by Amal Awad
So I was quite surprised they were asking us along before we knew where this was heading, particularly given tomorrow would be the day the obligatory follow-up call would come.
Dad politely refused, one hand outstretched, the other on his chest.
Of course. We’re Arab. This was only part one of the invitation. First comes the initial request, which is politely refused. Then comes the entreaty that we “must come” because they won’t take no for an answer. This is met with a response of humble offence. “Of course we’d love to come but really we have so much to do tomorrow!” Then the third and final demand (no longer an invitation) is put forth, at which point my father will concede defeat and agree to attend the barbecue.
“Bring any friends you want, Samira,” said Menem’s mother with genuine warmth in her voice.
“Inshallah,” I replied, excitement working its way up to my throat. I had to stop myself from smiling like an idiot, which was just so hard at that moment. I settled for a polite, friendly smile, even though it seemed inadequate.
We followed them outside (a totally new experience for me at a doorknock) and waved them away, much like, I felt, the Bennett sisters as they farewelled the soldiers from Meriton in Pride and Prejudice.
When they finally left, I went straight to my room and called Lara.
25
While I had several weighty objections to barbecues in the park, this one was different. Menem would be there and after last night, I was looking forward to seeing him again.
I’d been unable to sleep properly and just the thought of where this could be heading was keeping me in a semi-permanent state of anxiety – and not in a completely unpleasant way. I realised that, this time, the outcome mattered to me. He wasn’t just another doorknock to file away as a cautionary tale.
Lara had agreed to come along after much cajoling and several “You owe me’s”, although I wasn’t entirely sure there was any point in that since trying to keep track of the “favours” Lara asked of me would be as easy as counting the grains of sand at Bondi, or any beach for that matter.
But I needed Lara to meet Menem properly. I was sure that if she saw him, she’d change her tune. More importantly, she’d stop petitioning for Hakeem, who’d never asked to have his name put on the ballot paper in the first place.
When I picked her up, I could tell she wasn’t in the best mood. But I decided to put it down to the fact that we were going to a BBQ in the park and not doing something glamorous like going out on a sailboat. We didn’t say much as we drove to Centennial Park. It took ten minutes to find a suitable parking spot, then another ten to find my family. When we finally located them, I couldn’t see Menem with them. I was fairly sure he was coming.
Oh gosh, what if he wasn’t coming? Wouldn’t that just be fantastically embarrassing?
Lara and I made our obligatory greetings, went through the awkward introductions – singledom radars going off and the like – then dumped our things on the rug. I told my parents that we were going for a walk and would be back to assist shortly.
We walked off in the direction of the duck pond so that our departure wouldn’t seem suspicious. As we neared the water, I spotted Menem in the distance.
“There he is,” I said to Lara, motioning discreetly with my head.
He was getting closer, a cooler in each hand. There was no missing him, but Lara practically yelled, “Which one?”
“Be quiet!”
“What?” she said, lowering her voice. “I’m just asking-.”
“He’s right there! The tallish one with the blondish hair.”
Lara finally zoned in on Menem.
“Ah, the wimpish one. Okay.” She pouted.
“Lara,” I pleaded.
She sighed. “Okay, sorry.”
“So. What do you think?” I said, anxiously.
Lara hooked an eyebrow, which I couldn’t help noticing made her look rather exotic and mysterious.
“Well, he doesn’t look Arab, does he,” she said, although it was hard to tell if Lara saw it as a good or a bad thing. She hooked the other eyebrow and pursed her mouth. Still looked fab.
“Fine,” she finally said with a sigh. “He looks relatively normal and well-adjusted.”
Sigh of relief.
“Which is of course only more reason to be suspicious,” she added.
I gave her a look and she attempted a smile.
“Hey!” said Menem, as he finally reached us.
“Hey,” I replied. I gave him a simple, polite, librarian smile in the hope it would subdue the excitement coming from the abdominal region. Lara pursed her lips again and also greeted him.
“So this is the famous Lara I’ve heard so much about?” said Menem.
He was being so nice but I felt sorry for him because it was obvious that Lara was already freezing him out.
“Yes,” I replied. I kicked Lara in the ankle.
Lara fake-smiled. “Yes, I’m her cousin. I know everything there is to know about Samira and I look after her and make sure she doesn’t do anything silly,” she told him.
Her response alarmed me. I felt as though I’d been sucker-punched. Not that I’d ever been sucker-punched. But I’d always thought it was something you’d know the sensation of, despite never experiencing it. Do you know what I mean? The same way I can tell what something will taste like just by its scent.
Anyway, back to the awkwardness. I smiled uneasily, a humiliating blush spreading across my face.
“Right,” said Menem uncomfortably. “That’s good to know. Although I’m sure Samira can take care of herself.”
“You’d think so. But you’d be surprised at how innocent she can be. Honestly, she’s always on the phone to me needing advice,” continued Lara. “Like, how many times, Samira, have you called me because some guy’s asked you out on a date? She can’t even lie to them, she just says she doesn’t date.”
Menem nodded slowly, a bewildered expression on his face.
