by Amal Awad
I try to register his presence. My throat feels blocked and I can’t speak, a thin ache spreading rapidly through my belly. Eventually, I acknowledge him with a polite smile. ‘Welcome back,’ I say in Arabic, then return to my task.
But while I am playing it small, he is full of energy. ‘I need your help today,’ he says, his eyes searching my face. ‘Your manager says he can do without you.’
‘I’m really busy. Can you ask someone else?’
‘It has to be you,’ he says.
I smile politely and sign off my computer.
‘Bring your jacket. It’s bad out there,’ Naeem tells me.
We walk in tense silence to the van that will ferry us to the hospital, the only sound our heavily booted feet crunching through a thin layer of snow.
It’s Naeem who pierces the quiet. ‘You’re not going to speak to me, then?’
‘What do you want me to say?’ I reply, staring ahead, my arms crossed against my chest. It’s bitingly cold, even with all the layers – thermals, cargo trousers, jumper, thick winter jacket lined with wool.
‘Sahar.’ Naeem takes my arm gently, slowing me down and turning me to look at him.
I struggle to, the humiliation of his sudden departure fresh, even after a year.
‘I had to go. It was going to get messy.’
‘It got messy after you left. Your brother, desperate for a child he knows I can’t give him, made me pregnant again.’
Naeem’s eyes light up in fury. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Can we please just go? Please? I can’t do this, Naeem. I can’t be your romantic escape from life.’
This only seems to infuriate him more. ‘Is that how I’ve made you feel?’
‘I don’t know what you feel for me. All I know is that you gave me something then you took it away.’ I detach from his hold and start walking to the van.
‘Sahar.’
I ignore him, but he easily catches up to me.
In the van, I sit as far away from him as possible, my gaze fixed on the outside world through a frosted window as we trundle past empty demountables, the ones used as schools.
It’s six months before Naeem is back again. We’re in his clinic after his last patient for the day has left. He asked for me in the morning. I wanted to say no. Couldn’t. Every time he returns, he brings with him a reminder of our connection, and an idea of belonging.
The tension between us has dissipated. We have been so busy that somewhere along the way, we found ourselves in a familiar rhythm. At one point during the day, Naeem checked in with me, his expression apologetic. He looked worried, but I managed a smile even as the pain of his presence seared through me.
The nurse leaves, and we’re alone. It’s strange, the things that tell you that you know someone. I know his silences. I know when he is encountering an uncomfortable or unfamiliar feeling. He comes to stand beside me as I unpack a box of donated supplies, not ready to leave, burdened by the fear that he will disappear again. He is so close that I can smell his trademark oud, and without seeing him, I can sense the patterns of his body, the way he moves. I can hear him breathing. From behind me, he brings his hands to my shoulders. They travel down my arms and land gently around my wrists. I feel his head drop on top of mine. He kisses it and tears spill from my eyes. So much pent-up emotion, and this odd sense of betrayal. He was never mine to have, so how can I be upset?
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Please forgive me.’
I swivel around and move into his arms, my body shaking, and I softly let go for the first time in years.
Naeem allows it, but eventually he pulls back and uses a hand to lift my chin. His expression is one of agony as he takes me in.
‘Hayati.’
I close my eyes, unsettled because it is an exquisite moment of tenderness and I want nothing and everything from him at the same time.
I try to step away, my entire body feeling like it’s on fire. Three years in his presence, and nothing has changed. Perhaps it is simply the effect of unfulfilled longing, but it feels too heavy for me now.
Naeem uses his thumb to wipe away my tears and I laugh, feeling like a fool but also relieved because the connection between us remains. But then Naeem’s eyes meet mine and he moves his hand to my face. He brushes away a few strands of hair that have escaped my headscarf.
‘You don’t need to wear that,’ he says.
‘Please don’t,’ I say. But then he shakes his head, his eyes intense, his look meaningful.
‘I want to see your hair,’ he says.
