Courting Samira

by Amal Awad

  I could see Cate glancing over every couple of minutes, trying to get a view and quite possibly listen in. She’d hound me later for details.

  “I can’t just apply for that, I don’t know enough,” I said as I scrolled through Gabriel’s invoices. “They’ll want someone who’s done a course, someone with an actual portfolio.”

  “You have done a course. You’ve been schooled by me. And I can put together your portfolio.”

  I was focused on my screen, but he said my name in rapid succession: “Samira, Samira, Samira”, so I looked up. Gabriel’s blue eyes were burning into mine and I gave him a conciliatory look.

  “Gabriel, it’s seriously not a big deal.”

  “Look, let’s just cut the crap for a second, okay? I really don’t know what your life is like outside of work. You seem pretty happy to me, generally speaking. Well, as happy as you can be working in this hellhole,” he said, with a cursory nod towards the rest of the office. “But I’m kind of amazed that you’re not even going to try. I mean, what the hell, Samira?”

  He looked genuinely frustrated as he yanked out a packet of cigarettes. I wasn’t sure how he had room for them because they were the tightest jeans I’d ever seen.

  “I’m not sure I’d be cut out for that,” I said.

  “Cut out for what?” He lit his cigarette and took a drag.

  “I don’t know what they might expect of me. There are a lot of things I can’t do.”

  Gabriel blew out some smoke. “Like?”

  “My parents might not like it. They’ll flip out if I have to take photos of inappropriate things. And I placed the ads so I know it might involve travel. They won’t like it,” I explained, my voice low.

  “Inappropriate? The magazines are for brides and parents. And what about your folks? How old are you?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Ah, hello? Catholic school parents,” he said, pointing at himself. “My dad still hasn’t forgiven me for not getting a ‘proper’ job.” Gabriel rolled his eyes and jabbed the pack of cigarettes back into his pocket.

  “Okay, fine. Look, I’ll think about it,” I told him, hoping to get him off my case.

  Gabriel continued puffing on his cigarette as he stared at me in astonishment and shook his head slowly.

  “You could make people fight to the death for these opportunities. You probably have a better chance than any of them, but you’re not even going to try.”

  I felt terrible when he put it that way. I was about to say so when it dawned on me that he was breaking building rules.

  “No smoking,” I whispered.

  “Later, girl.” He rolled his eyes and walked away.

  When I’d completed the invoices for Gabriel, who was nowhere to be seen, I placed them in an envelope, wrote his name in black texta on the front, then handed it in at reception.

  I was a little rattled by our chat, but I had a more significant task on my mind. So far all of my responses to Menem had been lame. I was completely lost for words and I saw no improvement in sight. I finally acknowledged that there was no clever way to respond, so I kept it simple.

  Subject: RE: Hi

  Hi Menem,

  Hope your day is going well. :) Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you, it’s been crazy here today. If you’re saying that you’d like to see me again, the answer from me is yes. :) I can think of nothing else I’d like more.

  Samira

  P.S: I kind of like you too.

  The postscript really was an afterthought and the only thing I reconsidered. Then my gut instinct told me to leave it, so I did.

  I didn’t even pretend to be occupied with work. I sat biting my nail, watching my inbox uneasily. I only had to wait two minutes before Menem’s name appeared.

  Subject: RE: Hi

  When can I come over? ;)

  If I had my way, he’d be over tonight, but that would be too soon, even in our Austen-like universe. That night, Mum came into my room and reported the “news”, and I pretended not to know anything. I simply said I wouldn’t mind seeing him again. Mum said okay with a shrug and that was that.

  By mid-week, we’d arranged a meeting for Friday night, and I couldn’t think about him without my internal organs doing somersaults.

  Because official interest had been declared, we were “free” to communicate now. Our parents weren’t going to sit in on every conversation or monitor our emails (well, had they known about the previous ones anyway). They would expect the courtship rules to be observed: propriety and all of that. But it was relatively guilt-free and, well, exciting.

  Even though I heard from him every day, phone calls and emails didn’t seem like enough. It was all I could think about and it was exhausting. I wanted to see him, more than for just a quick coffee break at Metcentre.

  To distract myself a little, I paid Sahar a visit after work on Thursday. She was baking, as usual, and I was helping her. I realised how much I missed her company and felt terrible for neglecting her.

  Today we were making strawberry chocolate muffins and the smell was as delicious as the final product promised to be.

  “Does he pray?” enquired Sahar, as she stirred some batter.

  “Um, I think so, but I have a feeling he’s not obsessive about it.” I didn’t look at her as I said it, focusing on the strawberries I was chopping up. “He’s not really strict,” I added reluctantly. It didn’t bother me the way it might Sahar.

  “Samira, maybe you shouldn’t think of him as being unreligious per se,” she said, unexpectedly. She stirred some batter and looked thoughtful.

  I looked up in surprise. Sahar shrugged. “Maybe he’s in your life because you’re supposed to help him. Why assume marrying someone more religious is the way to go for you?”

