The Things We See in the Light

by Amal Awad

  I understood I would be a junior, but I am more a janitor than an apprentice. When I ask Luke if I can make something – anything – he tells me I have to work towards it. I’m not sure selecting the fruit for a cheesecake will prove my worth in the kitchen, but Maggie’s presence tempers Luke’s control over how my day goes. Her main function is running the business end. She comes in and out, tending to admin and the cafe, and checking in with me regularly, but not in an overbearing way.

  The benefit of being a crappy junior is that it’s a masterclass in commercial kitchens: I help with orders, with equipment and the pantry. I quickly become well-versed in the ingredients we use the most and the least, in appliances I didn’t know existed, and how to work smarter.

  I study the month’s selection of sweets and think about how they work as an ensemble. Maggie likes to throw in nods to her Italian heritage. Perhaps, if I ever get to create a dessert, I can work with the flavours and sweets I grew up with: the flavoured waters – rose and orange blossom; the mastic; the flaky, buttery baklawa.

  Moments with the senior bakers, Inez and Kat, deliver more lessons. It was Inez, the woman who led me to the pantry on the day of my baking audition, who took me aside after my first week and offered some encouragement. ‘Just go step by step,’ she said in her measured tone. ‘Don’t worry about Luke. The simpler and quicker you work, the better … for everyone. Also, never pitch Nutella as a hero ingredient. And when you get to whites, always wear a T-shirt underneath so that you don’t see sweat stains around your armpits.’ Then she asked me for my opinion on dating someone with a man bun.

  Kat (‘No one calls me Katerina’) is a friendly ‘butch’ – as she calls herself – who oozes cool because she doesn’t seem to care what anyone thinks of her. Her personality is louder than her voice. She casually uses words like ‘wicked’ and ‘lit’ and it sounds natural. She calls me habib. ‘I grew up with Leb friends,’ she says. ‘I know all the good swear words. Also, I’m Greek, which is practically the same as being Arab.’

  Kat regularly spars with Luke, especially about the music playlist. One morning, I watch in awe as they wrestle each other for power over the music system, like siblings fighting for the remote control. I hear Kat mumble an insult at him in Arabic under her breath. Outraged, Luke turns to me. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I didn’t hear her, sorry.’

  Actually, Kat had called him a cunt.

  I glance at Kat, who winks then stares down Luke. I smile and return to prepping ingredients.

  Kat also throws insults in English.

  ‘As always, you know how to take a shit then ask who farted,’ she told Luke one day when he picked apart her work.

  ‘What does that even mean?’ Luke said.

  ‘Who checks your work?’

  Brimming with frustration, he walked off.

  This time, when Inez tries to settle the conflict over the music, she drags me into it: ‘Will you please pick something so they’ll shut up?’ She gives me a beseeching look, her bright red lips in a straight line.

  I freeze, too timid to offer my opinion. ‘I don’t really know much about music.’

  Luke sighs, seemingly annoyed that the conflict has been slowed down then punctured by an amateur. ‘Groove Armada or The National?’

  He is speaking a foreign language. ‘I don’t know either.’

  ‘Did you grow up in a convent?’ says Luke.

  ‘No, I just don’t love music.’ I look at Kat, who deflates.

  ‘Just let the little boy have his way. I’ll go solo,’ she says, then wanders off in search of her bag.

  Inez continues working, not at all unsettled.

  And that’s how the antagonism between Kat and Luke differs to how Luke acts towards me. Luke isn’t overly friendly with anyone, but when they bicker, the power dynamic between them is different; they are peers, both fluent in the language of Sweets by Maggie.

  I am not like them: confident, uninhibited and outspoken. I don’t know how easy their lives are, but in the kitchen, surrounded by Maggie’s inspirational posters, life is a Pinterest board.

  ‘It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.’ – Edmund Hillary

  ‘Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion.’ – Rumi

  I have to remind myself that no matter my efforts, this is not my business. I am a junior-level employee.

  So I just get on with it. I keep to myself. I am always professional. Even Luke notices my meticulous planning, the way I work according to lists. Even Luke can’t deny that I work hard.

