by Amal Awad
“That’s a flower,” I said, quickly. At least it was meant to be a flower. It actually looked more like a mutant raindrop.
“Yes, I can see that,” he replied. He studied it for a moment.
“Notice the way you’ve drawn the petals?” he said. “That symbolises burdens.”
“I think you’re making this up,” I said.
“I am not!” he said, affronted, but he laughed.
I regarded him skeptically for a moment. “Hmm. Wait a second, is this haram?”
“I’m not reading your palm!”
“Sorry, you’re right. Knee-jerk reaction.”
“See this star?” He pointed again at the page.
“Ahuh.” I couldn’t help smiling.
Pathetic. I wondered if I was becoming like one of those silly girls who bats her eyelids at a boy she fancied. Not that I necessarily fancied Menem. Sure, he was dashing and charming and lovely and all those things. But that didn’t mean anything now, did it?
No, I wasn’t batting any eyelids and I wasn’t fancying anyone. I was, apparently, carrying burdens.
“That star suggests aspirations,” continued Menem. “Dreams unfulfilled. Does that sound about right, Samira?”
I nodded in amusement. “Well, I guess you have me figured out then.”
“Not quite,” he said, with a smile. “But I’m getting there.”
I was replaying the whole conversation when Zahra unexpectedly appeared in the frozen food aisle, doing her little tilted-head-walk towards me.
“Samira!” she gasped.
I gave her a pained smile. “Hi, Zahra.”
We made small-talk, Zahra making every effort to flash her engagement ring every five seconds by straightening the strap on her hand bag, or scratching a non-existent itch on her face. Then I remembered something about her impending nuptials I’d been meaning to find out more about.
“My mum was saying your wedding is in a couple of months. That’s kind of quick, isn’t it?”
I was genuinely curious.
Zahra rolled her eyes in response and sighed. “A few months actually, just before it gets too hot.” She studied me a moment before adding, “When you know, you just know. It’s hard for you to understand.”
Ah, the obligatory put-down.
And then she did a head-tilt-smile that I always found annoying and which always led to some rather unsavoury mental images that involved the yellow Kill Bill jumpsuit.
“Anyway, I may as well let you know now then that you’re going to be a bridesmaid at my wedding,” she said in her syrupy tone.
I was gobsmacked. I stared at her, trying to process the information.
“Um, I don’t think so,” I replied eventually, about to laugh. I turned back to the freezer to finalise my choice. Cookies and cream was my favourite, but I couldn’t think straight with Zahra hovering. Maybe I should go for strawberry? It was too much pressure.
My cousin didn’t move, standing beside my trolley with her feet positioned like a ballerina’s, her arms crossed just below her chest.
I’d no doubt the decision to include me in her bridal party was less than an affectionate gesture and I wanted no part of it. Then I wondered if I actually had a say in it, especially as there was no way on God’s green earth I was going to be a bridesmaid if it was a big fat Arab wedding. Nothing would convince me to participate if it was, and seeing that Mum was fairly conservative, I knew I’d have her backing on that and she wouldn’t bury me in Guilt for refusing.
“Don’t worry, it won’t be mixed,” Zahra said.
More surprises. A segregated wedding? The engagement had been such a colourful affair. Now she was going to have a more subdued Islamic wedding? It didn’t make an ounce of sense.
A lot of Muslim girls would opt for segregated weddings but they were generally, hijabis and/or super strict. With only women around, the bride could wear any type of dress she liked. If the groom was so inclined, he’d have a separate party with his friends and male relatives, and so on. More often than not, he wouldn’t.
But sometimes the groom might walk the bride in with her family. I pitied those poor suckers though, what with having to walk into a room full of women who were assessing him, judging his looks and demeanour, and of course, deciding who was the better looking one in the couple. Some men – sensible men – brought other males in with them, or chose to forgo the entire entrance altogether.
