by Amal Awad
“They’re just shoes,” said Omar.
“And they speak volumes about the wearer.”
Omar shook his head as he picked up his fork. But Rabia winked at me in sympathy.
“I don’t expect you to understand. You’re a guy,” I said, pulling apart a kibbeh and dipping it furiously into a bowl of yoghurt.
So I was turned off a suitor when I saw his shoes. Despite the Arab warrior preference, I didn’t really care about looks. But I had a general rule: if the suitor came in wearing shoes with tassels, a leather jacket circa 1982, and/or a moustache, the doorknock appeal would fail from the outset. A girl has to have some standards, right?
I still remember my first suitor. I’d no idea what to expect at the time, although in my naïve adolescence I naturally assumed he’d be The One. Unfortunately, he turned out to be a big fat dud (in an allegorical sense only, to be fair). My parents just stared at me blankly as I protested afterwards and told me to go and vacuum the house.
“Why don’t you just get them to fill out an application form in future before they come?” suggested my brother.
“That’s actually not a bad idea, Omar. Thanks for that.”
Dad laughed and shook his head. Mum looked at him with a stern look, which she then directed at Omar and me. Mum’s dinner table was a place for eating. Conversation was allowed but she didn’t tolerate bickering. That was only allowed outside dining room hours and in true Arab style, was welcomed. Nothing like some good accusation flinging and the like to keep things interesting.
“That’s enough, everyone. Eat,” said Mum in Arabic.
Rabia was watching the saga unfold, her hand resting on her belly.
I shrugged at her, no longer teary.
“I kill you!” Haneen said, shattering the silence. A couple of weeks ago she wouldn’t stop saying, “All gone! All gone! All gone!” Over and over and over again.
Last week, it was “Party boy!”, but it would come out more like “Party boooy!”
And it totally pissed off my parents. I could see Mum trying not to get annoyed and Dad trying not to yell. But, you know, rules were different with grandkids.
It was actually a miracle no one ran screaming from these dinners. I put it down to one essential factor: Mum’s cooking was that good. She was an exceptional cook. I know everyone says this about their mothers, but in this case, the proof was in the meat patties. Her cooking outdid everyone else’s. Even Dad agreed. We’d watch Iron Chef together and Dad would say proudly, “Your mother should go on this show”, but I didn’t have the heart to point out the Japanese-ness of it.
Omar began to eat his food, clearly done with me for now. Meanwhile, I felt a little like a victim of torture whose interrogator had thrown aside his tools for the time being so that he can nip out for a dinner break.
“If anything, I give too many guys a chance,” I said, casually.
True. Even Lara, who wasn’t pro-Victorian era courtship, would tell me it’s worthwhile meeting a “mark” if he at least looked good on paper. Strictly for me, that is, because Lara avoided doorknocks at all costs.
They often looked good on paper. Especially given the tendency among some families to, let’s say, exaggerate their sons’ achievements.
Now I’m not elevating myself here. Nor am I suggesting that there’s anything wrong with being a mechanic. But a mechanic isn’t the same as a mechanical engineer. Can you appreciate my point?
“You give them a chance, but it seems a bit superficial when they never make it past the first meeting,” argued Omar.
“Whose side are you on? Do you think I do this for fun?”
“Not for fun, but you obviously have unrealistic standards.”
“There have been maybe three decent guys out of the lot of them and they did make it past the first meeting,” I said.
Of course, being, for the most part, relatively normal, well-adjusted and successful men, it’s only natural none of them worked out.
Omar nodded impressed. “Three, huh?”
“I kill you!” Giggle.
“Yes,” I replied smugly. Actually, not helping myself here.
“What would you have me do? Marry just anyone?”
“Samira, don’t be ridiculous. Just be realistic,” said Omar.
“Nice motto. You should have some bumper stickers made up,” I said, a little tartly.
Omar fixed me with a stern look, strongly reminiscent of my mother’s. They were cut from the same cloth. That’s why they had such similar Looks. That’s why they had Looks in the first place.
I, on the other hand, was very much my father’s daughter. Time would tell soon enough if I would ever take on some of Mum’s qualities. My money was on me remaining like Dad. Not real money, of course. It was completely, and in no uncertain terms, haram to gamble or wager on things.
“What is bumpaar stickaar?” said Dad, looking up from his plate.
“Look, I’m always realistic,” I said defensively. “That’s why I’m still single. Dad, they’re those stickers you see on cars. They advertise campaigns and things.”
“You watch too many movies,” said Omar, pointing his fork at me. “That’s what the problem is with young women your age. You expect these heroes to come along and sweep you off your feet.”
I looked around, wondering if anyone was prepared to be insulted on my behalf.
Evidently not. Well, except for Haneen who said, “I kill you, Aunty!”, then laughed raucously.
“Why you say this?” said Dad. “Why would you make bumpaar stickaar?”
“Dad, it was a joke!”
And what was wrong with having an ideal anyways? It worked well enough for Buttercup in The Princess Bride.
Fine. It was quite possible that I watched too many movies.
