Courting Samira

by Amal Awad

  She smiled up at me before returning to her seat, after which there was an awkward silence. Sahar was at the sink, pulling on gloves to wash the dishes.

  “Amazing,” said Cate. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  Sahar began a spiel on sacrifice, but Lara broke the tension.

  “Yes, fabulous, Sahar, but can we talk about boys again? Arab warrior types?”

  I looked at my less-than-subtle cousin gratefully.

  “Oh, right,” I began thoughtfully. “Beard, dark skin. Tallish, broad-shouldered. You could imagine him riding a magnificent horse in the desert, a white cloth wrapped tightly around his face.”

  Not that I’d thought about it much.

  “A cloth like Yasser Arafat’s scarf?” enquired Lara. I wasn’t sure what was more shocking – that Lara would suggest the Arafat look in the Arab warrior context (completely off the mark), or that she knew who Yasser Arafat was.

  “Like Hakeem,” said Sahar unexpectedly, abandoning the dishes. There was a moment of silence before I realised they were all looking at me, Sahar with a look of revelation, Lara a bit smug, Cate with a raised eyebrow.

  “I guess,” I said. I was going for airy, but I think it came out a little dismayed. “I mean, I’ve never thought about it. Here, let me help you, Sahar.”

  Maybe a tiny, baby white lie there. Hakeem did have the Arab warrior look. He fit the description. Or, at least, my description, which by no means should be considered the definitive one.

  However, the point is, I didn’t regard Hakeem that way. Not even a bit.

  I might have had a crush on Hakeem once but it was so long ago, I can barely remember it. I was in the throes of puberty, realising you could experience strange flip-flop movements in your stomach when a certain guy was around, which subsequently caused queasy sensations, all of which then led you to think you needed to go to the toilet. I never paid any attention to the Arab warrior part.

  But the mention of his name had ruffled me some. I was still feeling a bit shaken by the email mishap on Monday. I hadn’t heard from him since his last reply and I didn’t dare log on to Facebook chat in case he’d be there. I didn’t want to block him either as that would signify weakness on my part, something I definitely was not. Per se.

  If I did log on and he didn’t initiate conversation, it would be humiliating.

  “Why don’t you just marry Hakeem?” said Lara, snapping me out of my reverie.

  I was standing beside Sahar, helping her wash up. I dropped the bowl I was holding, feeling my face warm up instantly. I really needed to see a doctor about that. I’d heard about a condition where you blush frequently and easily. Perhaps I had that. You know, assuming you could develop the condition in your late twenties.

  “Okay, how about no way?” I replied a little too shrilly, twisting around to give Lara a death stare. “He’s like a brother to me. And I’m not his type!”

  Honestly.

  “But he’s your type,” persisted Lara, totally aware of my discomfort but not caring. She was back to tapping to the spoon against her mouth nonchalantly.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say. What could I say that would make an ounce of sense? It was just one of those things really. Hakeem and I didn’t match. Lord knows he’d want a quiet, shy type who could vacuum while making a rice pudding or something equally complicated.

  Of course, I intended to be a devoted wife to my husband when I finally had one. I’d leave little notes in his lunch box. Or if he didn’t carry a lunch box, I’d put them in his trouser pockets or something. I’d even attempt to cook. Using an oven.

  Although, I’d have to check with Sahar about recipes. Weren’t there lethal vegetables or something? Rhubarb? That’s it. With the poisonous leaves. And those fish Japanese chefs spend years learning how to kill and cook. Probably best to stay away from seafood entirely.

  I could feel Sahar’s thoughtful gaze on me. “Maybe he’s not her type,” she said finally, her face a little pink.

  “Can we change the subject?” I said.

  “Must we?” said Cate, looking captivated. “I’ve worked with you for over a year and you have never once told me about this guy!”

  Lara shrugged. “He’s only completely in love with her.”

  “Lara!”

  She ignored me.

  “Ugh, I feel so fat!” she complained with a yawn. She patted her stomach.

  “What happened with that guy from Zahra’s engagement?” said Sahar.

