by Amal Awad
I saw how he looked at me too, but it didn’t tell me much.
“No, it’s not like that,” I said, completely flustered.
Amazing. Hakeem barely ever made eye contact with me, such was his piety and respect. Of course, the one time he does, Menem sees it and blows it all out of proportion.
Menem studied me for a moment. “Modest to the end.”
There was another moment of awkward silence. I was shuffling my feet, biting my lip, unable to sit still.
“Samira, if you don’t want this, I’m not going to push you,” said Menem.
“What? Why are you saying this?”
“Because I don’t think I’m what you want,” he said, angrily.
“How would you know that?”
“I would marry you tomorrow if I could,” he pointed out. “Can you say the same for me?”
“I’m not you. This doesn’t come so easily to me. And forgive me if I don’t really want to say yes to you via an email.”
Menem shuffled about a bit, clearly uncomfortable at my dig about his message. Placing his hands on his lap, he took a deep breath before turning back to me.
“Do you just need more time?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I’m afraid.”
“What are you afraid of? I know I don’t deserve you-.”
“Please don’t ever say that. That’s not it at all. You’re a wonderful man. You really are. I’m the messed up one here.”
Positively and categorically screwed up. I considered projecting but I’d be spoilt for choice on who and what to blame. I wasn’t going to bother with any self-analysis and soul-searching just now.
Menem shook his head. “You’re not messed up,” he said, more gently this time. “You obviously just know what you want.”
“No, that’s just it, I don’t.”
I really didn’t. I thought I did. But I’d gotten so used to dud doorknockers, it never occurred to me to actually prepare for what could follow. I suppose I’d always expected it would come naturally to me. I suppose I’d always thought marriage was a given.
I had no chance of a normal relationship when the options were marriage or being alone, and nothing in-between.
Menem stared at the ground now, his hands together between his knees.
“Samira, I told you, if you don’t want this, I’m not going to pressure you,” he said, resignation in every syllable.
I wanted to say, “No! I do want this!” But I couldn’t get the words out. Instead, I said, “Please just forget whatever it is you’re thinking about my doubt. It has nothing to do with you, and there is no one else I’m considering.”
He looked at me unhappily.
“I understand,” he said, in a tone that suggested he didn’t understand at all.
“I know we don’t know each other that well. But I’ve fallen for you, completely. I would take care of you,” he added, quietly. “I don’t want to drag this on. We both know it’s better to move things along.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, a little mortified. It was all slipping through my fingers and here I was frozen, unable to stop it.
“Don’t be. It’s fine,” said Menem, getting up. He buttoned a hole on his jacket and looked around him. “Look, I have to get back.”
“Wait, Menem, don’t go. Please, don’t leave like this.”
“Samira, you know how much I care about you. But you’re making this really difficult for me.”
I shook my head, ready to defend myself but I had nothing to say. I barely registered a few tears brimming in my eyes.
“I knew you had some hang ups,” he said, “but, what the hell happened to the girl I met on that ridiculous team building day?”
He turned to face me, and I looked up at him.
“You were different. You were feisty,” he emphasised.
Ouch. I was feeling empowered that day, I thought huffily.
“I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love being with you. But you seem like another person sometimes.”
My face was burning. What, now I had two personalities? Well, I’m glad I was finding this out now. I wouldn’t want to marry someone who felt like he was getting two for the price of one.
Now I refused to look at him, instead directing my attention to a couple of pigeons pecking about on the grass, inspecting the remains of someone’s lunch.
“I’m not saying you have two personalities,” said Menem, reading my bloody mind again, just as he did that first time I met him (apparently as Samira version 1.0).
“What are you saying then, Menem?”
“I feel like the girl I met at team building is you. But when you’re around others, my God your family, they’re like-.”
“Hey!”
He backed off, but not without shaking his head once in frustration.
“I had a fight with my best friend because of you,” I said, feeling a little peeved. “She was rude to you and we didn’t speak for over a week! I have never done that in my life.”
I wondered what the hell had happened to everyone. Were they all clones I was dealing with? The real versions were lapping it up on a secret island somewhere? Nothing seemed to fit anymore. Honestly, I didn’t even recognise my life just then.
I fidgeted uncomfortably on the bench, wishing I was anywhere but on this grotty old seat.
“Samira, can’t you see what I’m saying?”