But now this was interesting. Zahra didn’t even wear hijab. Granted, a lot of her family and friends probably did. But the selfless type, Zahra was not. So it was a baffling development. A head-scratching moment. Not that I would physically scratch my head. At least not here in the frozen food aisle.
I’d already been subject to a quizzical look from a woman in aisle four. She’d sort of looked at me then shook her head, her eyes dangerously close to being saucer-sized. I’d touched my face, thinking there may be some cappuccino froth or a bit of chocolate but there was nothing. Then I remembered my hijab. But right after that I remembered my Sara Lee and as I cared more about the latter, I went on to the frozen foods section. And well, then here I was with Zahra, fighting the urge to scratch my head.
Whatever Zahra’s reasons for the female-only party, it was none of my business. But I wondered what else she’d be forgoing. And why!
“Separate wedding, huh? Are you going to have music?” I enquired.
“Of course, Samira. I’m not a total fundy.”
“Total fundies” only played nasheed – Islamic music – at weddings. I’d only ever been to one like that, and the women still belly-danced like crazy to the songs, which I found a little odd, truth be told.
“Zahra, look, no offence, but I don’t want to be your bridesmaid. I don’t want to be anyone’s bridesmaid.”
I was bloody sick of weddings, in fact.
I opened the freezer door and opted for the cookies and cream. I placed the tub in the trolley, pushing aside some frozen peas, before facing Zahra.
“Lara’s going to be one too,” she said, mildly put out.
“And does she know about that?” I chuckled.
Zahra had her tongue jammed up in the roof her mouth, and she shook her head imperceptibly.
“Whatever, Samira. I’ll call you about the dress fittings next week,” she said.
Which meant it had been decided between the parents and I had no choice. As my mood rapidly deflated, I wondered if I should get the strawberry flavour too.
Zahra shuffled her feet and adjusted the Miu Miu bag resting on her shoulder, offering one more flash of the rock on her finger. With a glance at the tub of ice cream, she touched her stomach and smiled before saying “Salams”.
By Thursday I was in the foulest of moods, unable to shake the feeling that I’d been set up by those I should be able to trust the most. Not even a cheeky forwarded email from Menem could cheer me up.
Cate didn’t so much sense that something was wrong as notice it when my stapling was louder than the hum of the printer.
“Are you okay?” she said, resting her arms on my cubicle wall.
“Just dandy!”
“Another dud?”
“No. My cousin told me I have to be a bridesmaid at her wedding.”
I began beating a set of reports with the blasted stapler because it kept getting stuck.
“Okay, so I’m going to take the stapler off you,” said Cate, coming over to disarm me. Gingerly, she removed the stapler from my hands and sat down on my desk.
“So let’s back up a moment. You don’t want to be a bridesmaid because …?”
“Well, I don’t want to,” I complained. Realising this wasn’t an adequate explanation, I continued. “It’s just amazing that someone who didn’t even tell me she was getting to know a guy before she got engaged is expecting me to spend a weekend driving around Sydney to find the right shoes for her ‘specially made dress with Italian fabric’,” I said, mimicking Zahra who’d put in the “request” on Tuesday.
> “Poor you. That sucks.”
“Well, it serves me right for having a car.”
I was slowly but surely going to be swept into an alternative universe where everything was about Zahra, but worse, because it also involved weddings – two of my least favourite things.
It should have stopped at Zahra’s request for back issues of Bridal Bazaar. Instead, there was the supermarket meeting and Zahra’s subsequent “fabric” request. Then my mother called me at work this morning to tell me we were going to Zahra’s place tomorrow night to help with something wedding-related. I wasn’t quite sure what because I’d zoned out at the mention of her and thought of chocolate fountains.
There I was, pleased as punch that Zahra had stopped calling me every other day, when really it was just the quiet before the storm.
I felt the need to resist somehow. To fight the inevitable.
I’d be like Nelson Mandela, I decided.
