by Amal Awad
Malek then joined Zahra, careful to keep a respectable distance. This wasn’t their nikah, it was the initial still-no-touching engagement, so there were rules. At least in front of the guests.
“Samira, I need to get going,” said Sahar, grabbing my hand and breaking me out of my staring frenzy.
“Already? Stay for cake,” I told her.
“No, I should get back home.”
“Okay, but take some sweets,” I insisted.
“Samira, it’s okay,” Sahar replied, smiling. “I’ll speak to you soon, insha’Allah, all right?”
“Okay,” I said, a little deflated. I frowned and gave her a hug.
Sahar walked over to her brother who was still seated by Hakeem. They exchanged farewells and Salim nodded at me politely. Sahar smiled shyly as she waved me goodbye.
I maintained my position by the wall, my head a little down. As the sound of Arabic music suddenly filled the room, I saw the belly dancer guest – a voluptuous woman clad in an extremely unflattering sparkly outfit – drag Zahra to the middle of the room. She had one arm raised, her index finger pointing upwards, and as soon as she hit the centre, she immediately started doing some rather complicated belly dancing moves.
The horror. This was a room full of pious men and women (or at the very least, half-full). Zahra, to her credit, looked embarrassed by the exhibition. I suspected the woman was one of Malek’s aunts, the kind they only brought out at major functions out of obligation.
I began my escape, and noticed as I did that most everyone in the room was busying themselves with something. Suddenly guests were inspecting the Arabic sweets on the tables, or commenting on my uncle’s Jerusalem mural, which he’d won at an auction at the local Palestinian club. All Arab homes, ours included, carried these sorts of paintings, at least one framed Quran verse (calligraphy), as well as other obligatory nik naks – usually relics from an overseas trip, typically pure kitsch, always involving sequins and/or glitter and scenes from the Holy Land.
The guests were all talking, moving, doing anything but looking at the sparkly belly dancer, who by now had set Zahra free and was joined by someone who resembled her in looks and clothing.
I kept walking, a little scarred by the vision of the two big women and their bastardised form of belly dancing. I found refuge in the empty kitchen, sitting down gratefully at the table. The music was only a little softer from here, the garish melody at odds with the humble, homely surrounds.
With my one cheek in my hand, I picked at some kanafeh, even though I wasn’t hungry. I could feel the nerves loitering. (“Let us in,” they pleaded. “Come on, we hardly ever get to come out at big events! And that cute guy is heeeeeeeeere!”)
Nothing doing though, I wasn’t going to ruin my evening with an anxiety attack. I really wished Lara was with me. Or that I was medicated. Something other than sitting alone in Zahra’s kitchen, stuffing my face at her engagement party.
Soon after, two women entered carrying trays of empty cups, chatting away. I smiled politely, immediately zoning in on their conversation, which was no mean feat with the pumping Arabic music.
“He’s better looking than her,” the first lady said casually in Arabic.
“Yes,” agreed the second woman, also speaking in Arabic. “She looks good, masha’Allah, but he’s nicer than her.”
They glanced at me and nodded before exiting the kitchen, and I smiled again. When they were gone, I rolled my eyes. Arabs always did that. They would judge a couple for their attractiveness, awarding one half with a medal for best looking.
It was an unwritten rule this assessment be undertaken. All we really needed to do was bang together a judges’ box – like those ones at the Winter Olympics for the ice skating competitions – and have some score cards made up. A posh-sounding announcer would report the final marks: Shalaby family, 4.6; El-Khateeb family, 3.7; Lahlou family, 4.2. All while the couple will be looking on nervously, wondering who would triumph and who would be considered less worthy.
The women may have had a point, but Zahra’s looks were going to be the least of Malek’s problems. He needed his head checked not to be deemed best looking.
Mercifully the Arabic music stopped. When it hadn’t resumed a couple of minutes later, I felt it was safe to rejoin the party. I stood at the entrance to the kitchen and leaned against the doorjamb, looking out on the guests.
Belly dancer woman and her partner looked flushed, but obviously realised this wasn’t the right crowd for their act. They fanned their faces as they returned to their seats, their curly hair substantially bouffier by now.
I had my arms crossed as I studied the room, safe in the knowledge that I could see in, but no one was looking at me. I couldn’t locate my parents so they must have gotten away too. Dancing in of itself wasn’t the problem – it was the overblown belly dancing moves in such a confined space that would have offended them. Dad loved a good party, but he was painfully innocent.
I located Hakeem still sitting beside his father, and his gaze briefly met mine. He was frowning. I raised my eyebrows and smiled in mutual understanding but he just looked away. Which I found rather strange.
8
We got home at midnight, and I immediately commandeered the bathroom to sneak in a shower. I prayed then sat down on my bed, snug in my PJs. I dragged my laptop towards me with one hand, and pulled a large pillow up behind me with the other. I’d promised Lara I’d tell her everything so despite bone crushing fatigue, I got online.
She hadn’t posted any status updates in the last hour, but I decided to wait online for a bit anyway. I was beyond exhaustion by this point and she would be devastated if I didn’t give her the details while they were still fresh in my mind (and I would have to hear all about her level of devastation).
