by Amal Awad
Samira: Well, take care.
Hakeem: Yes, you too.
Another pause.
Hakeem: You have nice handwriting.
Well, I wasn’t expecting that. One last quote perhaps. Even a tidbit he’d forgotten to mention. But my handwriting?
Samira: Erm, OK.
Hakeem: Your card is next to my computer. I just noticed it is all.
Samira: Oh, of course. I presume you’ve had it laminated or framed already?
Hakeem: Laminated.
Samira: Very good. (I tend to have this effect on people.)
Hakeem: Indeed.
Samira: You might want to hold onto that. It could be very valuable one day.
Hakeem: It’s already valuable. ;) Goodnight… Salam.
Samira: Wa’alaykum assalam.
He still hadn’t logged off a minute later. So I did, wondering as I did so, why all the drama? I much preferred comedy.
The next morning I undertook a coffee run at work. I was alone this time as Cate was busy. While I waited for my order, I assessed whether a small Danish pastry would be a wise move a couple of days before my first bridesmaid dress fitting.
Just as I was about to break, Menem came by. I had coffee orders to fulfill, so I couldn’t linger. Not to give the impression that I intended to linger. Just pointing out that I would not be chatting to Menem for an extended period of time. Besides all that, I had a whole bunch of meeting minutes to type up and send out. Uni education repayments well earned.
“How’s your day going so far?” he said.
“So far I can’t complain,” I said, politely. A complete and utter falsehood as I could complain until the cows came home three times over.
“And you?” I asked.
“Deadline after deadline,” said Menem. He looked a bit stressed. “I’ll be working late.”
“Do you work late often?”
“Yes. At least at this time of year. Anyway, what’s new?”
The usual. Annoying SMSes from Zahra with wedding reminders. Work. Disturbing family dinners. I met Matt Damon.
I wondered if I should tell him. It was safe to assume that he hadn’t witnessed my brief moment of television stardom. He would have mentioned something by now if he had, and he’d most likely be cheeky about it. You know, twinkling eyes and such.
“I met Matt Damon!” I blurted.
Oh, for -. Why?! I could have said it casually. I could have appeared dispassionate. Made it but a passing comment. No, instead I sounded like Lara, and worst part being that I didn’t even care that much. Matt Daymoon didn’t care about me, so why should I care about him?
Menem looked extremely amused. “Matt Damon, huh?”
I blushed, wondering how long it took to make a chai latte. I paused, only the sound of the clicking and banging at the coffee bar between us.
“Ahuh,” I managed. “Briefly. He said hi.”
“Well, I hope you have time for us little people now. I’m not sure I can compete with Matt Damon.”
I blushed.
“No need to blush,” he said. “I’d be giddy if I met Matt Damon too. I don’t think life held the same meaning for me after I watched The Bourne Identity.”
“Ha ha,” I said, relaxing a bit.
Menem laughed. He had a nice one: soft, but the way it made him smile was rather lovely.
“Bella! Your coffees!”
“That would be me. I’m bella,” I told Menem with exaggerated modesty. I needed to regain some ground after the Matt Damon outburst. Self-mockery seemed the logical solution.
“That you most certainly are,” said Menem.
I took the coffee trays, my heart beating fast, and the blush lingering all the way back to the office.
Saturday was the day of our first dress fittings. Zahra had already picked out the dresses, hers included, but she’d done all of her measurements and begun the major adjustments a while ago. Now we needed to check that Lara and my sizes were right and take care of any alterations.
Lara was, not surprisingly, completely unenthusiastic about it.
“Why should we have to give up valuable time for snot face?” she whinged to me the night before.
I did my best to placate her, noting with unease that I was now unofficially a counsellor to those affected by Operation Zahra’s Wedding. But Lara just wanted to complain. We both knew she’d be going, mainly because, as much as she rebelled against The Establishment (any establishment, for that matter), Lara was still a good Arab-Muslim girl who did her duties. Even if she did them in her own unique way. That and she wanted a free evening dress.
