36

“What are you trying to say, anyway? Emma would never do such a thing! She’s so well-behaved, so discreet. Why, you hardly notice she’s there. Plus she’s not really what you’d call a great beauty . . . Eh? Just what are you hinting at? No, really! Listen, I know my husband. He adores me, even though we’re far apart. He’d never even look at another woman . . . Do me a favour, will you? Let’s change the subject. By the way, what’s Suzie’s new friend’s name? The one from Montreal, I mean.”

Samia Bibi was lounging in her backyard in the shade of a broad parasol. No one could see her, so she was not wearing her headscarf. Her glossy hair fell across her forehead. Her clear, bright voice rose and fell among the flowerbeds, the sculpted bushes, and the arching trees that protected the garden from the eyes of passersby. She was wearing Bermuda shorts; her pale legs that only rarely saw the sun rested upon a low wicker table that also held a tall glass of water, a small vial of nail polish, a pack of cigarettes, and an ashtray. Seated on a rattan sofa upholstered with plump cushions covered with maroon fabric, cellphone glued to her left ear and a cigarette in her right hand, she’d been chatting for a good twenty minutes with her friend Leila.

Leila was familiar with Emma’s story. She knew Samia had helped her find work in Dubai with her husband’s company. It was a friendly warning, no more — Emma might just steal her husband. After all, she knew almost nothing of “this divorcee’s” past. Samia Bibi was upset by Leila’s thinly veiled insinuations. What business was it of hers, sticking her nose into matters that didn’t concern her? I never asked her for her opinion, so why is she always hinting that maybe Emma will try to take Ezz away from me? How can she judge Emma, or my husband? She doesn’t even know them!

She put down the telephone. She was getting angrier and angrier with Leila. With a sudden gesture that revealed her frayed nerves, she pushed her hair behind her ears, then lit another cigarette as she thought over what Leila had said. Are you crazy or what, helping a divorced woman get work in your husband’s company? You don’t know what Tunisians are like. They’re headstrong women, emancipated. I hear that some of them even use black magic to steal the hearts of the men they want . . . the words stung like darts. Of course she knew Leila was blowing things out of proportion; it was nothing but stories she’d heard from people who couldn’t be trusted in the first place. Gossip. Nothing but gossip.

Emma was a respectable woman, and she knew it. She could see it in her eyes at their very first meeting: an educated woman who’d run into bad luck, a girl from a good family who had no bad intentions. Just who does Leila think she is, anyway? That prim and prissy one who divorces her first husband on account of impotence, then goes and marries his brother! But for all the arguments that Samia could muster, Leila’s words sent chills down her spine. Ezz has never cheated on me. He loves me and he loves the girls. All he wants is our happiness. Okay, so we only see each other during vacations, and I don’t know for sure what he does there all alone in Dubai. One thing’s certain though: he works day and night to make us happy.

The thought made tears well up in Samia’s eyes. It was as if, for the first time in years, she realized the absurdity of their life and the distance that separated her from her husband. She wanted to call him, to hear his voice, to seek shelter from Leila’s insidious remarks, which reminded her of the hissing of a snake. The unexpected surge of emotion had nudged aside the superficiality of Samia’s daily life.

She was just about to dial her husband’s number when the voices of her daughters coming towards her made her change her mind. She stopped cold.

“Oh, Mommy, you’re all pink! What is it?” asked Mona.

“It’s nothing. I think I’ve been in the sun too long. I should have put on some sunscreen; the parasol’s not enough,” Samia answered, butting out her cigarette in the ashtray. It was a purely mechanical gesture, but it relieved the tension.

To change the subject, Samia bombarded her daughters with questions. “Did you like the film? What about your friends, did they show up? Are you going to see them again next week? Did you have a bite to eat after the movie?”

Lynne and Mona didn’t have time to answer. Samia glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly six o’clock. Lama hadn’t come back from work yet. “I wonder what she’s up to?”

She stood up and gathered her hair, fastening it with the grip she’d stuck between the cushions of the sofa, and slipped on a pair of turquoise sandals. The woven leather straps enveloped her dainty feet and the colour brought out her fuchsia nail polish. Without a word she headed for the house as Lynne and Mona looked on, blank expressions on their faces. Then they burst out laughing.

“She’s acting really weird. What’s going on?” Lynne asked Mona, frowning.

Her sister rolled her eyes. “I don’t have the faintest idea. But you know something? I don’t want to know! Angelina Jolie was great in the movie, wasn’t she?” And Mona launched into a dialogue with her sister that was punctuated by exclamations and cries of admiration.

Samia was happy to be back in the cool of her kitchen. She wanted to forget Leila and her stupid remarks. She opened the fridge. The carafe of syrup she’d prepared the previous day from apricot leather hadn’t been touched. She picked it up, plopped two ice cubes into a glass, and filled it with the satin-smooth, unctuous orange liquid. She took one mouthful, then a second. With a click of her tongue she indicated her satisfaction, then, like a cat recovering from a sudden leap, she went upstairs to her room to take a shower.