After dinner, as I was loading the dishwasher with Rabia, my mother asked if I wanted to see another prospect. My parents never pressured me; they simply asked. Super casual. The way a manager might place a job brief in front of their employee before reclining in an oversized desk chair, hands entwined.
My head was still spinning from my conversation with Lara in the afternoon. As much as I wanted to forget it, I couldn’t. I’d given but a fleeting thought to Menem during the evening but now he had my full attention. Meeting him twice in two days. Was it simply another arbitrary meeting? Why had it made Hakeem so edgy? All very good questions, I agree. Now if someone could assist me with some answers, I’d be set.
It was the way Menem left things at the engagement that really had me wondering. To recap, he’d said he owed me a coffee. Now let’s just take a moment to think about this. While I was hardly an expert on social norms, was I mad to think Menem was saying it because he wanted to see me again? Of course, I’d avoid going intentionally to have coffee with him at an appointed time and place. There would be no date. No sirree. It’s the intention behind it that I’m getting at. I mean, perhaps if we were co-workers, or even in the same buil-.
Never mind.
Mum was waiting for an answer to her question. I looked at Rabia, who shrugged but gave me the “What do you have to lose?” look. I remembered her earlier warning about staying single. I guess she’d been joking then. She did seem to mean it at the time though. Bit of a worry really.
“Local or imported?” Rabia said to Mum, already on the case, like a matrimonial agent working to secure her client the best deal.
As I had no sisters, I fully appreciated the fact that Omar married someone I could get along with – incidentally – more than him. I didn’t know what to expect when he got married, what with his pedantry and well, you remember the dinner table torture scene. But I was pleasantly surprised by Rabia. Gobsmacked, in fact. She was sweet, easygoing, and, as it turned out, an absolute whiz at bargain shopping. It was she who taught me the secrets of snapping up quality at a fraction of the retail price.
Back to the suitor though. See, it was essential to assess early on whether the suitor was a potential visa snatche
r. We had a pretty thorough screening system (seventeen proposals) but occasionally an import with no visa would slip through and an already awkward situation would become unbearable, especially when the import would get a phone call from a friend, to whom he would smugly say that he’d “explain later. Yes, I’m busy”. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.
Agony.
Swift execution, please.
Amazingly enough, the ones with very little to offer or recommend them were the cockiest of the lot, like some sort of twisted variation of Murphy’s Law. I really should start a website, I thought. Sort of like those consumer watchdog ones where people would get on and whinge about the poor service they’d received at a store or a restaurant. But I’d make sure it was all anonymous, so that it wouldn’t be backbiting and descend into haramness, and to avoid defamation suits and the like.
“He was born here,” Mum said. “He works in a computer company or something like that.”
“How old is he?” I asked.
“He’s 29,” said Mum.
“Born here, has a job and isn’t old? What’s wrong with him?”
Mum looked annoyed.
“What’d I say?” I protested.
The fact is, I could have asked my mother twenty questions and it wouldn’t have helped. I would only know what I was dealing with when I came face-to-face with the prospect. And he’d still be subject to Mum’s test of character. Very few passed that.
“There’s nothing wrong with him. He studied late apparently, and now he’s looking to get married,” she explained.
Ah. It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
Rabia shook her head at me but I could tell she was amused.
“Sheesh, it was just a question,” I said, frowning.
“Well, it’s up to you,” said Mum.
I couldn’t be sure why but I found myself saying no. They both looked shocked. I’d surprised myself.
I had to admit that, usually, I grudgingly enjoyed the pre-doorknock part; the tickle of suspense as to what the suitor looked like, wondering about his level of intelligence and his interests, and, of course, the level of religiosity – i.e his “fundyness”. And on a side note, how did he feel about the bastardisation of the English language in mobile text messaging and social media? A simple yay or nay would suffice.
Once, I decided to go out on a limb and instigate a minor “test” of sorts. I left a copy of Walt Whitman’s poetry on the coffee table, right where he’d see it, thinking it might spark some conversation with the suitor, hoping to be pleasantly surprised that he noticed it enough to comment.
Suitor: You like Whitman? [Note the familiar tone. He referred to Whitman, didn’t use the full name.]
Me: Why yes. Don’t tell me you’re a fan?
Suitor: Hello? I wouldn’t have made it through uni without my copy of Leaves of Grass.
In one particular variation, I imagined him pulling out a small copy from his jacket pocket then telling me, “I carry this with me everywhere. Here, take it.”
And we’d go from there. Possibly live contentedly ever after. Chuckle every time we came across a Walt Whitman book in that “This is where it all began” manner that was so annoying when other couples did it.
Needless to say, nothing of the sort happened. What did happen was that my copy got in the way of his coffee, and he ended up spilling it all over the book. He might have said sorry, but it wasn’t a profuse apology by any means. That brought me back down to earth pretty swiftly, I can tell you.
But even though I enjoyed the guessing, reality always stopped by to ruin the party. “You know he’ll be a dud,” the gatecrasher nerve would say cruelly to the tiny sliver of hope. “They always are.” The gatecrasher nerve would then laugh wickedly and take a seat on the lounge, priming itself for a long stay.
