Courting Samira

by Amal Awad

  “I will. I’ll think about it,” I assured him.

  Enthusiasm aside, even if Jeff recommended me, there was no guarantee I’d get the job. I swiftly dimmed the excitement bulb a little. Back to reality and all that.

  As I got up to leave his office, I had to acknowledge a gnawing sense of unease. However, the exact reason for it eluded me.

  When I got home that evening, I attempted to get to my room without making contact with Dad. He was going to give me a “talk”. I’d known it was coming from the moment my parents first spoke to me about Menem’s visit. Dad had the look in his eyes. He’d studied me for a moment, mentally ticking off the things he wanted to discuss. Very little of it would actually have anything to do with Menem, mind.

  I closed the front door softly, took off my shoes then tiptoed down the hall like a cat burglar, carrying them over my shoulder.

  “Samira, come here, come here,” called Dad from the sofa.

  Damn it. I stopped walking like an idiot and did an about-turn to get to the sitting room. Dad sat amid a clutter of books on everything from gardening, to the healing qualities of crystals, and, of course, Islam.

  “Assalamu alaykum,” I said, plopping down into the chair beside my father.

  “Wa’alaykum assalam,” replied Dad. “How was work?”

  “Fine. Alhamdulillah.”

  “Is everything all right?” enquired Dad in Arabic.

  I nodded. “Sure. Why?”

  Dad examined me for a moment. “You’ve kept Saturday night free, of course?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Baba, make sure you give him a chance. But if he’s no good, that’s okay too.”

  “All right, Dad, inshallah.”

  “Ask him questions. See what he has to bring to the coffee table.”

  I smiled. “Yes, Dad, I will.”

  Then for the next act in The Conversation. Dad always started with the topic at hand (in this case, the upcoming doorknock appeal), before segueing into his childhood in the dusty streets of his small village in the West Bank, where he had to “walk to school every day”, and end on the time he saw Colleen McCullough in a wheelchair in a restaurant, “normal just like an ordinary person”. Eventually he’d then go back to his initial intended point.

  I had no idea why.

  “You know, baba, when I was your age I worked so hard,” lamented Dad. “I had it tough. Look!” Dad commanded, spreading out his hands before me. They were rather well-worn with age and toil. Poor Dad. He looked so much smaller these days.

  “I had no one,” continued Dad desolately.

  I nodded sympathetically.

  “Do you know when I was in the West Bank I had to walk to school every day? We didn’t have anything. We suffered. But we did what we could.” Dad’s voice was gaining an intense quality now.

  “Yeah, but Dad, what does that have to do with anything exactly?” I asked, doing my utmost to shut out even a single drop of exasperation. It’s just that no matter how many times I heard these stories, I was yet to see the direct relevance.

  Besides, while I appreciated the differences between Dad’s village in the West Bank and suburban Sydney, I also walked to school every day when I was a primary student. It wasn’t exactly character-shaping stuff.

  My father paused for a moment and looked at me seriously.

  “Sacrifice!” he declared in English, enunciating each syllable in the word.

  My father – champion of the non sequitur.

  “Why don’t you write a book?” he asked, the disappointment at my lack of motivation etched into his features.

  “Dad, I told you. It’s not that simple. And I write short stories, not novels.” Even those I only wrote on occasion. It was really just a hobby rather than an ambition. I’d never once in my life expressed a desire to write a novel, inwardly or explicitly.

  “Look at Colleen McCullough! You know, once I was with your mother in a restaurant and we saw her, and she was in a wheelchair. She was sitting with some people. She looked very old. But so humble!”

  Oh. Dear. God.

  24

  Menem’s visit was my first doorknock appeal where the guessing was minimal. Of course there were things I didn’t know about him or his family. But blissfully absent were the horrible thoughts about what he looked and sounded like.

  Basically, I could tick off any potential Manga issues. I was pretty sure Menem didn’t use hair gel. And I knew he didn’t have an issue with me having a career, even if I say “career” in the most elastic interpretation of the word.