  “Well. I don’t know what I think,” I answered, not even sure what “more religious” meant and if it was necessarily a good thing. After all, doing more didn’t, on its own strength, make you a better Muslim let alone a better person.

  “Right,” said a bemused Sahar. “I’m just saying, Allah is the best of planners. You never know who might enter your life and why. Even if the method is not so good, the outcome is what’s most important.” She didn’t look me in the eye, but this was her way of telling me that Menem should have gone straight to my door from the moment he felt an interest in me.

  You have to appreciate that Sahar had always done things The Right Way. When she returned from a holiday in Jordan at the beginning of the year, she’d brought back with her gifts for everyone and a simple but shiny engagement ring on her right hand. It took all of one week for her to accept her fiancé’s proposal.

  One week. Imagine that. It could take me longer to decide on a pair of shoes. She talked to him from here on the telephone, they emailed each other and, judging by a few of the stories she’d told me, they already argued like a married couple.

  I pondered over it all for a moment. Maybe Sahar had a point about religiousness. I didn’t give it much thought nowadays, but I’d always felt I needed improvement when it came to nurturing my, erm, spirituality, let’s say. It followed, naturally, that were I to marry, I’d need a husband who could assist with said nurturing. It’s a sorry situation when I’m the one providing the guidance, I can tell you. In fact, I was about to tell Sahar this when she stopped me short with her next remark.

  “If you were to marry Hakeem, he would be the guide, true.”

  “Heh? Who said anything about Hakeem?”

  “Sorry,” said Sahar. “You didn’t say anything about him, but I was just comparing him to this other man.” Sahar took the bowl of sliced strawberries and tossed them neatly into the batter. She stirred the mixture around then began pouring dollops into the cupcake tray in precise, even amounts. She was so casual, not at all behaving as though she’d just gone Harlequin on me.

  I nodded in bewilderment. “Don’t you start now,” I warned.

  “I won’t,” she said, shaking her head. “But
just so you know, it is possible to be conflicted over men.”

  “Sahar, do you have a secret stash of romance novels I should know about?”

  She smiled shyly. “Just because I’m, well, you know, quiet, doesn’t mean I don’t know about these things.”

  “I didn’t mean-.”

  “I know. Anyway, my point is, who knows what’s right for you? Maybe it’s Menem, maybe it’s Hakeem. Maybe the guy down the street is. Have you done istikhara?” she asked, seriously.

  She was talking about the Islamic prayer for guidance, a special prayer to offer when making an important decision because it was, in essence, truly leaving it up to Allah. Of course, if you were Lara, you did istikhara before going shopping.

  “The guy down the street is missing two teeth,” I said.

  I wondered if everyone had secretly met behind my back at some stage to discuss my love life, and previous lack thereof. Did they have Masonic-type meetings, with special robes and a secret password? With everyone who knew me present, including Marcus! There would of course be an agenda and first on the list would be “The Hakeem Question”.

  While Hakeem was annoying me with the overly protective vibe, I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for him now. Everyone presumed to know what he was thinking and feeling. We were practically Tristan and Isolde by now. Quite simply, Hakeem didn’t display the telltale signs of a man in love or even interested. He displayed random ones that confused me to no end. But they weren’t indicative of much in my opinion.

  “Have you been talking to Lara?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “She’s around more often since she lost her job. She’s actually been very helpful with orders. Never knew she had such an eye for colours. She’s still a little easily distracted though. Anyway. I stand by what I said. Allah knows best. You can’t do any better than that.”

  Sahar nudged me aside then opened the oven door. She placed the tray inside then wiped her hands on a tea towel.

  “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, by the way,” said Sahar. She grabbed a notebook from the counter and began scribbling something down on a sheet of paper.

  “Credit for what?”

  “For who you are. If anyone can make a go of things without a boy, it’s you. Maybe something more worthwhile is around the corner. Have you ever really given yourself a chance?”

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “No,” she said with a laugh. She placed the notebook on the kitchen bench and crossed her arms, turning to face me. Then she launched into a memory of the Barbie games we used to play when we were kids and how I kept changing career. I’d have thought it made me a little indecisive and flighty, but apparently not.

  “Hon, it showed an incredible desire to experience life and achieve great things,” concluded Sahar. “What happened?”

  Bloody hell, I thought. I grew up.

  As I walked home, I thought about my conversation with Sahar. I hadn’t been expecting it to go along those lines. She’d given me good advice, but I was a little taken aback by what she said about me and my life direction. I wasn’t a desperado, trying to get married for the sake of it. At least, that was never the point. I knew what I was hoping for, and it was a connection.

  That and I’d never been kissed. I really wanted to see what the big deal was with that, what exactly was involved. Did the man lead? Did he hold her face between his hands, deepening the kiss, hands twisted in the woman’s hair?

  And that was just for starters.

  It was as basic as wanting to experience something adolescents took for granted. Unfortunately for me, it came with a whole set of rules.

