Courting Samira

by Amal Awad

  Hakeem: “The most perfidious way of harming a cause consists of defending it deliberately with faulty arguments.”

  Hakeem: ?

  Samira: Brad Pitt?

  Hakeem: Lovely, Samira. It’s good to see you’re not expanding your mind with trash.

  Samira: That stings. Brad does a lot of good for humanity. He’s adopted, like, a hundred kids and he builds houses and stuff.

  Hakeem: Whatever. I’ll bring you a book that requires thinking when we next come over for dinner.

  Samira: That’s OK. I just picked up a copy of Shopaholic Goes Abroad. I’m all set.

  Hakeem: Right. Hours of introspection to follow no doubt.

  Samira: There are just so many levels to it.

  Hakeem: I saw your parents the other night at Westfield. They were arguing over a purchase.

  Samira: Perfect. No doubt they drew a crowd.

  Hakeem: Your mother was saying your father didn’t need an encyclopaedia on botany. It was actually quite funny. Have you ever noticed how your parents fight but don’t really fight?

  Yeah-huh. The smallest things could set them off. A casual observation, a simple statement about the weather. It was unbelievably embarrassing when it happened outdoors, especially in shopping centres because people around us would start staring. And God knows what they’d think, what with the headscarves and Dad exclaiming, “Don’t abbrehensive me!”

  Dad was yet to master the letter “p” because it doesn’t exist in the Arabic alphabet, nor did he have a handle on verbs – no matter how many times I would tell him “apprehensive” isn’t a verb, he’d still say, “Don’t abbrehensive me” whenever he got upset.

  But I digress.

  Samira: I’m sorry you had to witness that.

  Hakeem: They made up, don’t worry.

  Samira: Gawd. That doesn’t make it better!

  Hakeem: Now don’t be like that. That’s marriage. Understanding, compromise.

  Samira: I’ll have to get back to you on that one. I’m having enough trouble with the pre-marriage part. But for the record, I’ve no doubt I’ll be a perfectly lovely, compromising wife if I ever get married.

  Hakeem: Indeed.

  Samira: Yup.

  Hakeem: You think you have it hard, but did you ever think about what the poor guy is going through when he comes for a visit?

  Samira: I’ll have you know that I am the very essence of hospitality. The very essence.

  Hakeem: I don’t doubt it. But are you just ignoring what I’m saying?

  Samira: Of course not. I’m copying all of this down as you type.

  Hakeem: I hope you’re not like this when guys come to visit.

  Samira: Bad?

  Hakeem: Allahu akbar.

  Samira: Just saying. So anyway, you still looking at the moment?

  Hakeem: Not really.

  Samira: You should get a move on.

  Hakeem: True. I do have four positions to fill.

  Samira: Ah, gold. Those polygamy jokes never get old.

  Hakeem: Shouldn’t you be at work?

  Samira: I am at work.

  Hakeem: And Facebook falls into your job description how exactly?

  Samira: Is this a trick question?

  Hakeem: Why are you online?

  Samira: Sorry, pops. Why are you online?

  Hakeem: The perks of working in a small company. It’s Friedrich Nietzsche by the way. The quote.

  Samira: Oh yeah, I’ve heard of him. Didn’t he invent the light bulb or something?

  Hakeem: I’m confiscating your magazines.

  I knew who Nietzsche was of course (even if I didn’t know he said that quote). Obviously, being a humanities grad, I was a vociferous reader. But I tended to filter out things that weren’t relevant to my life. Working at Bridal Bazaar didn’t require Nietzsche. It required shoes and dresses, even if they were all white, and that was something I could always relate to, no matter what else was happening in my life.

  Samira: Now, is this from The Gay Science?

  Hakeem: I’m impressed.

  (Lucky guess.)

  Samira: I’m impressed. You really do read a lot for a scientist. Ordinarily scientists lack imagination.

  Hakeem: I’m an engineer.

  Samira: What’s your point?