My breath catches in my throat. I linger in his gaze for a few seconds. Then my hands go to the back of my neck where I have knotted the two ends of my gypsy-style headscarf. The whole time his eyes are on me. I untie the knot and remove my headscarf, pulling out the elastic band keeping my hair neat. It falls down in a tumble, so long it ends at my waist.
I see the way it affects him. Naeem’s eyes, always so full of energy, remain on me as he reaches out to touch my hair.
‘Why do you hide?’
Before I can say anything, Naeem’s hands are on my face and he is lowering his head. Without thinking, I reach up and meet his lips with mine.
He groans, moves his hands to my back, one taking hold of my hair. ‘Sahar,’ he says, but I’m too breathless to speak.
Naeem kisses me again, more intensely, faster, like he’s trying to catch up. The energy in my body threatens to burn me out, but he doesn’t pull back and I forget everything.
Chapter 14
Do you know I have a photo of you? Besides the necklace with my name in Arabic, that is all the physical evidence I have of you.
In my first few weeks back after New Year’s, I am given more interesting work in the kitchen. I found it laborious when I first entered Maggie’s kitchen; now I take pleasure in baking batches of sweets that people will enjoy the same day in the cafe, and I get a thrill seeing my work on display.
With Inez, I create a vanilla-iced rosewater doughnut, with dried petals as a garnish. With Kat, I work on a mini layered cake that has the appearance of the ‘wog cakes’ we grew up on – tall sponge cakes packed with layers of cream and topped with fresh fruit and jelly. ‘But we’ll make it more sophisticated, and with more complex flavours,’ Kat says, bunching her fingers together and kissing them. ‘Yallah!’
This is the secret to Maggie’s – riffing off classics, where the sophistication is in the flavours and craft, rather than inventing outlandish creations.
True to his word, Luke works with me in the chocolate studio beyond what is required. Maggie has assigned me to him one day a week, requesting I build up my tempering knowledge and ability, working with more than milk chocolate. But Luke brings me in twice a week sometimes. He says I ease his workload by producing the simple things: chocolate blocks and boxed hearts.
But I don’t mind. Sometimes Luke leaves me to work alone, so I play music and lose myself in the movements. I am precise in filling the moulds. I learn to taste more as I go, making sure the flavours and texture are right. I come up with ideas but I keep them small and manageable, so Luke usually agrees to them. They are as simple as using chocolate buttons in white chocolate, or a fresh take on cookies and cream.
I start to see that Luke is different when working with chocolate. He moves easier in the space. And I discover new emotional strands to his personality.
One afternoon, he pulls me into the studio to help him with an urgent order of chocolates for a corporate event. We’re tempering the chocolate but we lose track and mess it up.
‘Damn it. I hate it when that happens,’ Luke says.
‘I didn’t think that could happen with you.’
He gives me a wry grin, thankfully not offended by my observation. ‘It does. I just know how to pretend it doesn’t.’
I ask him about how he came into this work.
He shrugs. ‘I was in the right place at the right time. I needed a job and I got one in a bakery, pretty low-rent work. I was doing what you were a
t the very start – all the shitty grunt stuff. But it was natural for me, using my hands that way. Got more interesting when I started making bread, then some pastries …’ He ponders this. ‘Never thought I would be a proper pastry chef. I prefer chocolate to baking, if I’m being honest.’ He carefully brushes past me, and laments the size of the studio. ‘It’s too small in here,’ he murmurs.
‘You think Maggie should expand?’
‘Small and Sweet isn’t just the cafe and this shop. It’s a philosophy. Maggie won’t go bigger,’ says Luke, still moving about. ‘She won’t even get a proper website.’
I sense longing in his words, which he confirms a few seconds later.
‘I wish I could afford to buy this place, or one of my own.’ He comes to a stop beside me. ‘But I guess the fact that we even have this is something.’
We’re both quiet, Luke watching me as I work, his body close to mine. There is an intimacy that feels oddly natural, but also unexpected.