I read an article I’d saved a while ago about the money-making industry of weddings, part of my research for a feature that Cate and I were going to work on together. Just as I was on the last paragraph (did you know that in the US alone weddings cost an average of $30,000?!), a chat window popped up at the bottom of my screen.
Hakeem: You got home OK.
Samira: Yup.
When Hakeem hadn’t said anything a few moments later, I went back to the piece. When I finished, the window lit up again.
Hakeem: You were very helpful this evening.
Samira: As always. ;) Such is the life of servitude! At least I was spared clean up duty.
Something felt wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on just what it was exactly. But I had an inkling. The fact that Hakeem had frowned at me and not even said goodbye at the party might have had something to do with this inkling.
Samira: “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”
Hakeem: ?
Samira: It’s a quote. Now guess it.
Hakeem: No idea. I don’t watch movies.
Samira: Who said it’s from a movie?
Hakeem: Isn’t it?
Samira: Maybe.
Hakeem: OK. Well, I don’t know the answer.
Samira: The Princess Bride. Only the greatest film ever made!
Hakeem: OK. I’ll take your word for it.
Samira: You’re grumpy.
Hakeem: No I’m not.
Samira: Why were you giving me dirty looks at the party?
Hakeem: I wasn’t.
Samira: OK, fine. I just imagined it then.
Neither of us wrote anything for a minute. I could just imagine him brooding.
Hakeem: Why did that guy come up to you?
Samira: Which guy?
Hakeem: The brother.
Samira: Oh, he recognised me. Apparently he works near me. He’s seen me around.
Hakeem: But you don’t know him?
Samira: Nope. Actually, well, I did see him yesterday but I didn’t know who he was obviously.
Hakeem: At work?
Samira: No, we were at a team building exercise.
Hakeem: With your workmates?
Samira: Ahuh.
Hakeem: What was that about?
Samira: Bonding. Flying fox, abseiling… you know, that sort of thing.
Hakeem: Guys and girls, yeah?
Samira: Yes, but it’s not like we were holding hands!
Hakeem: Of course.
About now I was very glad I didn’t opt for the line dancing. Disapproval all over the place had I done that.
Samira: Anyway, so he recognised me from that.
Hakeem: Just be careful.
Samira: What?
Hakeem: You don’t know him.
Samira: Why would I need to be careful? What’s your point?
Hakeem: Nothing. We just don’t know their family well.
Samira: Do you know him at all?
Hakeem: No.
Samira: But you don’t see any problem judging him?
Hakeem: Samira, I’m not judging him, I’m telling you to use common sense.
Samira: You’re also assuming there’s a need for me to use common sense.
Hakeem: Well, I know what you’re like with people.
Samira: Excuse me?
Hakeem: No, I mean, you’re too trusting.
Samira: I am not!
Hakeem: OK, you’re not.
Samira: I have no idea what your problem is, but I really don’t appreciate what you’re suggesting.
Hakeem: I’m not suggesting anything!
Hakeem: For goodness sakes, a blind man could see the guy is interested.
Well. Perhaps Menem may have appeared interested. But the conversation was pretty harmless. Still, it was a little unsettling that Hakeem had noticed enough to think that Menem was interested; enough for him to comment on it.
Samira: I have to go.
Hakeem: Samira, wait.
Samira: No, I’m sorry, I’m really tired.
Hakeem: OK, but wait a minute, please.
Samira: What?
Hakeem: Why are you mad?
Samira: I’m not.
Okay, I was. Hakeem was poised to declare a state of emergency because a guy showed interest in me. I was 27, not 17. It’s not as though Menem was the first man to show an interest in me. There had been a few. A rocky history we’ve already touched on.
Hakeem: I’m just looking out for you.
Samira: I don’t need you to look out for me.
Hakeem: Samira…
Samira: You’re not my father or my brother.
I felt guilty saying (well, typing) that, even though it was, technically speaking, true. He was much more than a brother, he was my friend.
Samira: Look, please, I have to go. I am soooo tired.
Hakeem: OK. I’m sorry if I upset you.
Samira: You didn’t, I’m just tired.
Hakeem: OK. Salam.
My head was spinning as I disconnected. I felt nervous and my face was warm. Hakeem and I fought a lot. But this one felt wrong. It felt yuck.
But I didn’t want to be lectured on everything I did. I’d always managed my affairs. Maybe with the help of lots of sugar and caffeine, but no one could accuse me of not being proactive and capable of taking care of business, thank you very much.
Despite my irritation, my eyelids were sluggish and I was no longer beyond exhaustion. I really needed sleep. Lara had obviously bailed on the conversation and I couldn’t be bothered to wait any longer.
I switched off my laptop and got straight into bed. I drowsily recited a prayer, my eyes already closed.
My mobile phone was ringing. I could hear it, even though initially I thought I was dreaming. Groggily I reached over to my bedside table, my eyes still shut.
“Mmm?”