In the morning, I picked up Zahra first. We didn’t say much as I drove to collect Lara, who naturally kept us waiting. When Lara finally got into the car, she was pouting. She actually looked rather glamorous whenever she did that, but it was a mood setter too. I mentally sighed, preparing myself for more counselling. Although, I’d be the one seeking it if things stayed like this much longer.
“Sorry about being so late,” said Lara, still pouting. “I didn’t want to look fat for the fitting,” she explained.
“You’re being measured, you dunce,” retorted Zahra. “You can’t hide the curves.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes.
“True, so how will you manage, Zahra?” said Lara.
“Okay, ground rules: no arguing,” I said. “And well, if I think of anything else, I’ll add that too.”
Why did I seem to suddenly mature and become a Mum-clone around my cousins? Actually, I rather felt I suited the role, even if it was a rather unnerving realisation. Yes, just give me a duster or a wooden spoon for punitive purposes and I’d be set.
We drove in peaceful silence for several minutes.
“So what colour are you making us wear?” asked Lara finally.
“Lemon yellow,” replied Zahra as she wrote down something in her wedding organiser – an off-white Filofax organiser specifically purchased for her wedding planning.
Lara snorted. “Oh yeah, lemon yellow will really do wonders for our complexions!” she said, looking out the window.
“What’s wrong with yellow?” said Zahra, looking up from her organiser at Lara.
“He-llo? Yellow? On us? Are you that insecure that you have to make us look crap?” said Lara.
Zahra pursed her lips. Lara had clearly hit a nerve. Nevertheless, I sent Lara a reprimanding glance in the rear view mirror, what with me being the disciplinarian today. I was still feeling awfully mature.
I actually felt sorry for Zahra for a moment. We’d not even been ten minutes in the car and already Lara was attacking her. Yes, I know Zahra wasn’t due for her angel’s wings anytime soon, but she hadn’t provoked Lara in this instance. I figured that if she truly had a choice, she’d have the skinny girls in black as her bridesmaids, but for whatever reason she was stuck with us.
“Samira?” said Lara exasperated.
Lara did have a point. At least about the lemon yellow if not the insecurity bit. It wasn’t likely to look very nice on us. We were both so pale that we’d look washed out.
“Well, she’s sort of right, Zahra. We’re both fairly pale. Is that your final choice?” I asked.
“Well, no, Samira,” she whined. “If you’re both going to whinge about it, we can change the colour. But the design stays!” She went back to scribbling in her organiser.
“Blue. It should be blue,” said Lara a moment later. “They’d better be nice.”
We arrived five minutes later and I easily found a parking spot a few metres down from the dress shop, Livvy’s Bridal. It looked small and a little posh. I switched off the engine and we all jumped out. We walked towards the store, Lara dragging her feet, Zahra still scribbling in her Filofax.
“Looks tiny,” said Lara in her sulky voice.
Following the dress fitting, we dropped Zahra off at her place, then went to mine. We were going to Cate’s in the evening for a housewarming party. She’d bought an apartment a few months ago and finally got
around to arranging a get-together. Lara and I would pray maghreb – sunset prayer – then go.
Lara greeted my father, whom she always called her “fave uncle”, and Dad would smile shyly and say, “Get out!” in his thick accent.
Jamal had SMSed me earlier to announce that he’d been interviewed by SBS about an Islamic school under construction somewhere. It was causing a bit of a ruckus (of the white supremacist kind).
While Lara and I sat in my room waiting for the news to begin, I was braiding her hair into two ponytails and she was recounting why she first became a nurse (she thought the guy at the nursing table at the uni open day was cute.)
Lara yawned, but a few moments later Jamal, looking very sweet and handsome in tailored trousers and ironed shirt, appeared on the screen.
“That’s your cousin Jamal?” she said in amazement.
“Ahuh. Why so shocked?” I asked, finishing off the braiding.
“He’s gorgeous!” she said, transfixed.
