Winter morning

“Madame L! Madame L!”

She opened her eyes to the gray windowless room. She didn’t move. For a moment she felt confused. Where was she? Then it all came back. She was in jail, women's jail in Sharjah. How many inmates were in her cell? Enough to get claustrophobic at night.

The cell was empty. She tried to keep her eyes open, but her eyelids were too heavy.

Where was Fatima, the cell boss from Uzbekistan and the fortune teller for all Russian-speaking inmates?

“Fatima, I wore red high heels in my dream. What does it mean?”

“That’s a good dream. You will meet a nice man very soon.”

“Fatima, I swam in the ocean in my dream. What does it mean?”

“That’s a very promising dream. You will throw a big celebration soon.”

Soon… Did the prostitutes lose track of time here? They didn’t. They needed hope. Fatima was their anchor.

“Madame L! Madame L!”

She didn’t move. Three hours ago she wanted to climb over the concrete walls of the jail yard. The walls were low and tempting. Would the guards shoot her? A thought of spending a night in the windowless cell with ten inmates was terrifying. She would suffocate. And what about her new job at a publishing company in Sharjah? Would they wait for her to get out of jail? Probably not. No one knew she was in jail.

Where was that lovely girl from Kyrgyzstan who introduced her to the Russian-speaking inmates and offered her a headscarf?

“Never sleep without a headscarf or you will get head lice.”

How long did she sleep on Fatima’s triple mattress? When would she get her own mattress?

“Madame L! Madame L!”

This time the voice was loud and insistent. She almost jumped to her feet.

“It’s me. It’s me. What’s up?”

“Khalas jail. Khalas jail.”

She could not believe the words she just heard. They stroke her like invisible bullets. Bullets of relief, bullets of hope, bullets of happy ending. In a split second “khalas” became her favourite word. No more jail. No more court hearing. No more 50 lashes and a month in jail, although she was ready to get 100 lashes to avoid any jail time.

Two policemen who had taken her here earlier that morning waited for her by the jail entrance. She wanted to hug them, but she was too shaken. She just smiled, thanked them and got into their car. Four hours ago she asked the policeman to save her from jail and they did. They became her heroes. Her humble heroes.

“Where are we going?”

“To the police station.”

Her heart sank, but she did not let her temporary anxiety turn into panic.

The Chief of Police, presentable and intimidating, was coming down from the second floor. Every step he took was in slow motion. She tried to stay calm. Her eyes met his. The Chief smiled. She smiled back.

“Habibti, can you promise me one thing? When you drink in Dubai, please stay in Dubai. Sharjah is not your city. Here are your car keys and driving license.”

She wanted to hug him too, but she was too shaken. She just smiled, thanked him and went outside. With her hands still shaking, she started the car. 

She was saved. Saved. Waves of joy washed over her. She drove to Dubai. She didn’t know how lucky she was. Nobody got out of jail in Sharjah in four hours. She did. 

Fall evening

“Ask, and it shall be given to you; seek, and ye shall find it; knock, and it shall be opened onto you.” This is definitely not what the priest just said. He probably said that everyone was a sinner and we all sinned to some degree in our lives. He probably also mentioned original sin. Why would Adam and Eve eat the fruit from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, which God had forbidden?

She was at Mass at Notre-Dame Basilica. It was in French. Messe en françai... She couldn’t understand a word, but she followed Mass. It incorporated so many different elements: procession of the priest and his attendants to the altar, Bible readings, prayers, hymns accompanied by the organ, symbols and gestures. How many times did she stand up and sit down?

Earlier, the tour lady told the story of James O'Donnell, an Irish American Anglican architect from New York City. He moved to Montreal to build the Basilica from 1823-1829. The architect was so moved by the outcome that he converted to Catholicism. Was that the real reason? He is the only person buried in the crypt of the Basilica.

She sat on the wooden bench and wondered how many had sat there before her. Why did she stay for Mass after the tour? She needed time to herself. The last six months were chaotic. They were filled with many events and many people. They were filled with people’s love, but also with their small and big dramas. She didn’t want to comfort people anymore. She wanted to move on in her life without justifying her decisions to others. She sat on the wooden bench savouring the moment of temporary peace.

In one week she would leave behind the togetherness. She would leave behind a place of strong bonds. She would leave behind a place of fond memories. She loved those she would be leaving behind. Together they used to float like shining stars, circles and spirals in their unique universe. She was ready to leave the familiar universe. She was ready to spread her wings and fly to another unknown universe.

The priest consecrated the bread. Did it really become the body of Christ? People sitting next to each other stood up and shook their hands. They looked genuinely happy. Soon everybody lined up to receive a piece of sacramental bread from the priest. Would she qualify to receive Communion? She was not of Catholic faith or any other faith, but she felt authentic grace for life at that moment. When she approached the priest, he said something in French, probably “the body of Christ”. She hold out her hands and received a round, thin piece of holy bread. She said “Amen” and ate it. Did she just eat the body of the Lord?

She left the basilica feeling renewed. She knew that in one week her life would become more perilous, but it would also become more and more interesting. She remembered her favourite passage from Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert: “Virginia Woolf wrote, ‘Across the broad continent of a woman's life falls the shadow of a sword.’ On one side of that sword, she said, there lies convention and tradition and order, where all is correct. But on the other side of that sword, if you're crazy enough to cross it and choose a life that does not follow convention, ‘all is confusion.’ Nothing follows a regular course. Her argument was that the crossing of the shadow of that sword may bring a more interesting existence to a woman, but you can bet it will be more perilous.” More interesting, but more perilous...