Admittedly I didn’t have Apartheid to deal with. And I suppose my cause was more of a personal nature. But I, too, felt the powerful thrust of determination and aspiration pierce through me.
She’d only gotten engaged a few weeks ago. Not even Brad and Angie demanded this much attention!
Before Cate could offer me counsel, Marcus swung into my cubicle and plopped down on the floor beside us.
“Helloooo, ladies,” he said. “Okay. Samira. I have a conundrum for you.”
“I’m not good at conundrums,” I deadpanned.
Cate shook her head slowly.
“Well, it’s more a ‘What would you do?’,” he said, motioning with his hands.
“Okay,” I said.
“You’re stuck on a deserted island with a man. There is only the two of you. Can you get married? I mean, let’s say you had no idea if you’d be rescued. What would you do?” he asked, genuinely interested.
Cate leaned down and slapped Marcus on the arm.
“Ow!” he cried.
“Be gone!” ordered Cate.
“You know, that can constitute workplace harassment,” he said, rubbing the sore spot. “I watched the OH&S video.”
We all did. An ode to 90s fromage. And we all thought it was hilarious, what with the hammy acting and the sleazy soundtrack, Jeff yelling “Shut the bloody hell up!” every five minutes, and occasionally adding “You have to answer a bloody quiz about this! It’s my neck on the line!”, arms outstretched.
That was a great day.
Marcus looked at Cate like an injured puppy dog. There was definitely more to his hurt expression than usual and in any other mood, I’d have truly felt sorry for him.
“I like your headscarf today by the way, Samira,” he said, glancing my way.
“Thanks, Marcus. And to answer your question, I really don’t know. I can ask someone perhaps.”
Like never. I wasn’t about to pull aside a sheikh or an Islamic teacher to ask them about it. They’d look at me like I was mad. Following that, they’d most likely remind me that men and women shouldn’t be alone together unless there is a reasonable purpose, a rule that no one I knew managed to follow.
Marcus erupted into his hyena-laugh.
“Like a teacher? Like a sensei?” he guffawed. “Ow!”
“Go!” commanded Cate. And go he did, but not without another hurt look.
“Sorry, Cate, I have to go too. Photo shoot.” I got up from chair and began packing up.
“Gabriel?”
“Yep.”
Cate sighed. “I love him.”
“How are things with Marcus?” I asked, turning to her.
Cate blushed. “Fine.”
“Cate?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She still hadn’t told me about her first date nor what I presumed were the second and third and fourth ones. Her secrecy was a little alarming; post-date discussion was par for the course so I didn’t understand why it was such a big deal.
“You know you’ll tell me eventually,” I pointed out. I swung my handbag over my shoulder and hugged a plastic envelope to my chest.
Cate twisted her mouth every which way, assessing the validity of my last statement. She got up and dumped the stapler on my desk, but deep in the corner.
“Well,” she said. Then she paused. “There isn’t really anything to say just now.”
Then Cate shook her head at me. “I can’t talk about it yet,” she said in a near whisper. “I’m not sure how to deal with the situation.”
“Wow, this must be serious.”
Cate blushed a deeper red. “Maybe,” she said with a shrug. “Not sure yet.”
16
I allowed myself enough time to walk at a leisurely place to the location shoot, taking advantage of the winter sunshine bathing the city. Ordinarily it took about fifteen minutes to get from the office to The Rocks, the setting for so many of our magazine spreads and just about every Sydney wedding. Today I sucked up half an hour, realising as I walked along Hickson Road that I should do this more often.
I stopped by a bakery and bought a caramel slice, which I balanced out with a Diet Coke. I continued my walk, trying my best to block out annoying thoughts, to find some calm. My head hurt and I was relieved to be out of the office today.
I spotted Gabriel dragging equipment from his car as I neared the Nurses Walk.
He smiled and waved at me when he saw me approaching. I rushed up to join him and grabbed one of the bags.
“Hey, girl!”