“No, I can’t.” I crossed my arms against my chest and leaned back against the bench, abandoning the pigeons that were warring over some mashed up hot chips.
“The constant demands, the way your mum watches every move you make. Let’s not forget the running,” he said.
“What are you on about?” I rolled my eyes.
“Weren’t you like a champion runner? I saw the trophies in your house.”
“I was in primary school. It was ages ago.”
“You downplay it, but I know you were good and something made you stop.”
“Does it look like I can be a runner, Menem?” I lifted the edge of my headscarf. “What do you think?”
“Oh, whatever. That’s just an excuse.” He went off and paced around a bit, hands jammed into his trouser pockets. His sweet face was overtaken by angry lines and I didn’t like it one bit. I hated seeing him this way. For as long as I’d known Menem, he’d been a soothing presence, and it was hard to imagine any negative energy around him.
“You know what, I think I have to leave now,” I finally said, amazed at how badly the conversation was going.
“What do you want, Samira?”
“What kind of question is that?”
I stared at him wearily, sizing him up as though he was a dodgy cop nosing about my affairs.
“A really simple one. What do you want? Imagine you can have anything in the world right now, anything. What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”
I’d no idea what my expression was but Menem nodded and smiled.
“Got it.”
I shook my head, but I didn’t say anything because, quite simply, I had no answer.
“What is your problem with hijab anyway?” I said, surprising myself.
“Excuse me?”
“You just dismiss the running thing like it’s not a big deal, but it’s not that simple,” I continued bravely.
“Wait a second, don’t even go there. Your hijab is about you, not me. Why are you even mentioning it?”
“Because I think it bothers you,” I replied.
“Why would it bother me?”
“You asked me if I’d ever thought about taking it off, and-.”
“It was just a question,” Menem said in frustration.
“Why would you even ask that?”
“Curiosity, Samira. That’s all. Obviously I have no idea what it’s like to be in your position.”
“But-.”
“But nothing. You know I think you’re beautiful, you could be wearing a sack and I’d feel the same,” he said. “But I don’t think hijab is the be a
ll and end all and I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to wear it. I’m Muslim too, remember? I have nothing against it. If I didn’t like you the way you are, I wouldn’t be putting myself through all of this.”
He shook his head in disbelief. I could see he was calculating the monumental mistake he’d made in showing interest in me, and I wondered at my own ability to make the situation deteriorate even further.
A moment later, he said, “I really have to get going.”
A little dazed, I stood up and faced him, my arms once again positioned across my chest. I could have told him I was sorry for underestimating him, but the words wouldn’t come.
We said nothing. He walked me back to my building then politely farewelled me. A huge part of me really didn’t want him to leave, but I watched him go.
Thankfully, the next few days at work positively sped by. I had two location shoots, one with Gabriel, who didn’t seem terribly pleased with me either.
I didn’t care. I was busy, and pressure equalled distraction. If it was a slow week, I’d be thinking and worrying about Zahra’s wedding on Saturday. And that small matter of my own possible engagement to Menem. Not forgetting Hakeem’s role on this whole sorry affair.
Naturally, a few random thoughts crept in here and there, even when I had a temperamental model to deal with, unexpected humidity and showers, and a busload of Japanese tourists smack bang in the middle of a location at Rose Bay Wharf.
But yes, distractions helped. As did caffeine and sugar. I was better at getting my prayers done, too, which was also something positive to come out of it.
On Thursday morning, Jeff appeared at my desk. I’d already given him his coffee, but he clearly had something on his mind.
“Samina.”
“Yes, Jeff?” I replied looking up from correspondence I was sorting through.
“I spoke to Jan Ridley today.”
I knew this name was supposed to mean something to me. It didn’t sound at all familiar, but I had that sense that it should have. You know that feeling? When you’ve completely missed something, but you only realise it when it’s too late?
“Okay?” I responded weakly.
“Samina,” sighed Jeff. “Jan Ridley is editor of Childhood magazine. Remember? Do you recall that tiny little matter I brought to your attention the other day? Something about a cadetship? Do you remember that little tidbit about your future?”
Yes, I recalled a conversation with my boss during which he told me to apply for another job. I even recalled that he went so far as to say he’d recommend me for the position.
“Of course!” I managed. That Jan Ridley. “I’m to have an interview with her next week.” I was also expected to write a pitch for a feature article and send it to her this week. Crap. Yes, now I remembered Jan Ridley. Her email was sitting right there in my inbox, between an email from Lara (a YouTube clip) and an email from Menem (pre-crisis).
