82.

Jasmine’s Tea House had been carved out of the lower floor of a once-stately smaller home in Charlottetown, not far from City Hall. Jasmine, whose real name was Bonnie Lee, was a second-generation Vietnamese who spoke English with a thick Tignish PEI accent. Jasmine bustled about as if preparing for a banquet, but, in all reality, the tea market was limited to a small coterie of regulars and passengers off Holland America cruise ships searching for a genuine Island experience before their twelve-hour shore leave expired, and they sailed to their next exotic port.

For Anne it seemed the perfect place to meet Mrs. Kikovic, Rada’s mother. It would be a quiet and discreet setting, free from clashing cultural, religious, or political influences. Anne had no unrealistic expectations about the meeting. Her conversation with her the night before had been short and non-committal, but hopeful in that she had agreed to meet at all.

Anne played with her tea as she waited. She was tired and found it hard to concentrate. Anxiety about the meeting hadn’t distracted her. It was something else, something she couldn’t put her finger on. It was the same feeling she got when, sitting quietly, she hears a faint but odd speck of sound. Ears perk, the mind sharpens, and silence stretches out until a faint scratch in the wall tells a tale. In Anne’s mind, though, the tale still hung there, its meaning not yet revealed.

A bell on the door of the tea house jingled merrily as it opened. The sound broke Anne’s restless reverie, and her eyes followed the movement of the woman who entered. She was a tall, elegant woman, with a clear, smooth, unadorned complexion, and bright, intense eyes. Her hair and shoulders were covered by an orange and black print hijab. A black jilbab flowed to her shoes in a line broken only at the waist by a small loosely cinched belt. She carried a black leather bag over her shoulder. Their eyes briefly met.

Anne stood to greet her.

“Mrs. Kikovic, I’m Anne Brown. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

“A’idah, and thank you.”

They sat down together, but an awkward silence settled between them.

Finally, Anne spoke: “A’idah, over the last couple of months Jacqui and Rada have grown close and become good friends.” A’idah nodded, and Anne continued: “Jacqui is brokenhearted about what happened, and I’m hoping to find some way for the girls to mend their relationship.”

“Rada is unhappy too…very unhappy…but sadness and disappointment are part of growing up, are they not? They stimulate change…maturity. Your daughter and mine will grow from what they learn…as you undoubtedly did and I did, when we were children.”

“But is losing a friendship necessary? Is that a good thing?”

“Perhaps not a good thing, but sometimes a necessary thing.”

“In what way?”

“It is difficult for a Muslim child to live in a Western society. In a perfect world, she would grow up in a familiar country and thrive in traditions we value. But it is not a perfect world…and here we are…we must make do with what resources and resolve we have. Rada and I and Ahmed are not Western peoples. And Rada…she hears many voices now that are not ours…and too many of these voices teach self-interest, indulgence, disrespect, shamelessness…”

“Surely, Jacqui isn’t one of those voices.”

“I know Jacqui, and I like her, but Ahmed thinks, and I think so as well, that, although she may not speak those voices, she does not reject them either. Our religion, our traditions…we cannot ignore them or dismiss them.”

“I understand, and I agree with you. Young people need good examples and guidance and limits. But does forbidding their friendship and association set a proper example? Can there not be a compromise of some sort?”

“Some things cannot be compromised.”

“And some things can. Perhaps we can find a way to accommodate both. Perhaps we can set a good example by trying to find some ground on which we can all stand.”

“The Qu’ran says, ‘Whoever pardons and seeks reconciliation will be rewarded by God.’ So I must accept that it is possible.”

“What would you suggest then?” said Anne with a timid optimism.

“There may be a way,” she said in a manner of reflection. Her bright eyes clouded with thought and reservation. “but my husband would have to agree. It would involve a mediator. An imam perhaps. Or some community leader whose opinion he respects.”