For the first time in however long, I felt icky about the doorknock process. I didn’t see the humour in it, and what once seemed an innocuous and safe way to meet boys now felt demeaning. It occurred to me that I was on show, like a prize pony, and I hated it.
So I said no, and despite the strange looks coming my way, and mild line of questioning from my mum – “Why? You’re not even going to give him a chance?”, etc – I remained firm in my decision. It was strange but empowering. I’d made a simple choice but it was as though I’d just made a huge leap into the unknown. It felt good and a little scary all at once, kind of like being on the flying fox.
10
On Monday morning, there was an email from Hakeem waiting for me in my inbox. I had meant to fix things with him after our “fight” but I didn’t get a chance to on Sunday after dinner.
Even though Lara was one for drama and embellishment, I had to admit that my conversation with her threw me a little. I generally tried not to pay much attention to what she said when it came to these types of things. Of course, Lara always thought she was right, and wasn’t ever shy about saying so.
Not surprisingly, she wasn’t always right. Far from it, in fact. Think abysmal miscalculation of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq levels of wrongness.
I’d arrived a little earlier than usual this morning, so no one was in yet. I liked it this way. It was quiet and nobody was demanding an instant coffee fix.
As I sipped my cappuccino, I clicked open Hakeem’s email, feeling a little ill.
Subject: ?
Dear Mary,
I yearn for you tragically.
R. O. Shipman, Chaplain, U.S. Army
I knew this one. Catch-22.
I sensed a moment of forced introspection coming up. Hakeem had managed not only to ask humbly for forgiveness but simultaneously make me feel horrible and remorseful that it wasn’t me asking for it, all by quoting one of my favourite books.
Such a gift. What a talent. I could never manage it even if I tried. I suppose he was well within his rights to do that since he hadn’t done anything wrong. I should have been the one asking for forgiveness, I quickly realised. I could see that now, courtesy of the abovementioned introspective moment. Hakeem was just concerned. He saw a stranger showing interest, and knowing our ways, he felt obligated to tell me to be careful.
There. That’s all.
More importantly, this confirmed for me that Lara was wrong. He wasn’t jealous. In fact, Hakeem always made sure I knew I was only Like a Sister to him by the way he treated me. And, also, by getting engaged two times, on neither occasion to me. To be fair, they were both quickie I-want-to-get-to-know-you-the-proper-way engagements because he was straight as an arrow about that sort thing.
Nevertheless, two engagements are two engagements. So as one can only conclude, Lara was completely off course.
Well. I wasn’t too proud to apologise. This was Hakeem, after all. The one who used to hide my indiscretions when we were kids so that I wouldn’t get into trouble. And let’s face it, I was feeling rather guilty by now. A bit awful too really. I drafted a reply immediately.
Subject: Re: ?
I know this one. The Catcher in the Rye?
Samira
P.S Chocolates you gave me from that British lolly shop were delicious. Thank you.
After I sent the email, I let out a sigh of contentment. I’d taken the high road, the path of humility, and I was feeling chuffed about it.
I began sorting out some memos on my desk, mainly an assortment of one- or two-word commands from Jeff that made no sense. That would keep me sufficiently busy for about an hour at least. Fairly mind-numbing work, which was perfect for a Monday morning, especially given recent events.
A few minutes later, just as I was trying to make out a smudged post-it, an email alert sounded. That was quick, I thought beatifically. Then a nudge of alarm forced its way in. Although Hakeem had initiated the forgiveness ritual, I was slightly nervous. What if he was utterly annoyed? I didn’t want him to feel even a tiny bit of resentment or annoyance with me.
I blamed the last three da
ys. I’d had a weird weekend and I wanted my life back! It wouldn’t do at all for things to be awkward between Hakeem and I. Hesitantly, I looked up at the screen and exhaled when I realised the email wasn’t from Hakeem.
Chami, Menem. Who was Chami Menem? Oh! Menem Chami.
Menem. From team building! From the engagement!
I was baffled because we didn’t exchange any contact details. We didn’t even speak again at the engagement after he got called away to assist. I caught him looking at me a few times after that, but that was it.
And while you might wish to remind me that my thoughts did wander to him on Sunday, it was essentially because of the Hakeem episode, and then later because of the upcoming suitor. It wasn’t because he was dashing or anything at all along those lines.
Curiously, and a little apprehensively, I clicked open the email. I suppose there was a smidgeon of excitement somewhere in there too. Just a little rise in my throat, nothing to be alarmed about.
Subject: Hi
Samira,
I hope you don’t mind me emailing you. I just wanted to say that it was really nice to meet you (twice!). It’s unfortunate we didn’t get a chance to speak more at the engagement party.
Also, I heard you studied Communications. One of my cousins is interested in studying it as well so I was wondering if perhaps I could ask you some questions on her behalf.
Hope to hear from you soon, have a great day.
Menem
P.S: I still owe you a coffee!
Okay, no need to panic. Or become all flustered.
Too late.
My face was incredibly warm already. And my stomach was doing strange flip-floppy things I wasn’t used to. I felt a bit sick. I suppose it was the nerves. They were ram-raiding me but, frankly, they could just bugger off because it wasn’t even 9 am.