  And I did try to make a friendly start. On my first day at work, I brought a tray of Arabic sweets – a kilo of sticky baklawa – as a gesture of my commitment to joining the team. We Arabs love to celebrate and give gifts. The way the team responded offered valuable insight into their personalities.

  Maggie peered down at the cellophane-covered tray and lifted her head with a beatific smile. ‘This is lovely!’ But she didn’t try any, so I decided she was simply being polite. Luke’s expression was neutral, while Kat and Inez rushed over and ripped open the cellophane, murmuring as they made their selections. Kat had one half-wedged in her mouth, and another in her left hand when she fist-bumped me with her right and gave me a solemn nod. ‘You can stay. God bless Maggie’s diversity garden.’

  Inez lingered. ‘Don’t mind Kat. She doesn’t mean anything by it.’

  ‘Inez has a weird name and is a vegan nutjob,’ Kat continued. ‘Even if she looks like a goddess.’

  Inez broke into a smile, clearly not offended. ‘That’s my thing. I’m the vegan pastry chef. Admittedly, I’m more vegetarian than vegan – I can’t resist dairy once in a while.’

  ‘I tried something of yours,’ I say. ‘A salted caramel doughnut?’

  ‘That’s me. You liked it?’

  ‘It was amazing.’

  ‘Anyway. Ignore Kat. Except when it comes to desserts. She knows sweets.’

  Then Kat called out, ‘Maggie likes to take in strays from different backgrounds. How do you think I got here? I’m a wog and queer, so she hit the jackpot.’

  Inez rolled her eyes. ‘We’re all wogs. Even Maggie. Except for Luke. He’s the token white guy.’

  ‘I heard that,’ he said.

  ‘No, his diversity credential is old age,’ said Kat.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Luke, come and get some of these before they’re all gone,’ Inez said, her eyes still on the tray.

  Luke remained at his bench, not interested in me or the sweets. ‘Will you be getting back to work anytime soon?’ he responded.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Inez said, peeling a lady’s finger carefully away from its neighbours with one hand, while batting away stray hairs from her loosened bun with the other.

  Everyone is a type or two at their core. I like Inez and her calm, no-nonsense demeanour. Something about her certainty reminds me of who I was before my marriage. But she’s also quiet and that’s how I feel connected to her. The discreet but diligent one. Kat is the fun and creative one. Luke is cold and a loner. Maggie is maternal and aspirational.

  The same day they made fun of Maggie’s diversity garden, I found myself in a corner of the kitchen I didn’t often frequent. Then I saw it on the wall, something I had completely missed up until that point: a diversity charter. No one will be discriminated against based on who they are and how they live.

  Am I a diversity hire, and not just Leo’s recommendation? Is that why Luke doesn’t like me?

  One afternoon, about two months in, Maggie appears at my bench while I’m peeling apples and leans in like she’s about to initiate a gossip session.

  ‘How are you finding Luke?’

  ‘He’s kind of tough,’ I say, then immediately regret it. ‘I mean, I don’t think he likes me.’

  Maggie leans back a little, her mouth twisted in a near smile, as she assesses me. Mild amusement, I think.

  ‘He likes you just fine. He says you work very
hard.’

  Sahar. Sahar. Sahar. Sahar. What. Are. You. Doing. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.

  ‘He gets frustrated when I ask questions.’

  ‘Luke is a bit impatient. That’s who he is in everyday life, so that’s how he works. But he needs to learn some patience. I’ll have a word with him.’

  I feel like a child who’s just dobbed him in. ‘No, it’s OK. He’s not that bad.’

  Maggie is about leave when she swings back. ‘You know that you can use the kitchen after work if you want to flex your baking muscle? I just don’t want you to bake anything that we do here,’ she says, her piercing eyes alight. ‘Experiment. Be creative. Have fun.’

  I study the silver bowl of peeled apples. ‘Thank you, Maggie.’