  Lara straightened up. “What’s going on? You haven’t told me anything!”

  “What, and miss out on your Muslim matchmaking skills?” I smiled, but my back was to her.

  “Well, they were the best I could bloody well find, innit.”

  “There’s a reason for that, sweetie. The website spelt Muslims with a ‘z’.”

  Sahar giggled. “Lara told me about that. I do hope you deleted the email.”

  “I’d burn it if it were possible.”

  Lara looked affronted. “Fine. Don’t say I didn’t try.”

  “Is he that cute guy we ran into the other day?” chimed in Cate, her mouth jammed full of chocolate cake.

  I looked over at Sahar and remembered her disapproval at the party. She didn’t say anything, and if she was surprised, she hid it by busying herself with drying the dishes. I knew Sahar would not approve and I hated to disappoint her. I had to be careful here, lest I reveal too much. And used words like ‘lest’.

  I’d heard back from Menem on Tuesday, and we’d email chatted since. Unintentionally, of course. It just sort of happened. It turned out he’d only recently started working nearby in the city a couple of months ago. He was on secondment from another branch of whatever company it was he worked for.

  We weren’t likely to cross paths every day, but still, momentarily I felt like a Jane Austen character who lived in a quiet little village. I was a young single woman from a middle-class family with humble connections. Suddenly, a young dashing businessman comes to the village and rents an extravagant mansion.

  I pictured Menem in one of those period costumes. He’d look the part considering he was fair-skinned and dark blonde. I could imagine him bowing as he entered our estate and enquiring after me in a posh accent.

  “Is the lady well today?” And I would nod politely and smile before replying with, “Why, yes, sir. Indeed I am”.

  But that’s where my daydream would sort of fall apart because my hijab didn’t really go with the type of dress women wore back then.

  Nevertheless, when I looked at it in Austen terms, it didn’t seem so completely coincidental that Menem worked a few buildings down from me. And meeting him at team building was like meeting him at a picnic. And seeing him at the engagement was like stumbling across him at a ball. In fact, when I thought of it that way, it was almost understandable.

  “He emailed me,” I confessed. “It was all business, though. Anyway, it’s nothing. Nothing’s happening as such.”

  “How can you say that? Are you attracted to him?” demanded Lara.

  I felt immensely uncomfortable, but Lara was completely oblivious to it.

  “Let’s just leave it for now. Really, nothing has progressed.” I refused to make eye contact with anyone.

  “He’s really cute,” said Cate, helpfully

  14

  After dinner at Sahar’s, I reluctantly left to go to Zahra’s house to give her the back issues. Lara said she wanted to be dropped off first because she didn’t want to “be anywhere near snot face”. Cate had already bailed on us. I suspected but couldn’t confirm that she was meeting Marcus.

  “So anyways, out with it,” Lara demanded.

  “What?”

  “Samira, I have known you all your life, and you’re a terrible liar. Don’t play innocent with me.” She leaned over and switched on the radio.

  “What are you on about?” We stopped at a red light and I turned to my cousin. She narrowed her eyes at me.

 
“I want every detail. I love it when I’m right,” said Lara, laughing evilly.

  “Right about what?”

  “Hakeem and the wimpy brother.”

  “Wimpy? Lara, you don’t even know him! And his name is Menem,” I said, defensively.

  The light turned green so I accelerated and waved her away. I wasn’t in the mood for more wild theories and recriminations, though any excuse to use words like recriminations was quite welcome.

  “I don’t have to know him,” she said. “He’s a flirt, I don’t like him. And I’m sticking with wimpy brother.”

  “Okay, I know there’s something in your water when you become the moral police. Since when do you hold flirting against a complete stranger?”

  “Ha, so he is a flirt!” She raised a gloved hand to her face, and hooked her eyebrow.

  “No! He is not!”

  “Samira,” she said, sounding ominously like my mother.

  “I told you, he emailed me.”

  “And how’d he get your email address?”

  “Zahra gave it to him.” I told her about Zahra’s email and Lara burst out laughing.