“Lara, it’s Jamal. You’ve known him all your life.”
“I haven’t seen him in ages.”
Jamal was my cousin from Mum’s side, Lara was my cousin from Dad’s, so they didn’t see each other regularly.
“He’s younger than you,” I said.
“How much?”
“He’s 26.”
“I’m only 28.” Except she was 29.
“Lara.”
Still feeling awfully mature.
22
“So what exactly is this thing we’re going to?” asked Lara as we drove to Cate’s. She lived on the other side of the Harbour Bridge now.
That all sounds very exotic, I know. It’s not as though the Harbour Bridge divided Sydney into two distinct halves, but uber trendy North Shore (where Cate’s new apartment was located) was very different to solidly suburban Maroubra, where I lived. And Sydney was even more compartmentalised than that, but that’s not very important just now.
“It’s a housewarming party,” I told Lara. “Remember my workmate Cate? She just bought a flat.”
“Right. So why am I coming?”
“To keep me company. I don’t really want to go, but she begged me.”
Cate knew I was reluctant because it’s not the sort of thing I’d ordinarily go to, but she assured me no one would be getting blind drunk and as it seemed to mean so much to her, I agreed to attend.
Lara began fiddling with the radio stations, already onto the next thing.
“I think this is the place,” I said, pulling up to the kerb. I checked the number and confirmed it was the correct address.
“Wait,” said Lara, stopping me. “We need some sort of code.”
“A code? For what?”
“For ‘Get me the hell out of here’,” she said. “Ooh! I know. I’ll wink, like so.” Lara winked conspiratorially.
“Ehm, maybe not. How about you just come up and squeeze my arm if we get separated?” I suggested.
Lara thought for a moment. “Okay,” she finally agreed.
“You owe me for coming along, by the way,” she said, as we walked up the pathway to the flat.
“I owe you?”
“Yup!”
“Right. Never mind all the IOUs from you to me?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t.”
After we were buzzed in and climbed two flights of stairs with Lara exclaiming, “Crap! Who doesn’t have a lift nowadays?”, I knocked on the door. A few seconds later Cate swung it open, looking fabulous in a summery black and orange halter-neck dress. Her long hair ended in giant curls, and she wore gold and orange bangles up her arms.
“Samira, you came!” She smiled delightedly and hugged me.
The liveliness of the party trickled into the hallway, the music and penetrating hum of chatter. I’d never been to a housewarming before because Arabs never had them. We had crockery parties, and Nutrimetics and Tupperware parties. Mum had bought me enough Tupperware to stock a small outlet in anticipation of when I’d have my own home and would need airtight containers with a lifetime guarantee.
“Thanks for inviting me,” I said, giving her a peck on the cheek. I handed her my gift – a Japanese tea set.
“Oh, Samira, thank you!” she said, squeezing my hand appreciatively. “I’d say you shouldn’t have, but I guess that would sound a bit silly since it’s a housewarming.”
As we stepped inside, I looked around and took in my surroundings. The tiny flat was lovely. There were framed photographs on a brown feature wall, and tiny cabinets lining the opposite one. It looked lived in, despite being new. It was cosy, had character and I loved it. I had a sudden yearning to have my own space. But I immediately snatched the thought out before it sprouted wings and made me feel crap. I wasn’t likely to be going anywhere unless I got married. Lately, it was starting to frustrate me a little.
“I’m so glad you made it,” Cate said, pulling me towards a spot near the kitchen, which was about the size of a toilet cubicle.
Lara cleared her throat. “Cate, you remember my cousin Lara.”
Cate gave Lara a dazzling smile and squeezed her hand. “It’s so nice to see you again!”
“Thanks,” replied Lara with a smile. “Likewise.”
“Now, there’s plenty of food on the other side of the room. Stay away from the sausage rolls and meat pies, they have pork, and you’ll be right,” said Cate. “And the bar’s open for mocktails.” She winked and gave me a final squeeze on the arm before excusing herself.
