Ayesha At Last(30)

That sealed it. Khalid did not deserve to know her real name. He just wanted to put her in a box he could label; she wasn’t in the mood to be so easily defined.

“You mean the way you did, at the bar when you first saw me,” Ayesha said. She smiled thinly at him. “And you can call me Hafsa.”

“As you did in the mosque when you first recognized me, Hafsa,” Khalid said. “And I believe Bella’s is a lounge, not a bar.”

Definitely trying to be funny. Ayesha’s lips twitched despite her best effort. She wanted to continue feeling angry but found it difficult to maintain her irritation. Khalid was surprisingly easy to talk to.

“So you admit you misjudged me. Yet you think others misjudge you. That makes you a hypocrite,” Ayesha said.

Khalid shrugged. “My hypocrisy or lack thereof is for Allah to judge. Nobody is perfect. Everyone has a tendency to some particular evil that not even the most fervent prayers and education can overcome.”

“Your defect is a tendency to judge everyone,” Ayesha said.

“And yours,” he said with a smile, “is to willfully misunderstand them.”

Khalid’s smile transformed his face, like a cold room warmed by a portable heater. She felt it warm her, and her heart began to beat faster. Oh no, she thought. Not him. Anyone but him.

Khalid continued. “While I don’t think women should perform onstage, if you were dressed modestly in a long robe, it would be all right. Or you could stand behind a screen, as they do in blind music auditions.”

Ayesha’s momentary flare of attraction vanished. “Stand behind a screen? Wear a long robe? Are you serious?”

Khalid was mystified. “I’m simply suggesting a few ideas.”

Ayesha sat back in her chair, contemplating the bearded man before her. She knew she should take him to task for his ridiculous ideas, but he looked so confused, she couldn’t help but smile.

“What is so funny?” Khalid asked.

“You are, and you don’t even know it.”

Khalid patted his head and shoulders. He wiped his mouth. “Is there something on my face?” he asked, bewildered.

Ayesha laughed out loud, a throaty chuckle. He blushed a deep red and dropped his eyes to the ground.

“You have no idea what you look like, do you?” Ayesha asked. She was still smiling at him, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“There is a mirror in my bathroom I use on occasion,” he said.

Ayesha laughed again, and Khalid’s face changed.

“I’ll be right back,” he said abruptly, and he walked out of the room.

Which was just as well, Ayesha thought. They had no real business speaking to each other; after all, she wasn’t supposed to be here. In fact, she wasn’t really here at all—Hafsa was.

IN the bathroom, Khalid splashed cold water on his face and quickly made wudu, a ritual purification that involved washing hands, face, arms up to elbows, ears and feet. The familiar rhythm calmed Khalid’s mind and cooled his cheeks.

Women didn’t usually laugh at him. Amir made fun of him, and Zareena used to tease him, but he had never experienced this before. Hafsa’s laugh had slid over his ears like caramel.

Was he funny? Khalid looked in the mirror, smoothing down his hair, which fell below his ears. Maybe he was funny looking.

Hafsa’s poem came back to him again. What do you see when you look at me? He saw her onstage again: eyes that missed nothing and looked at him with irritation and humour, full of life. When he looked at her, he was not sure what he saw.

But he was starting to feel something.

Oh no, he thought. Not her. Not like this.

When Khalid returned to the seminar room, it was empty.

He wandered around the mosque looking for Hafsa, but she had disappeared. He found the imam and Tarek inside the prayer hall, deep in conversation.

“The May long weekend is not possible,” Imam Abdul Bari said. He looked distressed.

“If the Toronto Muslim Assembly wants to host the conference, you don’t have a choice,” Tarek said.

The imam’s hands were clasped in front of him, and the furrow in his brow deepened.

Khalid stepped forward. “Is there a problem, Imam? I thought the conference was scheduled for the July long weekend.”

Tarek smiled brightly, showing off white teeth. “Unfortunately my team has a conflict. We just signed a contract with another, larger mosque in the west end of the city for the same weekend. If your mosque still wants to host a conference, you will have to move it up to the May long weekend. I’m so sorry,” he said, looking anything but.

Khalid looked at Imam Abdul Bari. “Four weeks is not enough time. We will have to cancel the conference.” A small voice in his head protested, but he ignored it. The meetings would come to an end, and then he would have no reason to speak to Hafsa again. Which was probably for the best.

The imam stared at the ground, arms wrapped tightly around his body. “We cannot cancel, Brother Khalid,” he said quietly. “There is something you should know. Something I have kept from you and the congregation, may Allah forgive me. The mosque is in debt. Attendance is dropping, and despite generous contributions from community members, we are barely afloat.” The imam lowered his voice. “The executive board is thinking of selling the property.”

Khalid stared at him. Sell the mosque! The Toronto Muslim Assembly was the heart of the community, one of the oldest mosques in the city, and the first to be designed and built by Muslims. He looked from Tarek to Abdul Bari, waiting for one of them to burst out laughing and singsong “Just kidding!” They remained silent.