  “The plot thickens. Okay, any word from Hakeem? It would be great if you could get him to find out about how interested wimpy brother is by the way. Ooh, tell him wimpy brother emailed you!” Lara squealed.

  I was silent as my face grew warm. I still felt a flush of embarrassment whenever I remembered. I studied the roads, wondering if perhaps there was a shortcut I could take.

  “Samira?”

  “See, funny thing happened. Hakeem kind of knows about the email.”

  “Get out of here! The student becomes the master!” Lara put one hand to her mouth, her voice projecting pride.

  “No, I didn’t do it on purpose! I’m not you!” I braked a little too suddenly at another set of lights and we both tumbled forward then back.

  Lara didn’t skip a beat. “Ouch, that totally hurts. But it’s true. So how did he see it?”

  “Well, I kind of accidentally sent my reply to Hakeem. I hit reply on the wrong email,” I said, biting my lip.

  Lara guffawed. “Oh my God, this is precious.” She looked out her window and shook her head. We didn’t celebrate Christmas but even so, it had come early for her this year.

  “Lara, it’s not funny! If you want drama, watch Days of our Lives.”

  “And miss this? I’m sorry, sweet, but please don’t tell me you can’t see the humour in this. You’re not letting it bother you, are you?”

  “No, I’m still embarrassed but I got over it.”

  “Good. What did Hakeem do?”

  “He just said ‘No problem’.”

  No problem. That was it.

  Lara was quiet for a moment. “Okay, look. I know I tease you, but can’t you see that I’m right about Hakeem? He’s jealous. He’s totally into you.”

  “No, I cannot see that. Lara, look -.”

  “How many 34-year-olds do you know go to family dinners?” Lara interrupted firmly.

  “What?”

  “Answer the question,” she commanded.

  “First of all, he’s 31 in a couple of weeks, he’s not 34,” I said.

  “Minor detail. Hakeem’s hardly a social butterfly, and he’s not the wimpy kind who goes to every family function. So, how many 30-year-olds do you know would do that?” continued Lara, undeterred.

  “His father is all alone here, so it’s natural he’d go with him.” Hakeem’s mother died three years ago and I instantly sent up a prayer for her. While Hakeem had an older brother, he lived in the Gulf with his wife and kids.

  Mercifully we arrived at her place and despite her urging for me to come in for a while, I insisted that I couldn’t stay.

  “Life would be so much easier for all of us if you’d just accept what I say, especially since we both know I’m always right,” said Lara, her hand poised over the door handle.

  “Yes, and modest too.”

  “Who taught you that boys suck?”

  “You did.”

  “Exactly. Now will you stop fighting this? Just admit it. Hakeem likes you.”

  I didn’t believe for even a moment that Lara was right about this. Even if she was, so what? I wasn’t about to alert the masses and spontaneously decide that after all these years I secretly loved Hakeem.

  Lara wasn’t finished though. “He comes to those family dinners because you’ll be there and it’s the only way he can see you without doing something wrong,” she said, stopping short of rolling her eyes. “I mean, no offence, but no guy who’s single and free like Hakeem would voluntarily come to those dinners. And especially since you’re not even family.”

  I wasn’t offended because I knew exactly what Lara meant. Family dinners did get rather chaotic, especially on the occasions we pulled out the Scrabble board (usually when my cousin Jamal came over). Scrabble would mutate into another sub-species of game entirely if Dad insisted on playing. No matter how many times I explained the rules to him, and I have done so many-a-time, he’d still get confused.

  One time, Dad found a packet of UNO, and I still shuddered at the memory. It ended in disaster. Dad kept forgetting to say ‘uno’, which led to turmoil. There were actually tears. But I didn’t even want to think about my family’s dysfunction right now.

  “Okay. If you’re so right, why hasn’t he asked for me? There’s nothing to stop him from asking to marry me,” I pointed out. His father was my dad’s first friend in Sydney, according to the Abdel-Aziz folklore. Our families were tight. It would be the simplest thing in the world for Hakeem to make the move.