“Right,” he repeated. “Well, like I said, I think Samira is smart enough to know what’s best for her. And I think it’s good that she’s always honest.”
I smiled appreciatively at Menem, deciding I needed to put a stop to the discomfort without delay. I told him we were needed elsewhere.
“Tabouli emergency,” I joked lamely.
Menem laughed. “Okay, I’ll speak to you soon,” he said, looking at me meaningfully.
“Right,” I said, smiling at him. I felt a tickle of excitement. A frisson, if you will. He was just so dashing and lovely and comforting to be around.
Menem acknowledged Lara and said goodbye before making his way to our group. I turned to Lara, disappointment in every feature.
“What?” said Lara in a bored tone.
“What the hell was that? You look after me and make sure I don’t do anything silly? I’m always on the phone to you? I’m a total moron when it comes to guys?”
Lara rolled her eyes. “Samira, it’s not like that.”
“Oh my God. Lara. I can’t believe what just happened.”
“Chill, Samira. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” I fumed. “You don’t even know the guy and you’ve already deemed him unworthy. Worse, you can’t just keep it to yourself. Not only are you rude to him, but humiliate me at the same time!”
Mad. Furious. Utter shock. I hadn’t anticipated such an introduction. Not even in my wildest dreams (which granted were usually more related to things like trips to Paris and doing aid work in Sudan, etc). Anyway!
Lara obviously realised I was truly upset because she went from careless to contrite in a matter of seconds. “No,” she said. “It’s not like that, Samira. I’m so sorry! I wasn’t trying to humiliate you!”
“I would have expected that from Zahra!” I said, struggling to get the words out. I felt like crying. I felt so embarrassed.
“I’m used to her bitchiness. The one person I never dreamed would do it is you.”
“I’m so sorry, Samira,” said Lara. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it that way.” She did seem upset, but I couldn’t help the uncharitable feeling that she was the thief sorry to have been caught, not at all remorseful for the crime committed.
“You know what? I don’t even care,” I said, waving her away.
I was not going to cry, even though my throat was a bit lumpy and my voice was getting thick.
“Samira, wait,” said Lara, looking a bit panicked.
“I can’t talk about this right now.”
I honestly couldn’t. There was that threat of crying, but I’d probably also say something I didn’t mean, and a mountain would be made out of a fairly substantial molehill.
“Crap,” said Lara. She stomped her foot once in frustration. “Look, we’ll talk later, okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. Then I walked off without looking back.
At the end of the day, Lara left with my parents. Mum raised an eyebrow, clearly suspicious, but we explained that I needed to make a couple of stops on the way home and Lara didn’t want to tag along.
I did feel a nudge of guilt as I watched her leave. Particularly as I knew, while she didn’t, that Dad would be telling her his post-September 11 stories on the way home, as he always did after leaving barbecues at the park (exact reasons unknown).
But the thing is, Lara and I were sort of, disturbingly, fighting. We never fought about serious things. Or maybe we argued, but as sisters do. In the same breath Lara could call me a cow then tell me she loves me. This was different.
At home, I helped Mum put everything away, before taking a shower then praying the last one for the day. After that I went online to email Menem so that I could apologise for Lara’s behaviour. I also logged on to Facebook in case he was around. He wasn’t.
Before I could even begin the email, Hakeem messaged me.
Hakeem: Sorry to disturb you.
Samira: I’m already disturbed. What’s up?
Hakeem: Lara sent me an email. She seemed upset.
Samira: How so?
Hakeem: Well, there were a lot of %^%*&%&*, something about death to family BBQs and I think she mentioned a wimpy brother.
Oh gawd. Wasn’t Lara venting to Hakeem on a par with conspiring with the enemy? Surely this was breaking some sort of code. Then again, she didn’t say anything explicit so perhaps it didn’t count. I wasn’t quite up to scratch on the sisterhood rules. Nevertheless, about then I was feeling a little like a school child being sent to the principal’s office.
Samira: OK.
Hakeem: What’s going on?
Samira: Nothing. She’s obviously upset about something. I don’t know what.
Hakeem: Look, I wouldn’t interfere, but Lara emailing me is a cry for help so it must be dire. I’m not sure what she’s trying to tell me is all. So any ideas what that’s all about?
I stared blankly at the screen in disbelief. I was sure that once upon a time my life held no excitement and intrigue. Nowadays it had more drama than a Spanish soap opera. Well, minus the skimpy outfits and the bitch-slaps.
Hakeem: Samira?
Samira: Sorry. I don’t know what to tell you.
Hakeem: OK. Obviously it’s none of my business, but I’m guessing her state has something to do with you. Am I warm?
Oh, bloody hell.
Samira: Yes. We had a fight.
Hakeem: You and Lara had a fight?
Samira: Yes. Not just an ordinary one. This was a proper fight.
Hakeem: About what?
I paused. I had no idea what to tell him. Or rather, how much to tell him.
Hakeem: Samira? If you don’t want to talk, just tell me.
Samira: We had a fight about a boy.
There was a pause.