  ‘I never intended for you to forget what you know or to stop practising, Sahar. But I work a certain way here and I needed you to reboot your baking brain. You can learn a lot from others just by being an observer. Some people teach themselves piano, but that doesn’t mean they have learned how to place their fingers and read music.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You should be baking all the time. This is a long-term relationship. You have to work hard at it. You have to love it.’

  Everyone at Maggie’s loves it. I can see it in the way they all fall into their own cadences. Even Luke gets in a zone. I admire his talent. He likes chocolate more than baking, but he is very good at both. Sometimes I catch myself just watching him at work, easy in his movements, more patient with ingredients than people. The rare moments I get to work in the chocolate studio, I concede Luke knows chocolate in a way I aspire to: the language of its moods and temperatures; the way it has to be worked; its extraordinary potential for beauty. And he softens in the space, like he is at home.

  He also seems to notice my efforts, and there’s no denying he will give me the more interesting tasks. But he doesn’t seem to expect the same from the other juniors. They work to instruction but don’t aim for perfection. And they get away with it. I don’t.

  One afternoon, as I put the final touches on a batch of caramel tarts, I look up to see him watching me, relaxing out of his usual expression of fierce concentration. A moment of eye contact, then a faint smile. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Good.’

  Chapter 8

  Why is it that I can be forgotten but I cannot completely forget?

  I work three days a week. On my days off, on Maggie’s advice, I practise my skills. I’ve even purchased a marble board to temper chocolate. Every couple of weeks, I visit my parents’ graves. I plant flowers and small stalks of sage, the kind that Mama and Baba loved to drink in their black tea, and say prayers over their plots of earth. I don’t know what I was expecting to feel the first time I went, but the second time was a little easier and I sat for an hour among the ghosts of the graveyard, a loose headscarf wrapped around my head out of respect.

  Each time I go, I ask them the same questions, wondering if one day I may be delivered an answer.

  ‘What happens when you’re gone?’

  ‘Do you feel me like I feel you?’

  ‘Does the separation hurt?’

  It helps that I go to the gym, an industrial playground for adults. The equipment is sleek, gunmetal grey. Bright orange scaffolding lights up the floor, heavy enough that people can swing from it, or do pull-ups. I can’t do pull-ups without a resistance band, but I like a challenge. I take up boxing and do strength classes at least twice a week. It helps to picture a source of angst in boxing and smash into it. I see Luke’s face, with his trademark look of frustration, and punch in time with his clipped instructions.

  Sahar. Sahar. Sahar. Sahar. What. Are. You. Doing. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.

  Jab. Hook. Cross. Upper cut.

  I practise regularly, but my body has still not fully recovered from what it’s been through: damage that is invisible, unlike my scars. Sometimes I feel it in a sudden movement, a sharp pain, and I lose my footing.

  At work, Luke remains my primary manager, but now once a week I get assigned to one of the others – a day with Kat or Inez. They work differently. They are both friendly, but Inez respects silence in the kitchen, while Kat likes interaction. Kat’s the first to ask questions of me and my life. She shows genuine interest in the modified version I give her, telling me that she has travelled to the ‘homeland’ (Greece) but really wants to see the rest of the world. ‘Maybe one day I’ll retire in Europe. Find a cottage on the Amalfi Coast and make limoncello.’

  I like Kat, but I am cautious. One Saturday, she asks me to join them for drinks after work.

  ‘I don’t drink alcohol,’ I tell her, but this doesn’t seem to perturb her.

  ‘That’s what mocktails and energy drinks are for. Come on, it’ll just be you, Inez, Luke and me. It’ll be fun.’

  Before I can stop myself, I grimace.

  She shakes her head and winks, her mouth widening into a knowing grin. ‘Habib, ignore Luke. Honestly, he’s not good-looking enough to get away with being such an arsehole. But, he’s going through something. He wasn’t so bad before he hooked up with Cruella.’

  I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  ‘His on-again off-again girlfriend,’ Inez explains. ‘Her name’s Bianca. He’s changed a little since she’s been on the scene.’

  Kat grins again. ‘But his obsessive Gordon Ramsay deal never changes. Don’t let it put you off having a good time.’

