with her, give her your side of the story?” asked Lama, forgetting for a moment that she could barely talk to her own mother.

“I did it, time and time again — tried to tell her. It’s a big waste of time because she thinks I’ve been brainwashed…She doesn’t want to accept that the path I’ve chosen isn’t the same as hers. But in spite of everything I really love her, and I have the feeling that I can’t really break free from her. It’s like she’s always looking at me critically, wherever I go and whatever I do —”

Lama opened her mouth and was about to speak when she noticed Louise’s expression had changed. Her face was suddenly livid. They had just passed the Langevin Block, the building that houses the Privy Council and the Prime Minister’s Office, and turned onto the Sparks Street pedestrian mall. Louise was staring at a man walking towards them. Lama recognized him — it was Ameur. He had on his customary blue pinstriped shirt and a pair of jeans; his hair was close-cropped. A smile on his face, he was heading straight for them.