“Samira!” It was Lara. My instinct was to tell her off for calling so early, but a quick and painful glance at my clock told me it was afternoon.
I was surprised Mum hadn’t come in and woken me earlier, as was her custom. She’d tug at my covers and give me The Look before assigning me some enthralling household chores. Perhaps I was being awarded leniency for helping out with Zahra’s engagement.
“Oh God,” I said. I still couldn’t fully open my eyes.
“Sorry, sweet, did I wake you? Why are you still asleep?”
“Lara. The last two days have been excruciating,” I mumbled but it came out sounding more like excrooshing.
“Okay, go back to sleep, but call me later. I want to hear everything!”
Lara and I agreed to meet at Centennial Park at 4.00. By then I was feeling human and functional again, but I still needed caffeine. We located an outdoor vendor and bought coffee and chocolate croissants.
Lara regaled me with a work story as we made our way to the duck pond, as always involving one of the male doctors who had the hots for her. Once we were settled, she stopped talking then turned to me, expectantly.
“Well?”
I proceeded to recap the engagement in microscopic detail while I sipped on my coffee. Lara wanted sordid, but I had to disappoint her with the mundane: details about Zahra’s dress and descriptions of her fiancé and the guests, including the frightening belly dancing interlude.
I had to tell her about that last thing, I just had to. Much like victims of crime who go to “groups” to talk about their experiences and heal.
“Sounds like it was boring,” said Lara when I was done. She tossed her empty cup aside then leaned back against her hands. She wore black sunglasses that covered half her face but, like Cate, they suited her. Mine were a more modest light gold pair that stopped at my cheekbones. Anything bigger than that frightened me.
“It wasn’t too bad,” I told her. As strange an evening as it may have been, it wasn’t the horrible night I’d envisaged. I hadn’t been catapulted into the “o’balik” zone without armour and showered with censure and judgment from a jeering crowd. There were the usual looks, and Mum probably had an enquiry or two. But I’d managed to keep myself remarkably free of it all.
“So the fiancé’s brother came up to you?” said Lara as she brushed away a loose stray of hair.
I hadn’t told her what we talked about yet. All I’d said was that I’d seen him at team building and he introduced himself properly at the party. I certainly didn’t mention chemistry.
Not that there necessarily was any chemistry. I mean, there may have been a smidgeon of it at some point. Too soon to tell.
“Yeah, his name is Menem.”
“Menem?” said Lara, confused.
“I know, it’s an odd name.”
We were both quiet for a moment as we watched the ducks glide through the water. Some children stood at the edge with their father and threw chunks of bread into the pond, laughing insanely and dancing about.
“When you weren’t online last night I spoke to Hakeem for a bit. We kind of had a fight,” I told Lara. I batted away a fly and took another sip of coffee. It tasted terrible, like service station coffee. I grimaced at the stale flavour then rested it beside my handbag.
“What’s new? You guys are always arguing. And not even about interesting things,” said Lara, sounding bored.
“Yes, but this one was different.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. It was a proper fight.”
Lara straightened up and waited.
“Weird,” I said.
It was weird. Strange and unusual and disconcerting.
“You mean it was an exciting fight?” said Lara, no longer a casual observer. “Because that would be relationshippy!”
“Relationshippy” was bad.
“No, no, not relationshippy. I just don’t know what happened. And the worst part is I feel bad about some of the things I said.”
“What happened?”
I repeated my conversation with Hakeem as best as I could remember, all the while anxiously picking at the grass. When I was done recapping the chat, Lara laughed all gurgly like.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said. She sat back again, her face to the sun.
“What?” I pro
mpted.
“Hakeem’s jealous,” she explained. “I always thought he liked you, but I didn’t think he’d be so obvious about it.”
Lara laughed again.
“Okay, no. No,” I said, a little mortified. I abandoned the blades of grass and uncrossed my legs, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable.
“Ehm, yes,” insisted Lara. “You’ve got blinkers on if you can’t see he’s jealous.”
“No, he’s just doing the brotherly concern thing,” I said.
“Right. The brotherly concern thing. That guy didn’t ask you out! Sheesh. He’s totally jealous, sweet!” Lara concluded. She gleefully clapped her hands together a couple of times.
“Ehm.” I bit my thumbnail and looked away awkwardly.
“Wait, the guy asked you out?” asked Lara.
“Not exactly. He said he owed me a coffee,” I said.
I felt myself blushing, even though it was just Lara in front of me.
“Does Hakeem know that though?”
“No way. He flipped out about him just speaking to me.”
“Exactly!” Lara erupted into laughter again. “Oh gawd, this is hilarious.”
“I’m glad you’re amused,” I told her. I didn’t think it was very funny.
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey. But come on. Be realistic. If it’s just a brotherly thing, why didn’t Omar say something? What about your dad? Did he even blink?” Lara looked at me knowingly.
“Omar wasn’t there! Ha!”
Lara gave me a look of pity.
“I’m sure Omar would’ve said something if he was there,” I continued. “And you know Dad would never tell me off. You’re talking about a man who cried when he watched Paul Potts’ audition on Britain’s Got Talent.”