  ‘Maybe next time,’ I say and Kat shrugs, mildly defeated or put out, I am not sure which.

  Later, I share this exchange with Lara, who rolls her eyes to the heavens over a dinner of homemade pizza. She offers a surprising diagnosis on Luke’s behaviour: ‘Pigtail puller.’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Lara.’

  ‘He wants to have sex with you,’ she says, nonchalantly plucking off a piece of sujuk and placing it into her mouth. ‘Which is not OK, by the way. How old is this guy?’

  ‘Not everything is about sex.’

  ‘He’s imagining a lot of things.’

  ‘I’m not sure how old he is. I think he’s a couple of years younger than me.’

  Lara shakes her head. ‘I used to think boys being mean to girls they liked was cute, but now I think it’s gross.’

  I’m sure she’s projecting her own experiences on to me. ‘He’s like that with everyone.’

  ‘I know you’re not used to getting attention, but you’re not all covered up now. Not that that ever stops a guy. But the way you were before, no one would have come near you.’

  ‘I still have the same face.’

  Lara chuckles. ‘You have so much to learn about sexual attraction, young Padawan. You think it’s about a physical or a mental connection, and nothing else.’ She sighs. ‘You’ll see. The more comfortable you get, the more natural it will start to feel dressing as you please and wearing your hair out.’

  I don’t want her to be right. I don’t want my years of modesty to be justified if I’m now exposing myself to things that might harm me.

  ‘It’s fun,’ Lara continues. ‘It hurts sometimes. But that’s the point. It’s experience. And that’s what you need. That’s how you get better.’

  ‘At what?’

  ‘Everything. At life and not giving a shit. Imagine if my love-life ended at my teens. I’d be singing about a boy who didn’t want to have lunch with me.’

  Eventually, life starts to seem peaceful. I have had no further contact from Khaled, and at work, Luke softens his edges ever so slightly, but he still gets annoyed easily, and resorts to a smirk when I ask a silly question or get something wrong. I understand it. He’s very good at what he does, and he’s not built for teaching. He’s made to do things, not watch others butcher a passion that runs through him like blood. Maybe I understand it because that’s me, too.

  Luke reveals little of his personality, and I only know a few things about him: he mentions vaguely that he comes from
a big family, and he learned how to bake before he found a passion for chocolate.

  One afternoon, he assigns me a task requiring more than admin: mini fruit tarts. I’m struggling with the fruit portions. The mandarin slices are uneven and it all looks sloppy. I can see this. I’m a perfectionist and I’m starting to panic. Before I can fix them, Luke arrives at my counter and lifts up the tarts for a quick inspection.

  He shakes his head. ‘You need to pay attention.’

  I continue working, unsure how to respond, my face growing scorching hot. ‘I’m sorry. The mandarins were a bit soft.’

  Luke’s mood has been even lower than usual. He’s been in and out more frequently and his phone seems permanently attached to him. I want to make room for his personal troubles, but when his blue eyes stare into mine, I hold his gaze, my cheeks still burning. I could concede defeat, agree with his measurement of my abilities, but something harder in me arrives to stop me.

  For a second, Luke’s eyes widen as he returns my stare. Then he looks away. ‘Start again.’

  At this point, I wonder if I have imagined my business success. I want to look over the many photos I took of my creations and scrutinise them for faults and signs of beginners’ luck.

  ‘I can do it. I’ll fix it,’ I tell Luke.

  Perhaps it’s my tone, my sincerity, or what I suspect is a look of sheer desperation, but Luke nods. ‘We’ll go over the basics this afternoon. Again,’ he adds.

  As he walks away, I have to remind myself that I willingly signed up for this, that this is what I want. I have already fallen into patterns that feel familiar, even if they require an update. New flavour combinations fill my mind, and I find myself lost in techniques that are simple but new. Things I had never thought of before.

  I am determined to get the tarts right, so I start again. I work faster now that I’ve done it once.

  As I work, Maggie trails past in the direction of her office. Not far behind her is Leo in jeans and a light jacket.