53

Samia Bibi was feeling lower by the day, but her anxiety level was soaring. Ever since her friend Leila had made those insinuations about Ezz and Emma, she couldn’t think of anything else. Unable to concentrate on day-to-day life, she spent hours languishing in a dream world.

When she talked to her husband, everything seemed perfectly normal. They chatted about their respective lives and his upcoming visit to Ottawa for the winter holidays. There was nothing to indicate that trouble might be brewing, but still doubt gnawed away at her.

What if I flew to Dubai without telling him? Maybe I’d find out what’s really going on, she said to herself, lounging in bed in her pyjamas, her mind wandering, doing everything she could to avoid starting another day full of unanswered questions. But she came to her senses rapidly. I couldn’t leave my three daughters alone at home. What would people say? They would think there’s a problem, and it would look like Leila was right after all.

Curled up in a ball, she lamented her fate. Then, all at once, a wonderful idea occurred to her. Why don’t I throw a party? I’ll invite Leila and all our friends, I’ll have something else to think about, I’ll forget the whole business, and most of all, Leila won’t be able to run around saying there’s something wrong with me, that poor Samia is upset, that she can only think about her absent husband! The idea shook her out of her lethargy.

She threw off the covers, jumped out of bed, and strode out of the bedroom. Lynne and Mona’s laughter filled the house. The two girls were stretched out, each on a sofa, in the living room, watching a film. Samia turned on the burner to brew herself a cup of Turkish coffee, then picked up the telephone from the kitchen counter. The girls’ constant giggling was getting on her nerves, so she called out, “Quiet down, you two! I’ve got some important calls to make.”

She’d left the coffee pot unattended on the stove. Tiny brown bubbles hissed and sputtered on the burner, like tiny rivulets of lava pouring from an erupting volcano as the coffee boiled over. Samia smiled — her mother had often told her that spilled coffee was a good omen. She wiped up the mess, poured what was left into a minuscule cup, took a sip, and began to call her friends.

Samia spent the next two days in the kitchen. She made kibbeh, soaking cracked wheat in water, then mixing it with minced lamb until it formed a smooth paste; she shaped the mixture into elongated balls that she stuffed with pine nuts and fried ground meat and then fried them in hot oil. Other delicacies were not far behind: miniature triangular savouries, each stuffed with spinach, meat, or cheese; grilled eggplant purée; vine leaves stuffed with rice and meat; ground chickpeas seasoned with lemon juice, garlic, and tahini. She threaded chicken and shrimps on skewers for grilling on the backyard barbecue. She ordered sweets from Praline, a Lebanese pastry shop that sold tiny cakes filled with pistachios, toasted almonds, and hazelnuts, in addition to tasty classic French pastries. Samia wanted the best of both worlds — traditional and Arab, Western and Eastern — side by side to give her guests greater choice and to tantalize their taste buds.

She forgot her sadness and the demons and dark thoughts that had been tormenting her. She wanted only to dazzle her guests and to find some peace of mind. And she succeeded — almost.

All the guests had confirmed, all except Leila. Her daughter was sick, and she had no one to look after her. “Dearie, I’m just devastated, but I can’t make it. My little one is ill,” Leila repeated over the telephone, a malicious edge in her voice.

It was too late for Samia to postpone the party to accommodate her friend. She knew that Leila’s slightly indisposed daughter gave her a perfect excuse not to witness Samia’s high spirits contradict the rumours she’d been spreading.

SAMIA HAD LEFT nothing to chance. She’d put out jugs of mango and kiwi juice, Thermoses full of tea, pots of coffee. Tables covered with embroidered cloths were piled high with sweets. The ladies filled their plates with food, then sat down either in the dining room or on ottomans placed casually on the garden patio.

Dressed in a Moroccan caftan she’d purchased in Dubai, her hair done up in a chignon with curls that fell about her ears, Samia was in splendid form. She hadn’t put on too much makeup — it was all a matter of simplicity of the kind you’d expect from the queen of the party.

“Your mother’s a wonder!” Louise whispered to Lama.

Lama shrugged. Her mother’s behaviour had ceased to impress her long ago. The two girls were sitting on bamboo chairs in the garden. Candles had been lit to keep the mosquitoes away and provide soft light as night began to fall.

“So, what’s next for your lover and future husband?” asked Lama, eyes sparkling mischievously.

Louise jabbed her with an elbow. “Come on, Lama, cut the funny stuff. Who said he was my future husband?”

Lama was wide-eyed. “Don’t tell me you’ve changed your mind again!”

Louise turned serious. “Lama, I’ve been thinking it over and I think I’m better off without Ameur. I thought I could forgive him. It’s true that I rushed off to see him because I thought I would give him a second chance, but I overestimated myself. I’m still too angry with him. I’ve made up my mind I’m not going to see him again, or even call him.”

Lama was startled. She hadn’t expected Louise to show such determination concerning Ameur. She said with a smile, “Louise, one of my mother’s friends — over there, the one in the yellow dress — thinks you’re really cute. She asked Mom if you were married. She’d like to know if you want to become her daughter-in-law.” Then she burst out laughing as Louise nearly choked on a half-eaten kibbeh.

Her mouth still full, Louise managed to sputter a few words. “Well, you can tell her quite frankly that I’m not ready just yet . . .”