Then Luke moves past me again, and, as though he’s revealed too much, he shakes his head. For the remainder of the afternoon we work in silence. Occasionally, I look up to find him focused on his work. He’s rolled up his sleeves to reveal his forearms, and a couple of tattoos peek out from his upper arms. He’s in the zone, his hands moving easily and swiftly to create a series of bright red chocolates.
Outside, the light of day has dimmed, and Luke starts to tidy up while I continue to bag the chocolates. Eventually, I find the courage to offer up some more adventurous ideas. Luke is quiet but attentive as I tell him about Middle Eastern flavours – sage from the mountains of Palestine; the rose water my mother prescribed for an upset tummy but which fills Turkish delight; the figs that fall from the trees in my father’s village; the penchant Arabs have for wafer biscuits.
‘What’s the idea?’ he says.
‘Heritage. Childhood?’
‘OK … But what’s the idea?’
My face flames red because I’m clearly failing at the pitch. ‘I think we could do some sweets that don’t just look good but evoke an emotion. Something like: chocolate isn’t just a flavour, it’s a feeling.’
‘Everything we make is meant to do that.’ Luke indicates a set of trays covered in chocolate hearts. ‘Who do you think buys those?’
‘Well, yes, but love is so obvious.’
Luke finishes a bag of chocolates then carries his box to the stack near the entrance. ‘You have to think about who’s coming in and buying the chocolates. Sage means something to you, but most people think you burn it to get rid of bad spirits.’
‘We can create stories with what we make. Don’t you think people would feel excited about a box that has a little story on the cover?’
Luke is wrestling with the idea and I start to regret trusting him with it, knowing he’s just going to torpedo whatever I suggest.
He gives me a long look and I return it, my heart beating faster. Finally, he shrugs. ‘Try it, I guess,’ he says, surprising me.
‘Wait, really?’
He nods. ‘Come in sometime and have a play. You know what you’re doing in here. Enough not to burn the place down anyway.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Try to have some fun with it. We’re not saving lives here, just trying to add some sweetness to them.’ He analyses me for a few seconds. ‘Sahar, if you’ll take my advice, be careful. Don’t limit yourself by thinking you owe anyone anything, or that you can only do what you know, that you can only work with flavours that are familiar to you. That’s not what will make you good at this. And it’s not what’s going to make you special. You think something has to be hard if it’s to be of any value.’
I look down. ‘How do you know that about me?’
‘Because you’re like me.’ Then Luke laughs, properly. It’s not mean, it’s strangely warm and knowing. ‘And because I give you simple tasks to do and you complicate them.’
A smile tugs at my lips. ‘I probably do.’
‘Trust me, that’s not how you prove yourself. You’re allowed to fuck up. Even when I act like an arsehole, fucking up is how you learn.’
‘I’m trying to be creative.’
‘So think about what you don’t know. Follow your curiosity. That’s where the gold lies.’
I’m surprised by the eloquent advice, the easy flow of wisdom. Luke is more at home in the chocolate studio, which might explain why he seems so different here.
It turns out that Luke’s odd mood wasn’t an anomaly. The next week he brings me into the chocolate studio again, this time to assist with a new line.
He shows me the design of a new chocolate: different shades of blue, to be made in blocks and individual geometric shapes. The theme is ‘water’.
‘What do you think?’ says Luke.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘When it comes to chocolate, I think anything you could show me would get me excited.’
‘You say that, but passions lose their charge over time.’
‘Maybe, but if you really love something, you always come back to it.’
Luke hooks an eyebrow. ‘What if you lost your ability to cook?’
‘That wouldn’t be great.’ I laugh. ‘But then, I did take a break for a while and I managed.’
I didn’t bake much at all in Jordan. Now I can’t imagine not being in a kitchen, the familiar scents and noises a comforting soundtrack, a confirmation that I am in the right place.
‘I think you’d find another way to express yourself,’ Luke says. ‘I can’t imagine you sitting still.’
‘I guess.’
He moves over to the storage shelf and starts digging around for equipment. ‘What do you love about what you do?’
