SAFIYA KAMAL WASN’T KNOWN TO BE CAUTIOUS. She rarely
second guessed herself. “Go for it, Safiya,” her Egyptian mother would
tell her. “In our new country, there are no limits. Take risks. If you
happen to go down a wrong path, make the best of it.” That advice
came back to her years later in a world vastly diminished, her new
country a barely functioning remnant. As was her history and
inclination, she wasted little time on the world she left behind; there
was no turning back. The world ahead was not without promise.
One spring evening when her mother was still alive, Safiya and her
younger cousin Nur hovered at the edge of a cocktail party in Ottawa’s
outer suburbs. They whispered softly as they studied the aliens across
the room — rich white people in vacuous conversation. Safiya was
nominally here to protect Nur who’d been invited by Drew somebody.
The trouble was, Drew was nowhere to be found. Safiya and Nur were
ready to slip out when Marcel, a muscular French-Canadian, sidled up.
“Hello girls,” he said. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“And what would that be?” Safiya flinched at his pick-up line.
“Well, that this is one of the most uninspiring parties you’ve ever
attended. And you’d commit to handing over your first born to anybody
who could help you escape.”
“As a matter of fact, we were just planning to leave. But making
light of childbirth is cruel.”
“I was kidding about that but not the escape.”
“What did you have in mind?” asked Nur.
“Let’s go across the river to a night spot I know in Gatineau. We
can have drinks, nibbles, listen to a good band. Then I can take you
guys home.”
“That sounds like fun,” Nur said. Safiya threw up unspoken
cautions. “Come on Saf, we just agreed it was time to leave.”
“Okay. But we don’t even know this guy’s name.”
“I’m Marcel Bourque.” He offered his hand. “And you?”
“Safiya and Nur,” volunteered Nur, her finger pointing.
Marcel proved to be the perfect gentleman. Their conversation was
lively. After predictable small talk, they landed on common ground.
They’d attended the University of Ottawa; they discovered mutual
friends and acquaintances; and though they bantered about politics, all
three preferred the left-leaning NDP/NPD. They exchanged phone
numbers and before midnight, he paid the check as they parted ways
with friendly handshakes. Neither woman heard from him in the
ensuing weeks.
Three months later, he called Nur, asking her out for dinner. She
demurred, explaining that she’d drifted into a relationship with an
Egyptian-Canadian, a member of their orthodox community. He had
impressed her parents.
She told Marcel she was tempted, “But right now I think I’d better
say no. Call my cousin. She’d be delighted to hear from you.”
Marcel made the call before Nur had a chance to talk to Safiya. He
took her to the Caffé Mio in Wellington Village, an Ottawa
neighborhood. A Wednesday, the small restaurant was half empty.
“What would you recommend?” she asked.
“If you like poultry, the duck confit; red meat, you cannot top their
tartare de boeuf.”
“Fish?”
“Trout, maybe. I’ve not tried it.” Marcel had a relaxed manner, a
velvety tone to his voice, a smile that consumed his whole face, hazel
eyes with crinkles at the edges. Six feet tall, he seemed super fit, a body
builder maybe, pushing thirty, she figured.
They ordered a bottle of wine. The bartender delivered their
choice, flashing a friendly smile at Safiya. He was middle-aged and
also of Middle Eastern descent.
“Hello, my dear! Safiya, right? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you
here.”
“Oh, hello, Mikael!” A warm smile spread across her face. “Yeah,
I’m Safiya. Great to be here and yes, it is my first time. Meet my friend,
Marcel.”
The two gentlemen shook hands. Marcel said he was a regular.
While serving the wine, Mikael responded with typical guy talk, as
though they were long-standing mates. Jovial blather about politics, the
Ottawa Senators, the restaurant business, the sinking value of the
dollar. Talk empty of meaning for her.
When Mikael retreated to the bar, Marcel said, “Nice guy. Does he
own the place?”
“Well, his family does.”
“Uh huh. How did you come to know him?”
“He and his family are members of our church. You know the
Coptic Church over on Strandherd?”
“Ah, no. I live in Gatineau where we had drinks last time. I’m a
Catholic but a lapsed one. I haven’t been to mass in a decade.” He
changed the subject. “Speaking of that night, my friend Bob Leyton,
the host of that boring party, later told me that he noticed my departure
‘with two beautiful women’.”
“That’s a stretch.”
“No stretch, Safiya. You two are spectacular. You especially.”
She tilted her head, called up her dubious face, and gently placed
her hand on his. “Thanks, Marcel. But didn’t you call Nur first?”
“A case of bad judgment.”
Dinners arrived — the duck for him and a pasta dish for her.
Author Ted Bernard 