  Hakeem: Well, what do you mean by a scientist? Science conjures images of Bunsen burners, chemicals and lab coats.

  Samira: I suppose.

  Hakeem: You don’t remember what I do, do you?

  Samira: Not true! You’re an engineer. Taking creativity to new levels.

  Educated Arab men were almost always either engineers or IT specialists. Medicine was also a valued profession. Law was yet to make a solid impression. I’d no idea why, though I suspected it was because Arabs once ruled the world of science and invented mathematical equations or something.

  Hakeem: OK. What kind of engineer am I?

  He’d told me before but I’d switched off when he started to get technical.

  Samira: You told me once but you know, halfway zzzzzzzz.

  Hakeem: I don’t think your work stimulates you enough. Find something that challenges you more.

  Samira: Just last week there was a breaking story on warring models at an expo!

  Hakeem: Really?

  Samira: No. But it could happen.

  Hakeem: No doubt Zahra will be tapping into your knowledge of weddings soon.

  Samira: Why’s that?

  Hakeem: Because she’s getting engaged?

  Samira: Are you joking?

  Hakeem: You didn’t know?

  No, I didn’t bloody know. I was just speaking to her on Saturday and she hadn’t mentioned a thing. I think I would’ve remembered a detail like that. The usual circling Kill Bill-style and oh, yes, an engagement.

  But no such information was imparted. My heart plummeted into my stomach, although not literally, of course. But I was experiencing whatever it was people felt when they’d say their hearts sank. It was an awful sensation. If the double shot cappuccino hadn’t woken me up, this unexpected news certainly did the trick.

  I was rather surprised I was finding out this way, despite knowing full well I’d be the last person Zahra would talk to about a guy.

  Samira: I didn’t know.

  Hakeem: OK, well, it’s this weekend inshallah.

  Samira: Right. OK.

  I mean, truly? Zahra getting engaged? Evil cousin/successful-lawyer-with-career-ahead/has-everything-but-it’s-never-enough Zahra was getting engaged? And this coming weekend, no less.

  My face grew warm. Then I felt shaky inside, and suddenly I remembered why I avoided double shot coffees. There’d been an incident once involving some slight hand tremors and me actually yelling at Marcus. Poor thing. I still felt rather awful about that.

  Although, Cate said in my defence that my outburst was in response to a lame question about beards, which followed a query about the Islamic version of Catholic confession (there isn’t one).

  Samira: I have to go.

  Hakeem: OK. Just one quote, this one’s easy. “The great consolation in life is to say what one thinks.”

  Samira: No idea, really have to go. Sorry.

  Hakeem: Voltaire.

  Samira: Damn, so close. Salam.

  I didn’t even wait for him to say anything else. I logged off and went straight to the restroom where I locked myself inside a cubicle and, to my utter surprise, burst into tears.

  Further proof as to why I should avoid double shot coffees. They made me overly emotional.

  3

  When I finally emerged from the restroom and was back at my desk, all traces of shakiness gone, I messaged Lara on her mobile, asking her to come online.

  “Ethnic weddings.”

  I looked up to see Jeff standing in front of me, his forefinger resting on my desk.

  “Pardon me?”

  “We want to do a story on ethnic weddings next quarter. Bollywood’s all the rage,” he said moving his
hands to the small of his back.

  “I’m not Indian.”

  “What? I bloody know that.” God but he loved that word “bloody”. He used it all the time but with his slightly Cockney accent, it was more “blah-ey”.

  Just as I began to speak, Jeff interjected with a frustrated air.

  “Samina. I’m telling you because I want you to work on this story. Got it? It will be a writing opportunity for you and you might have some insight that Cate doesn’t. Any relatives of yours getting married?”

  He waited, blank-faced.

  I was about to say no when I realised that I apparently did have a relative (technically she was my cousin, evilness notwithstanding) getting married. Zahra was getting engaged, which would eventually lead to marriage and naturally a wedding of some sort.