“Hey, Gabriel. How are you?” I took a couple more bags off him, repositioning the things I was already carrying.
“I’ve got my health and I love my job. What’s there to complain about?” he said.
“Very true,” I laughed.
We took the pathway down to the Nurses Walk, a full load between us.
“You’re just in time to help me set up.”
“The model isn’t here yet?”
“Relax, she’s in make-up.”
“Oh, good. What can I do?”
“The usual.”
“Really?”
“You’ve been doing a pretty good job so far, why stop now?”
“Thank you!” I felt a bubble of excitement as we placed the bags and cases in a suitable spot by the makeshift dressing room.
I unlatched the tripod case and carefully removed each component. Once I’d set it up, I scanned the rest of the bags. The camera came out next, a swish Nikon D700. It was one of the best in the range, strictly for the pros.
Gabriel crouched down to my level and after a cursory glance at his bags, he looked at me expectantly.
“Are you going to get that thing set up properly or what?”
“Come on, you know I get nervous with this stuff. It’s so expensive,” I told him.
He shook his head. “You’re fine, just get it up on the tripod.”
I understood Cate’s crush on him. Gabriel had beautiful blue eyes, which cancelled out the somewhat grungy look he seemed to favour. His hair was a dirty blonde, he had one ear pierced, and today, like most days, he wore tight jeans, white muscle T, studded belt and check shirt. I wouldn’t have placed him older than early 30s, but he dressed like a teenager.
We used him a lot because he was good and understood Bridal Bazaar’s style. And he was attractive, even if not at all my type. Gabriel was in a relationship though, so Cate kept her distance. Literally.
“I might do something stupid, like bite him,” she confessed once, and I chose not to explore that further.
He certainly made location shoots more tolerable for me. I’d started to ask him photography-related questions early on, not realising I was doing it so often. Then one day he shoved one of the smaller cameras into my hands and told me to point and shoot.
After that, whenever we waited for models to get changed or have their make-up done, Gabriel would instruct me on the functions of a digital SLR. Sometimes, if I was very lucky and the shoot was in the afternoon, he would stay back with me and give me a proper
lesson.
He taught me about aperture, metering, shutter speed and composition. I liked the theory behind photography. I loved that you could never be sure what you’d end up with, but like most things, there was still a formula to help you get there. And Gabriel made it seem so simple.
He encouraged me to take photos, anytime, anywhere. “Just buy a little one to start with, and keep it in your handbag,” he suggested. I did, but I wasn’t sure the photos were any good. I tended to photograph landscapes and objects. They were less complicated than people, who demanded a more tailored approach.
Not that I dedicated a whole lot of time to it. It was fun on location shoots, and I preferred being under Gabriel’s instruction. I seemed to forget everything when I was alone.
We stood up, my hands framing the very expensive Nikon. I secured the camera to the tripod then positioned it on the paved walkway.
Gabriel scooted over and made further adjustments – based on how the light was filtering through, he said as he repositioned the tripod. I watched as he fiddled with the complex menu on the camera, searching through the various functions, pressing buttons efficiently and quickly.
“I’m going to need you to hold a reflector,” he said as he leaned down to take a test shot.
“Too much sun?” I ventured.
“Good girl. Even with the best equipment, sometimes the light just sucks, so you’re screwed,” he told me. He changed the settings again and took another shot.
“Remember what I told you about direct sunlight?” he said.
“You want to avoid it and work with reflected light only,” I recited, verbatim.
“And why do we do that?” he prompted, turning back to his bags. He searched through a couple until he found what he was looking for: a shorter lens.
“This not only avoids stark contrast, but also eliminates squinting due to harsh light,” I said.
Gabriel nodded, impressed.
“And we use a fill-flash to minimise shadows under the eyes, and hope like hell your subject can avoid squinting,” he reminded me.
Gabriel also located a reflector, the large white floppy thing you hold behind the person being photographed. “And this does what?” he said, flapping the shade.