‘It’s like the perfect outfit. It just fits.’
Luke nods, impressed. He hands me the tempering spatula and bench scraper, then dumps a bag of white chocolate onto the bench.
We retreat into silence for a while as we continue to work, the music filling the space, at odds with the sound of my tempering.
When I’m done, Luke moves the bowl over to the bench. ‘You know, it’s not a bad thing that you’ve changed. It means you’ve lived.’
I tempered the white chocolate perfectly, but soon it will be an aqua blue. ‘I don’t know who I am in the way I used to. Sometimes it’s unsettling.’
‘Whoever you were was just an idea. You’re not meant to stay the same.’ Luke is at the shelf, negotiating various shades of blue colouring. He gives me a sideways glance. ‘We’re all born into something. And we all have to climb out of it at some point. Better not to drive yourself crazy with things you can’t control.’
‘Is that how you feel?’ I say.
He hands me a jar of food-colouring powder. ‘I don’t know. I guess. Sometimes it’s like I’m holding on too tight.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I say, a little startled by his words.
I refocus my attention on the chocolate, but my mind is swimming. I want to probe further, but I worry about overstepping. I know so much about Kat and Inez, but Luke remains, in many ways, a mystery.
I clear my throat. ‘I’m probably not the best person to be giving out life advice, but if you want to talk about something, I’m here.’
Luke looks up, our eyes meet, and there’s a flash of understanding between us. I want to say more, but the idea is quickly extinguished by the rush of nerves through my belly.
‘Thanks,’ Luke says. ‘Likewise.’
I arrive home to discover that Lara has invited Samira over, and she’s bringing pizza so that I don’t have to cook.
‘I live with you and don’t get to see you enough,’ Lara says.
‘Can we at least eat something healthier?’ I say.
‘No, Samira is already on her way.’
An hour later, Samira arrives with the pizza: two large margheritas with sujuk and extra olives. Lara looks ready to burst with excitement. ‘Girls’ night!’
We assemble in the kitchen and eat at the di
nner table like proper adults. Despite Lara’s enthusiasm, the atmosphere is a bit sluggish, and I’m not sure why.
Samira finally punctures the tension. ‘Lara! What the hell is going on?’
I look from one to the other, confused. ‘Have I missed something?’ I say.
‘Hello? Did you not see the ring on her finger?’
I refocus. Lara has shoved her hands in her armpits, but Samira is already trying to drag them out. She indicates for me to help and I scramble out of my seat to assist in revealing the evidence.
Lara looks guilty. ‘I thought wearing it on the wrong hand would throw you off the scent.’
Samira rolls her eyes. ‘You idiot, who do you think Hakeem called for help?’
Lara’s face reddens. ‘That little shit.’
‘He proposed? Oh my God! Lara!’ I feel mortified for having missed it.
Lara sinks into her seat. ‘He’s been talking about getting married for ages. But this time he bought a bloody ring and now I’m all confused.’
Samira and I look at each other, both of us wearing perplexed expressions.
Lara plays with the corner of a pizza box. ‘He wants to do KK,’ she says, ‘and I just don’t think I’m ready for that.’
KK – Katib kitab – is an Islamic marriage: the engagement we all wanted when we were naive about marriage because it meant barriers technically dissolved. It was the equivalent of dating the man you liked (or loved), but the stakes were higher because you were married in the eyes of God. You were moving towards a wedding and living together. A guy could still ditch you after KK and no one would blink, but it would be harder for a woman to leave. People would wonder just how far she took things with her husband.
‘Where did you think it was going to go?’ I ask.
‘I just wanted to enjoy it not going anywhere for a bit.’
‘Which you’ve done,’ says Samira. ‘Enough. Don’t mess him around.’
I am hopeful for Lara and Hakeem. I want the mess of their separate experiences to fold into something beautiful and lasting. But I have to applaud her consideration. I wasted no time in agreeing to a hasty katib kitab with Khaled.