Hakeem: OK. A boy?
Samira: Menem. Zahra’s fiancé’s brother. He came for a visit.
Hakeem: I see.
Samira: Yeah, so anyway, she doesn’t like him, so she was rude and made some humiliating remarks about me.
It must have been a full minute before he messaged me again, enough time for my face to heat up and for me to think about Spanish soap operas again.
Hakeem: I’m sure Lara didn’t mean to humiliate you.
Samira: It doesn’t matter. Look, I don’t want to say anything bad about her. She’s my best friend and you’re a boy.
Hakeem: Right. Well, you should fix things with her.
Samira: Inshallah I will.
More cyber silence.
Hakeem: So he came for a visit then?
Samira: Yes. Last night.
Hakeem: So things are getting serious?
Samira: I guess so. Maybe. I think.
Hakeem: OK. Be careful.
Samira: Yes, thank you. I’ll be sure to enrol in a “relationships for dummies” course.
Hakeem: Samira…
Samira: What is wrong with everyone? What do you want from me?
Hakeem: What are you talking about?
Samira: I finally meet a decent guy and everyone is acting like he’s an ex-con or something. Why? Am I missing something here?
Hakeem: Well, I don’t know how “everyone” is acting, but I care for you, so I am just telling you what I would tell you no matter who the guy is.
Samira: Sure OK. Well thanks.
Hakeem: What have I said wrong here?
Samira: Hakeem, please.
Hakeem: I’m sorry you’re feeling frustrated.
Samira: Why are you always so formal?
Hakeem: What do you want me to say?
Samira: Nothing.
Hakeem: You want me to say nothing?
Samira: What do you want from me?
Hakeem: I don’t want anything from you, I just want things for you.
Samira: Why?
Hakeem: Is that even a question?
Samira: Yes. Why are we having this conversation? Would you say this to Lara?
Hakeem: You seem upset, so I think I should go. I’m sorry for upsetting you.
Samira: You’re not upsetting me!
Hakeem: OK.
Samira: Sorry.
Hakeem: Lara is worried about you. She knows you deserve the best. She can’t hide her feelings well is all. Just give her time.
Samira: OK.
Hakeem: All right. Take care.
Samira: You too.
Hakeem: Sorry again.
Samira: You don’t have to apologise for anything.
Hakeem: OK, inshallah. Salam.
I couldn’t deal with the email now; the apology to Menem would have to wait. I disconnected and crawled into bed and shut my eyes extra tight. It took ages for me to fall asleep.
26
The next day I received an email from Menem, just as I was torturing myself with thoughts as to why I hadn’t heard anything.
Yes, we’d gone along to the barbecue (very good), but my parents hadn’t cornered me for the post-doorknock discussion we always had whenever a suitor wanted to take things a step further. Not a single word. They’d acted like attending the barbecue was the most natural thing in the world, which annoyed me to no end.
When Menem’s email finally arrived, I could barely breathe. I felt sick. The nerves skidded in, frantic they might have missed something. (“You haven’t read the email yet, have you? Wait for us!” they panted.)
I finally found the courage to open the message, even though my breathing was still erratic and I felt flushed.
Subject: Hi
Hi Samira,
How’s your morning going? Hope you’re well. :) Look, I'm just going to get into it straight away. I’m probably breaking a million “rules” by writing to you after the “visit”, but I haven’t stopped thinking about you.
Just so you know, I’ve asked my mum to call your mum. But I didn’t want you to hear about it all from your parents. Am I wrong? I hope not.
I guess I could tell you all of this to your face, but I know you’re not always comfortable when we meet. So I wan
t to make this easier on you (and ok, I won’t lie, this isn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done).
I really like you. You’re constantly on my mind. If you have any doubts about how I’m feeling after my visit, you can put them to rest.
The question is – and this is where it gets really hard for me – how do you feel about all of this?
I know it’s a lot to take in. But if you can reply soon, I’ll be able to breathe again.
Menem
P.S: No pressure.
I really should reply to that, I thought. You know, once I can breathe again.
I was probably on version 41 when Gabriel dropped by my desk in his usual uniform, a camera bag slung over his shoulder. We exchanged some pleasantries and then he handed me a list of back invoices of which he needed copies.
“Bloody accountants,” was all he mumbled. He leaned against the partition and glanced around the office.
As I began searching for the financials server on my computer, he turned around and slouched over the wall of my cubicle. He mentioned the cadetships, asking if I had applied for one yet. Competition for them is always strong so I needed to take advantage of my current position, he explained. I told him Jeff recommended me.
“Great, if you need me for a reference too, let me know,” Gabriel said. He fiddled with a Homer Simpson bobble head on top of the partition, which Marcus had put there ages ago.
“It’s a journalist position,” I said, biting my lip.
“What? Journalist?” said Gabriel, looking supremely confused.
I stared at the screen, still clicking through various menus. Gabriel straightened up and brushed a hand through his messy hair.
“What’s this bullshit about journalism? The photography cadetship is right there,” he said. Gabriel now looked very annoyed with me, but he didn’t raise his voice.