  The nerves were still about though, and having great fun at my expense. The little buggers would not leave for anything. And they’d brought along a new species of nerves to share in the fun, too. I wasn’t well acquainted with these ones. Genus: “Where is this one heading?”

  I hated them already.

  Menem and his family arrived at 6.00. Arabs may not be the best of planners, but when marriage was involved, the ability to get things done increased exponentially. And as a little extra, many ceased operating on MST (Muslim Standard Time) – meaning they wouldn’t arrive two hours fashionably late. Still, an arrival on time was surprising, as we’d been expecting them to arrive at 6.30.

  Never mind. The house had been cleaned to within an inch of its life, meaning the collection of shoes by the door and the thongs we used for wu’du were relocated out of sight. The snacks were on standby, as were abundant supplies of coffee, tea, sage, and juice.

  I was in my room, ready and still completely nervous. I was wearing a simple short black dress over trousers and a pale blue headscarf. This one was a bit shorter, not covering my chest completely when I pinned it up. It looked quite nice and I realised I should be wearing it that way more often.

  I moved on to make-up: I applied some kohl eyeliner on my bottom lids, followed by some mascara then a light brushing of blush on my cheekbones.

  In the background, Jamie Oliver was prancing around Italy, getting picked on by peasant women because they didn’t like his pasta. But I wasn’t concentrating, I was listening at the door.

  It was so strange. Everything was familiar about the visit: Dad’s bellowed greeting, the light murmurs and chatter. I could hear Menem speaking to my father politely. I liked his voice – deep but not overly so.

  Oh God, I can’t do this, I thought frantically. I’d no idea why but I felt scared. Never mind that I actually liked the guy. Was it because this was a bona fide possibility? That perhaps Menem and I could be heading towards, well, an actual engagement? And then marriage? Egads.

  I’d been expecting SMSs and calls and emails from Lara, warning me against Menem, but she was unusually quiet, which made it easier to not think about what she may have to say on the matter. Sahar was encouraging. Cate had sent me an SMS earlier, dispensing her advice:

  Make sure you wear blue! xxx

  I took a few minutes to calm myself. I closed my eyes, recited a short prayer and thought of the first day I met Menem. I immediately felt better.

  I finally garnered the courage to get up from my bed. Switching off Jamie, I straightened my dress, took a deep breath and went out to greet our guests.

  Menem had come with his parents, who both smiled at me warmly as I entered the room, interrupting the lively conversation.

  “Assalamu alaykum,” I said, and I felt a bit shy.

  Menem smiled as soon as he saw me and although I glanced his way briefly (I could not make eye contact), I went straight to his mother and greeted her.

  I sat down nervously, trying my best to project calm and confidence. This was the first time in years I felt anxious and unsure during a doorknock appeal. Nothing to be amused by here, no fun to be had or mockery to be made or soul crushing to be endured. Certainly no movies to replay in my mind. The fact that I knew and liked Menem didn’t help at all, it just made things so much harder.

  Thankfully, our parents were getting along smashingly. The more they spoke between themselves, the better I f
elt because I wouldn’t have to field questions and worry about speaking in Arabic. I just sat and listened as politely as I could, pretending that I wasn’t wholly aware of Menem’s presence.

  But I knew he was occasionally glancing at me, somewhat discreetly. I would occasionally take a quick look back, and our smiles were very tight and polite. It was awkward. My face was warm and I was already willing the evening to be over. This would never work, I realised.

  A moment after I was ready to throw in the towel and hand in my resignation, Mum got up. Escape! I can help Mum, I thought ingeniously. But she shooed me away when she saw me about to follow her.

  Crap. I sat back down then slowly turned to Menem. As Mum had been sitting between Menem and me, we now had uninterrupted views of each other.

  “This is kind of weird, isn’t?” said Menem, breaking the tension smoothly. He was like James Bond, I decided. Full of charm and confidence.