  I wasn’t about to mention this to Jeff though, otherwise I could end up having to cover evil Zahra’s wedding. Wouldn’t that just be the icing on the wedding cake.

  No. Definitely not acknowledging soon-to-be-engaged relative.

  “Don’t forget to send out a reminder about the team building exercise,” continued Jeff, not even waiting for an answer to his previous question. “Did you check the advertisements for the cadetships? I may make changes to the photographer ad, they keep bloody getting it wrong. Get me some coffee, please. Now, please.”

  Jeff walked off and my mind went into Oh crap mode.

  I’d forgotten all about the team building exercise. I had no desire to bond with anyone, let alone my co-workers. I’d been dreading it ever since it was first proposed a couple of months ago, hence, my lack of organisation. It was scheduled for this Friday and was meant to be a Bridge Climb, but I hadn’t confirmed my booking with them. I doubt I’d be able to secure enough spots at such short notice.

  I was used to being kicked when I’m down. In my family it was survival of the fittest really. None of this “we’re a team” business. If we did that exercise where you fall back onto a crowd of people standing behind you, we’d all go splat. This would be followed by a lecture on why we went splat and by the end we’d be acknowledging that it was indeed our own fault for going splat. (Arab Guilt in all its glory).

  Images of me tripping and dangling off the Harbour Bridge with Marcus also haunted me. I’d be on the evening news and everyone would talk about me being seen with a boy. My reputation would be in tatters. I’d never be able to show my face in polite society again, which would be awful even though I wasn’t exactly sure who constituted polite society. I was fearful of being shunned from it all the same.

  Lara finally appeared online half an hour later.

  Lara: Babie face!

  Samira: Lara! It’s about time. Where the hell have you been the last few days?

  Lara: Ah, ghastly work! It’s killing me.

  Samira: Poor you. Have you been working overtime?

  Lara: Yesssssssss. And the commute is KILLING ME.

  Samira: You only live half an hour away from work.

  Lara: I don’t have a caaaaaaaar.

  Samira: I’ve seen you behind the wheel. Let’s be grateful.

  Lara: Why did I become a nurse? Today a patient vomited on me.

  Samira: Too much information.

  Lara: It’s official. I need a holiday.

  Samira: Let’s go away to Spain.

  Lara: I wish. I reckon I’ll be fired soon enough. My boss is tired of disguising all the warnings.

  Samira: Maybe don’t get into so many arguments. It can’t always be the fault of the other person.

  Lara: Whatever. It’s not my fault some twit decides to blow himself up in Pakistan, so why should I have to apologise for it? How’s things?

  Samira: OK. As for me, you know, the usual. Another dud suitor. But not just any dud suitor. An exceptionally bad one. I’ve created a new category.

  Lara: LOL! Which is?

  Samira: Animation. He looked like a Manga character.

  Lara: Did he sound like one?!

  Samira: No idea. Anyway, some interesting news. Bet you can’t guess.

  Lara: Who’s getting married?

  Samira: Our cousin Zahra.

  Lara: Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!! I don’t believe it!

  I looked up nervously and saw Jeff hovering nearby. I alerted Lara and jumped up to go and call her on her mobile before Jeff could bark another order at me. Or catch me on Facebook. Either/or really.

  This was but one of many problems with open plan offices. Everyone could see into each other’s cubicles. You could listen in on phone conversations, even if you didn’t mean to. I knew, for example, that Jimmy from IT was having marriage problems. Jessica in sales was a serial monogamist and had a fear of clowns. Elena in marketing was pregnant. It wasn’t planned. Charlie spent half the day on Facebook playing Mafia Wars but no one cared because he sold the most ads. All this and we barely spoke in the office.

  “What poor victim has she convinced to marry her?” shrieked Lara.

  “Come on, you know that Zahra is only selectively evil. She’s actually nice to people who don’t give a crap about her.”

  “True. I give it a month. Seriously, who is the poor sod?”

  “I don’t know anything yet, Lara.”