  Marriage, no matter how easily it could be undertaken by adults, was always a big deal, a life-shaper. I only knew being single, I had no idea about relationships or intimacy, and it was an experience for which I was kind of yearning.

  The mention of Hakeem also took me by surprise. I hadn’t spoken to him following our last awkward conversation, during which I had, admittedly, challenged him to explain his strange behaviour towards me. I still didn’t think he was jealous. I felt he was just brooding and sullen, as per usual.

  Worse though, Lara and I hadn’t spoken either. Both absences sat somewhat heavily on me, but I was sort of caught up in everything else happening in my life.

  And my life was becoming Menem-centric, but not in a pathetic way. I just wanted to know everything about him. Our first few conversations we talked about religion (of course), politics and history. We played the “If you could go back to any era, what would it be?” game. When I couldn’t decide after half an hour, Menem said, “It’s just a game. There’s no right or wrong!”

  I still couldn’t decide.

  Meanwhile, I shared my substantial collection of knock-knock jokes with him, all via SMS or email.

  “Knock knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “May.”

  “May who?”

  “May I just come in and then I’ll tell you!”

  Although he feigned queasiness, I knew that deep down Menem enjoyed my knock-knock jokes.

  In addition, I spent generous portions of my workday thinking about him. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a reason to daydream about anything but sleeping in so I was bingeing on it these days. One minute I’d be sending off quarterly reports to executives, the next my mind would be on Menem and I, married (it was all very proper), riding horses on an exotic beach somewhere. My headscarf would billow dramatically as we thundered (none of this galloping business) down the sand.

  But shortly thereafter, the daydream would crumble. Reality would wearily tap me on the shoulder and politely remind me that I’d never been on a horse before. And since I couldn’t recall a time when my headscarf had billowed dramatically (unless you count driving along the motorway with the windows down, which I don’t), in my little daydream my scarf would always end up on my face, blinding me. This would then cause me to fall unceremoniously off my horse while Menem continued along the beach all dashing and heroic.

  When he came over on Friday, I spent two hours trying to find the right outfit. I finally settled on jeans, a white gypsy top and a light green scarf.

  Mum and Dad left us alone in the sitting room but we sat on separate sofas. We were still close to each other though.

  “You’re the only girl in your family. You must’ve been spoilt,” he observed halfway through the evening.

  We were happily chatting away over chocolate biscuits and tea, made by yours truly (the tea not the biscuits). Not even sure how the conversation came to that. All I knew was that I was affronted.

  “Indeed I was not!” I actually did say ‘indeed’. Can’t say why exactly.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure I believe you,” said Menem.

  Then a round of hmmphing on my part. Then Menem said something about spoilt girls being high maintenance. All the while, he sat drinking his tea, completely nonchalant.

  The nerve. But I forgave him when he assured me that he was only joking. That and he gave me a box of Lindt.

  I studied his face, taking in the angles and lines of his cheekbones, his nose, his mouth. I noted the stubble on his face, the beginnings of a beard.

  I thought of Gabriel and how he once told me that in portraits, there’s always a characteristic that becomes the focus of the shot. With Menem it would be his nose and cheekbones – he had such an elegant face. Hakeem would be all about the intensity of his eyes. Lara projected bubbliness – she was all about the smile.

  There was something about Menem though, about that moment when he pulled out the box of chocolates and handed it to me. I thought about just how much I liked him already. I wanted so much to reach over and touch his cheek, to hold his hand. I found myself wishing he would offer it to me, all the while knowing I’d completely freak out if he did.

  I felt, for the first time in my life, the desire to be with the man sitting in front of me. And as God is my witness, it had nothing to do with the c
hocolates.

  27

  The next week whizzed by in a circus of emails and phone calls. Menem had come over on Sunday with his family, then booked in another visit for Wednesday. Even though he was coming to our house, I still felt the need to check that my parents wouldn’t mind. I realised how deeply embedded the guilt was; I was feeling it even when we were openly ‘courting’.

  So I asked Dad, but received a surprising response from him.

  “Of course, Samira! Why do you ask like a child? You’re a mature girl!”

  I tell you.

  But I gave Menem advanced warning that I’d be spending Friday night with Lara, who had called me early in the week to set up a date. I’d apologised to him for her behaviour already, of course. He assured me that he didn’t take offence. Something about me being the one he’s interested in, can’t remember exactly. Then he poked me on Facebook. All I could think was thank God Hakeem couldn’t see that because I’d never hear the end of it.

  Just as I’d finished composing an email to Menem with the beginnings of a knock-knock joke at the end, there was an actual knock at my door.

  “Come in.”

  Lara peered hesitantly through the doorway. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hey.”

  Lara entered and closed the door behind her. She attempted a smile, looking a bit tired and nervous and not at all her usual bubbly self.

  “We need to talk,” she said, her hands in her jeans pockets.

  I concurred with a nod. She sat down on the bed, flipped off her thongs then rested her legs sideways.

  “I owe you an apology. I was being a bitch. And you’re mature and ugly enough to take care of yourself,” she said with a half-smile.

  “Cow,” I replied.