  I felt the remaining nerves swiftly scatter and I laughed. Not too loudly, of course. The usual doorknock appeal rules applied, after all. Good, solid rules, they were. I wanted to hug those rules right now.

  “Yeah, kind of,” I agreed. “Especially since I know I’ll probably run into you next week.” I had no idea why I said that, but I immediately regretted it.

  “Yes. And things might be different then,” replied Menem.

  You see? I’d walked into that one. It really was my fault. Oh, it was pathetic – I blushed, I actually blushed.

  “How’s work?” I ventured, moving past my faux pas.

  “Good,” he said. “Really good, alhamdulillah.”

  “How’s life?” I further ventured.

  “Alhamdulillah ala kul hal,” he replied. Thank God for everything, he’d said, to my surprise. “And you?” he asked.

  “Fine, alhamdulillah. You know. The usual,” I said. Creative genius at work here. Everyone clear the way – make room for my stunning conversational skill!

  That was the best I could manage? Mum had practically thrown me at Menem (well, in Arab terms anyway), and my response to his question was “You know. The usual”?

  Menem’s Dad then asked him something in Arabic about a car auction they’d gone to the other week. Oh God, give it a month and Dad’s new hobby would be attending car auctions. While I began formulating a plan to get out of attending a car auction when the time came, Menem responded to his father. He spoke in Arabic, fluently.

  It wasn’t the first time he had spoken Arabic in front of me, but it was the first time I’d taken notice. His pronunciation was perfect. Much, much better than mine.

  To begin with, I had difficulties with some of the letters. There were two different types of “h”, differentiated by how you positioned your tongue as you said it. Aside from that, a couple of the letters had very guttural elements to it that you didn’t find in English.

  Arabic was a very complicated language. For example, there was no word for cousin. Really. In Arabic, I’d have to say, “Jamal is the son of my aunt” to explain our relationship.

  And there existed four different ways to refer to an aunt and uncle. An aunt from Mum’s side was “khaltee”, but an aunt from Dad’s side was “umti”. An uncle from Mum’s side was “khalee”, while an uncle from Dad’s side was “ummi”.

  Besides that, older people – family friends, acquaintances, spouses of your aunts and uncles, the man in the furniture store who comes from the same village as your father – were also given an aunt/uncle title, out of respect. And these ones had rules of their own. To a man, we’d say umou (derived from ummi), and to a woman we’d say khaltou (derived from khaltee).

  I loved the Arabic language because it was poetic and lyrical and not at all as scary as those homemade videos you’d see on the news made it out to be. After all, it was the language of the Quran, the language of my prayers. What not to like? My sentiments exactly. I was just thrown off by Menem’s response, you understand.

  “You speak Arabic fluently?”

  He looked surprised. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Of course. I read and write fluently too. Why? Didn’t you have to go to Saturday school too?” He grinned.

  “No reason. I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just curious because I’ve never really heard you say much in Arabic. And yes, we did have to go to Arabic school.”

  We just didn’t really learn anything, unless you count learning how best to shove your snobby cousin into a garbage bin without getting caught.

  “No problem. Wala himmik,” he said. He was telling me not to worry. I rather liked the way he said it and my stomach agreed with a tiny rumble.

  We recounted our Saturday school days: for me, two hours of Arabic and Quran lessons every weekend. The first teacher we had couldn’t speak any English. We were a bunch of brats. You can pretty much guess how well that panned out. Eventually the poor guy just packed up his chalk and duster and stalked out, vowing dramatically never to return. He kept his word. That was one of the few occasions we beat the system: our parents couldn’t administer disciplinary action because there were just too many of us. Power in numbers. So Sahar’s dad filled in until they could find another victim, which changed Saturday school dramatically because, as you know, he was a total fundy.

  Menem laughed in all the right places then explained he was the studious type when he was younger. “I know I don’t seem it, but I wanted to be better than Malek,” he recalled.

  “And are you better than him in Arabic?”

  “Yeah,” he laughed.