  I’d know more soon enough because information spread through the family network as smoothly and efficiently as machine parts on a factory assembly line. The key was to make sure you didn’t look like you wanted to know the information. Make it seem like the info was but a minor piece of news and you would be showered with juicy titbits. Otherwise, Mum would purse her lips and change the subject to tomorrow night’s dinner. By that point the cause is lost and retreat is your only option.

  “I want details!” Lara demanded.

  “I promise.”

  “When’s the engagement?”

  “This weekend.”

  “Bloody hell! That’s a bit unexpected!” gasped Lara.

  “I know. She called me up on Saturday and didn’t mention a thing.”

  “Samira, I know you and I know what’s going through your head. Do not be upset by this, she is evil and there is no way this is a reflection of her value.”

  Lara was a good person really but she actively disliked Zahra. Any mention of her was like pressing a bruise. And in any case, she was completely right. Zahra’s engagement wasn’t an indication of her worth. So she had found someone. I’d no idea why I felt so emotional about it to begin with.

  Except I did wonder what sort of person she’d be getting engaged to. She really was a difficult person. Smug is the word actually.

  “Well, anyway, I think I need to get my life in order,” I said, crouched in the stairwell.

  “Honey, you’ll be fine so long as you remember all boys suck.”

  The biggest way they sucked, Lara once told me, was in the control they had over our emotions, a power the really sneaky ones were completely aware of. She likened them to bulls in a china shop. “The more they realise they’re screwing things up, the more they panic and buck about, which of course does even more damage.”

  “I’m about to lose it if one more dud comes through our door,” I whimpered. “Is it too much to ask for someone without an obvious complex?”

  “Um, yes! We are Arab, Samira. What did you expect? This is why I don’t do the doorknock thing.”

  “I know,” I said, dejectedly. “It’s sort of been a horrible year so far.”

  “Have you been watching The Princess Bride?”

  “No! It just hasn’t been going very well.”

  “Remember to always be grateful anyway,” advised Lara in a moment of seriousness. “Things could always be worse. You could be Zahra, for example.”

  A very brief moment of seriousness.

  Still, she had a point. I should have been thankful that I wasn’t jobless or stuck in an unhappy marriage. Or was that being too specific, being thankful that I wasn’t stuck in someone else’s horrible situation?

  I mean, I was grateful, for example, tha
t I wasn’t a workmate of Lara’s she’d told me about the other week. She’d fallen in love with an import from Syria. Or was it Lebanon? Anyway, she was head over heels for him, and what with him being – according to Lara who’d seen him at the hospital once – drop dead gorgeous with a voice like honey, who could blame her? But this girl wasn’t Muslim and the Adonis wanted her to convert after they got married, even though it didn’t seem to be an issue when they were living together.

  As it turned out, when the Casanova got his residency in Australia he dumped her, which obviously is just a horrible thing to have happen to you. Lara went on about that one for a while, affronted on the girl’s behalf. Lamenting the horrible imports who would come to our sunny shores all handsome and charming then sweep unsuspecting girls off their feet, only to knock them over once they’d gotten what they needed.

  Lara even started a Facebook group about it, but she closed it when our friend Sahar took offence. She was engaged to a Jordanian man, who was still overseas. The term ‘visa snatcher’ was never mentioned again around Sahar.

  Anyhow, I do vaguely recall Lara saying that this particular lecherous Casanova was so good looking that even she might have been persuaded to give him her visa. But I was fairly sure she didn’t mean it and was only saying it in that “I’m only offering you a lift because I know you’ll refuse it” sort of way.

  So, yes, I suppose I was grateful that I wasn’t the girl who got stamped on by the charming import. To be sure, there were no charming imports going all fundy (Lara’s twist on ‘fundamentalist’) on me while he waited out his visa period.

  And I suppose I should have been generally grateful for the good things in my life, rather than whining about the little things.

  “Anyway,” Lara continued. “Just start getting more selective about who you allow into your house. You’re going to have to revise the screening process, methinks.”