Ayesha At Last(91)

Nana smiled, relieved. “This is simply the plot twist at the end of act four.”

ON Saturday, eight days after Hafsa’s disappearance, Ayesha dressed quickly for the general body meeting, pulling on a black abaya and a simple white hijab. She felt a knot of anxiety in the pit of her stomach.

Nana was waiting for her downstairs, dressed in a crisp white shalwar kameez and brown karakul prayer cap.

“I dreamt of Hafsa last night,” Nana said.

“Was she okay?”

“It was her wedding day, and she was complaining about the caterers.” Nana smiled at Ayesha, squeezing her hand. “The groom was not Tarek.”

Ayesha shook her head. “She’s been living with him for over a week. If the groom isn’t Tarek, who will it be?”

Nana looked straight ahead. “I only wish her safe return home.” He paused. “After that, I will hire some very strong men to teach Tarek a painful lesson.”

Ayesha laughed as they settled into the car. “I thought you were a pacifist.”

“Naturally,” Nana said. “Which is why I will simply watch.”

The parking lot at the mosque was full. A podium and screen were set up onstage, and the crowd was on edge, shifting and muttering. Nana and Ayesha found two seats together in the middle of the room.

An elderly woman sat beside them. She was holding tasbih prayer beads. “I heard the bank will take the building and turn it into a shopping mall. This is all the imam’s fault.”

Ayesha glanced around, searching for friendly faces. She spotted Khalid standing near the front, his hands clasped in front of him, his expression unreadable.

Imam Abdul Bari walked onto the stage, followed by Sister Farzana and a wiry, bearded man wearing large aviator glasses. A tense muttering ran through the crowd. The imam stood up to start the meeting with a prayer, but Sister Farzana grasped the microphone. “Assalamu Alaikum, brothers and sisters,” she began, her perky voice contrasting with the mood of the room. “We are here to discuss the financial catastrophe caused by the imam.”

More muttering from the crowd. A man in the back yelled, “Where did our donations go?”

The wiry man stood up and introduced himself as Aziz, the president of the executive board.

“We have prepared a slide show detailing our options. We are beseeching the community’s immediate financial aid to meet our creditors’ demands,” Aziz said.

“How can we trust you?” another man shouted from the back. “Crooks!”

A scuffle broke out, and Aziz motioned to two security guards, who quelled the dispute.

“All hecklers will be removed from the premises,” Aziz said, his forehead shining with nervous sweat.

“This isn’t good,” Ayesha said. The room felt as if it were closing in. Nana put his arm protectively around the back of her chair. “Nothing will happen,” he assured her. “We are among our own people.”

Aziz fiddled with a remote control that turned on the LCD projector, and Farzana seized the opportunity to grab the microphone again.

“I can no longer stand idly by as our mosque is dismantled. The executive board is trying to cover up a terrible scandal,” she announced. The crowd leaned forward, hanging off her every word. Farzana glared out at the audience, her eyes settling on a figure seated in the front dressed in black, hood pulled up.

“Imam Abdul Bari is the one who is guilty! He stole from the mosque! I move for his immediate removal and a suspension of the executive board,” she said loudly.

Ayesha gasped. “She’s lying! It was Tarek. She knows it was Tarek!”

The crowd began to jeer. A few of the people at the back of the hall got to their feet. Nana squeezed Ayesha’s shoulder and eyed the nearest exit.

Aziz was looking at Farzana, aghast, and Imam Abdul Bari had his head in his hands. Farzana took a flash drive from her pocket and plugged it into the laptop. “I have proof!” she said as she clicked on a video file. It began to play just as Khalid reached the stage.

“Ammi, what are you doing?” Khalid asked. The microphone caught his words, echoing them around the room.

She shrugged him off. “I know what is best,” she said. “Tarek has been in touch. He has all the financial records. He was set up. The imam is guilty.”

Khalid reached for the microphone, but his hand froze. Tarek’s face beamed at the crowd from the screen.

“Assalamu Alaikum. This video is not about Imam Abdul Bari,” a smiling Tarek boomed, the sound on high. “It is about identifying your true enemies. The person you should all fear is the one standing before you: Sister Farzana.”

Farzana gaped at the video, stunned. She reached for the remote, jabbing at the Off button so hard it flew across the stage.

Video-Tarek was grim-faced, his voice persuasive. “Farzana pretends to be a pious Muslim, but she is hiding a terrible secret. Twelve years ago, when she found out her only daughter, Zareena, had had an abortion, she did something unthinkable. She forced her into an arranged marriage with a stranger in India, and then she flew back to Canada, leaving her daughter all alone. She was only seventeen years old.” A picture of Zareena appeared on the screen, her skin splotchy with traces of acne, a carefree smile on her face. The audience gasped, and Farzana shrunk back.

The video continued.

“This past year she arranged the marriage of her son, Khalid, an awkward fanatic with no friends, to Hafsa, the daughter of Brother Sulaiman. She did this even though she knew Khalid was in love with someone else. She was willing to doom Hafsa to an unhappy marriage just so she could remain in control of her son’s life.” A picture of Hafsa popped up on the screen, smiling innocently at the camera.