I nodded and smiled, already thinking about what sort of mocktails were on offer. It was a bit exciting. Lara raised her eyebrows at me.
“What?” I said to her.
“Nafing,” she said.
I waited.
“It was just thoughtful of her to think of our restrictions,” observed Lara.
“Yes,” I agreed. “We don’t have to stay long, OK?”
And half an hour later, Lara and I were ready to make a dash for it. I knew we were party poopers, but within fifteen minutes of our arrival, Marcus had cornered us. Not even my delicious virgin mojito could make up for it. Bewildered by Lara’s lack of hijab, Marcus quizzed us about it for ten minutes, before moving on to the time two Jehovah’s Witnesses came by his place and he fed them homemade Anzac biscuits.
Now it should be noted that Marcus’s Anzac biscuits were actually rather good. He’d brought them into work a couple of times, going to pains to assure me that they were made only with halal ingredients.
“Samira, if we go now we can still have a nice dinner somewhere,” said Lara the moment Marcus got up to assist Cate with something.
“It’s a bit rude if we leave now, though,” I said.
Lara gave me a frantic look. “No, no, no. It would be rude of us to stay! I mean, what with us not being raging alcoholics and all!”
“Right, okay. Well, let me just say goodbye to Cate. I’ll have to make something up about why we’re leaving so soon.”
“Good girl, thank you!”
Although Cate seemed disappointed, she was busy with her guests and in a celebratory mood. Another half an hour and she’d be three sheets to the wind.
She let us go without any guilt. We could have handled it, of course, what with our familiarity with Arab Guilt and Muslim Guilt and the fatal hybrid, Arab-Muslim Guilt. But as Cate wasn’t Arab, nor of any other similar ethnicity, she sent us off with a sincere regretful farewell and some chocolates.
Lara and I went for dinner at a nearby Thai restaurant. It was fairly simple, small and intimate. It was also quite busy, which was to be expected on a Saturday night.
As though waiting to pounce, Lara began quizzing me about Jamal the moment the waitress placed our plates before us.
“So how old did you say Jamal is?” said Lara, spooning chilli onto her noodles.
I wondered if I should caution him that he was featuring on Lara’s radar, sort of like a storm warning.
“Lara, what are you doing?”
“I’m putting chilli on my noodles.”
“No,” I said. “Why are you asking me about my cousin?”
“I’m just curious. You said he’s younger, right?” said Lara, taking a bite.
“Yes,” I told her. “He’s about 26.”
“Okies,” said Lara. She shrugged and continued eating.
When she hadn’t said anything else ten seconds later, I felt satisfied that we were done with the subject of my cousin Jamal. I was a bit protective of him. He was such a lovely boy and I didn’t want anyone to mess him about.
I eyed the curry puffs. Then the spring rolls. I was so hungry. I’d managed a Snickers bar (full size) after the dress fitting. Besides some tea and fried haloumi cheese (Mum yelling that I had to “Eat something! Your body is young!”) for breakfast, I hadn’t eaten a proper meal all day.
Just as I was taking my first bite, Lara said, “What I’m saying is, it’s only a couple of years. It’s not that big a difference.” She looked at me innocently, her mouth full. I was sure she got away with so much because she was so beautiful.
“Yes, Lara. It’s not a big difference,” I said, distracted by the smell of the food. My tummy rumbled.
“Is he very strict?” said Lara, totally oblivious to my disapproval. I began to eat, realising with the first bite that I’d much rather be here than at Cate’s housewarming.
“Yes, Lara. He’s quite strict. Whatever that means,” I said.
“Well, are we talking Hakeem levels of fundyness?” she persisted. “Because if he is, I should probably forget it altogether.” She bit into a spring roll and looked thoughtful.
“I don’t know,” I said, slowly. “What are Hakeem levels of fundyness?”
Lara rolled her eyes. “You know! Controlling. Obsessive. Everything has to be in order, his wife will need a permission slip to go to the shops. That kind of fundy.”