  “I am impressed,” I told him. “Very. That’s why I asked.”

  “Ask me anything you want,” he said.

  “Right,” I said. “Well, I’ve misplaced my list.”

  “Oh God, there’s a list.” Menem feigned feeling hot and suffocated, fiddling with his collar. He looked very nice, in tailored black trousers and a simple white shirt.

  “Well, yes. You know, questions, some of which are in multiple choice form,” I said, beginning to relax and have fun (but not too relaxed, and not too much fun). However, I’d go so far as to say that the ice had been well and truly smashed to pieces.

  “This means,” I continued, “that there is a best answer and quite possibly, no incorrect answers.”

  “Is there a high chance you’ll find this list anytime soon?” said Menem.

  “It’s okay, I have it memorised.”

  “How is the boredom cure coming along?” enquired Menem after we’d served the fruit.

  “Pardon?”

  “You were telling me at Zahra’s place that you’re bored and that you’re a hermit,” he said.

  “Well, I’ve been pretty busy, which solves the boredom problem. And there’s also Zahra’s wedding to think about.” And dream about it. And never stop hearing about.

  “She’s really got everyone on board with that, hasn’t she?” Menem laughed. “I love my brother, but if he puts me on the phone to her one more time without warning, I’ll hurt him and hide all the evidence,” said Menem, although without a hint of malice in his tone.

  “Why would he do that?” I said, crinkling my forehead.

  “She doesn’t want to ask him to do anything, so he tells her I don’t mind. And I don’t really. But there’s only so many deliveries and pick-ups I want to be doing in my off time,” explained Menem.

  “That’s very generous of you,” I observed.

  It hit me once again how placid and easygoing he was. I’d never seen him upset or angry. Truth be told, it was a little unnerving. Surely he had some hang-ups waiting in the wings? Did he ever brood? I wondered if he ever took offence to anything. Meanwhile, he managed all of that without being vanilla. Easygoing and baggage-less as he was, he was great company.

  “Well, from what I hear, she’s been making good use of you, too, and your car.”

  “Yes. Well, Zahra doesn’t have her own means of transportation so I help out where I can.”

  “I somehow get the feeling that you’re generous in most ways.” Then he
took me by surprise with an expression that made my heart go into freefall.

  I looked down, blushing a little, feeling suddenly overwhelmed then relieved when I saw Mum return from another visit to the kitchen. She was carrying a tray of chocolate biscuits and I realised I hadn’t met with her yet as per our usual procedure. I was desperate to know what she thought of Menem.

  When Mum went off again, I got up and collected the fruit plates to take them back to the kitchen. Mum was pouring peanuts from a massive jar into small glass bowls. These were our woggiest ones, straight from the West Bank warehouse, with bulging apples and strawberries all around the sides. She put them on a tray and took a Turkish coffee pot and matching cups and saucers from the cupboard.

  “Remember, if you’re not interested, just excuse yourself and leave,” said Mum in Arabic.

  “Okay, Mum,” I said, opening the pantry door and taking out the tea and sage jars.

  “He seems very nice. But don’t be too friendly,” she continued as she opened up the Turkish coffee bag.

  “Okay, Mum.” After a moment I dared to ask, “So you like him?”

  Mum assessed me momentarily as she spooned the coffee into the pot. “He seems like a nice boy,” she said, finally.

  An hour and a half, and a three-course light menu later, Menem and his parents got up to leave. Menem and I had spent the last half hour talking without interruption, all the while observing the rules of the Doorknock Appeal: polite, not overly friendly; interested but restrained. Basically, the lite version of our usual interactions when our parents weren’t around.

  “We’re having a barbecue tomorrow,” said Menem’s father in Arabic as we all stood up. “You have to come.”

  This was a highly unusual development. This being our first meeting, there was no way of knowing if (a) he was still interested after tonight (okay, I knew he was, but what about his parents?); (b) I was interested in Menem (okay, I knew I was, but what about my parents?).