  “Lesson one: boys suck. Lesson two: they’re complicated and don’t always know what’s good for them,” said Lara. “Particularly ones like Hakeem. He’s probably torn with guilt just for liking you. It’s probably against his rules.” She rolled her eyes.

  Lara crossed her arms and looked ahead thoughtfully, as though she was trying to unlock a great secret of the universe.

  “If he liked me, he’d like me. Simple,” I countered ingeniously.

  “No. We’re talking about a man who’s been engaged twice.”

  “He didn’t find what he wanted. So what?”

  “No, that’s just it. He wants more, but he’s too afraid to go for it. It’s probably destroying him, you know,” said Lara conclusively.

  “You’ve been at the North and South DVD again, haven’t you?”

  “Don’t you get it?” (Eyes getting progressively wider.) “Hakeem will never do anything about it. He’s torn.”

  I would have asked what Hakeem was actually torn about but I was more preoccupied with other things just then. Life was pretty much full to the brim. Honestly, too many subplots and characters and plot developments of which to keep track.

  The latest doorknock was certainly a surprise entrant. He’d entered the scene like a surprise visitor on a reality show. There you are, everyone’s comfortably living together and fighting over the cheese, when suddenly an interloper pops by, demanding some attention. No one knows what to do with him. But he’s all interesting and whacky and everyone wants a piece of him before they’ll go off and bitch about him and how he doesn’t belong.

  “The problem is he has low emotional intelligence,” continued Lara. “We all do. It’s because of the way we were brought up by our parents. I read a book about it.”

  “Okay, Lara.” I rubbed my forehead, preparing myself for the headache with which my cousin would leave me.

  “Or maybe it was in Cosmo. Anyway. Hakeem’s a pigtail puller, you know,” said Lara. “The new guy is probably one too. They all are.”

  ‘Pigtail puller’ was Lara’s term for the emotionally incontinent boys who came our way. The ones who, much like their kindergarten-aged counterparts, would make life difficult for the girls they fancied.

  “What are your plans for Saturday night?” she said. “I want to go to the movies. Let’s watch something pretentious.”

  15

  It was a M
onday evening and I was to undertake the weekly shop for mum after work. There was something therapeutic about supermarkets to me. I liked the way everything was so colourfully and methodically set out. I appreciated the order and the vastness. I only liked shopping in them at night though, when it was quiet and little more than the sound of beeping registers and really bad 90s music could be heard.

  So I happily set off after dinner, shopping list in hand. Admittedly, I was in high spirits because (a) I’d enjoyed a chance meeting with Menem in the afternoon that was still playing on my mind, and (b) Zahra had gone silent on me in the last couple of weeks. No requests for anything wedding-related following the magazine request and some shoe retailer enquiries. I was in heaven.

  Menem. I saw him around occasionally but we hadn’t sat together yet, it was always only a brief chat or acknowledgment. I was a bit disappointed about it but I was also fully aware that had he tried to get me to sit with him, I would have freaked out.

  But today he found me alone in the food court, doodling, of all things.

  “You know, they say doodling actually has significant meaning a lot of the time.”

  Menem stood beside me with an expression of amusement on his face. He wasn’t wearing a jacket or tie. His top button was undone, and he had his hands in his trouser pockets.

  The look suited him and my stomach made some odd jumbly movements when I first looked up at him. It wasn’t that he was good looking, per se. I found him very attractive though. There was something awfully comforting about his presence. I almost felt ... safe when I was around him.

  I stared at the page of doodles and felt slightly foolish. They were hopeless drawings. If I had a shot at anything creative career-wise, it certainly wasn’t drawing.

  “Right,” I said, a little embarrassed.

  Menem sat down opposite me. “Let’s see,” he said, turning the notebook towards him. “Oh, may I?”

  I nodded. “So besides having a flair for IT, you’re an expert on scribbling, are you?” I relaxed slightly.

  “Yes, I’m a doodler myself,” said Menem mock-proudly. “Now, see this right here?”