“Sorry, Jeff. My interview is actually next Friday at 10 am,” I informed him with a smile.
“Jolly good. Samina, do not lose sight.” He offered me a profound look then nodded. I offered a sage nod in return thinking I had no inkling of what to pitch for an article on children, particularly when I didn’t have any myself.
31
Saturday, the 22nd of November, the day of my cousin Zahra’s wedding, finally arrived with a generous amount of fanfare. The sun burst out, ready for summer and a nice breeze accompanied it. Despite the great excitement, it was an atmosphere of calm. I was rather pleasantly surprised at my own serenity. No more stress to be found here, thank you very much.
Very well, perhaps a few remnants. I should have been energised about the day ahead, but I was dreading it because Menem would be there and things would be uneasy between us. And, well, Hakeem would be there and things would be uneasy between us.
Lara and I were assembled at Zahra’s place, waiting for Malek to arrive and for the hire cars to collect us.
I’d totally forgotten that we’d have to trail along while Zahra and Malek had their wedding photos taken, incidentally, by a photographer that I, anointed wedding expert, recommended. (Just saying.)
And then followed the terrible realisation that I’d have to be in some of the photos, which I absolutely did not sign up for. I was hoping that Zahra would be so self-absorbed and so deeply ‘Zahra’ that Lara and I would barely get a nod.
By three in the afternoon, we were all ready to go. Lara and I were dressed in our lovely bridesmaid gowns, frilly and fabulous all round. Lara’s hair was curled, hanging loosely but for a tiny bun at the back. I had my headscarf pinned up elegantly, a diamante pin just above my right ear. Once again, I opted for a smaller scarf so that the top of the dress, with its intricate beading would be visible.
The bridesmaid dress itself was actually quite flattering and not too tight. I felt so girly and feminine in it and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had an occasion to really dress up. I even had to stop myself from twirling, mainly because there were too many people around and I might have looked like an idiot.
I found Zahra sitting alone in her bedroom, just as I had on the night of her layleeya. Once again, she had her hands at her sides and her eyes shut tight. She looked tiny in the voluminous dress, which she had spread all about her, covering three-quarters of the bed.
“You okay?” I asked her. I carefully repositioned a section of Zahra’s skirt and took a seat beside her.
She nodded and took a deep breath. Perhaps this was her calming-down ritual. Maybe this is what lawyers did before their court appearances and meetings with major clients. I’d no idea, but I realised that she needed some reassurance and was hoping I could provide some (unofficial counsellor and all).
“It’ll be just fine once you’re at the reception,” I told her. Of course, I had no idea if that was true, but what else was I supposed to tell her? She was clearly sick with nerves. Now, to me, it seemed like the hard part was over. After all, they were married already, and they seemed to have worked things out after the selfish episode the other week. But what did I know? If Zahra’s current composure was anything to go by, marriage was an ordeal.
“You look really beautiful, Samira,” said Zahra with a brief smile.
“Thanks,” I said, surprised. “You look amazing.”
She really did. And if I did, it was only because of the dress. It was all the dress. It had magical, transformative powers. I went from plain, old Samira to classy, elegant Samira. Or something along those lines. Not forgetting the shoes, of course – gorgeous strappy heels.
“It’s difficult, you know,” said Zahra.
“What is?”
“Being married. I mean, I know I don’t live with Malek yet. But just being in a couple is hard. It’s not just you anymore.”
“I can imagine.” And well, that’s all I could do really. I didn’t think my limited experience with the opposite sex would serve as any sort of preparation for marriage if it ever crept into the picture. I didn’t even know enough about Menem yet to give me a better idea of what faults may make a surprise appearance later, should I be around to find out. For the last few weeks we’d been in the early stages where we were both “perfect”. An idea I despatched with pretty quickly.
Zahra, looking a bit sad and pale, seemed on the verge of saying something. She hesitated, then finally said, “It’s not easy having someone tell you what to do.”
“Who’s telling you what to do?” I said. And hello, we’re Arab! If it’s not our parents telling us what to do, it’s an older sibling, or an uncle or an aunt, or a cousin, or, well, you understand me. Nothing new there was my point. We all bossed each other around. But it was okay because we loved each other.
“I’m not used to it,” said Zahra.
Another person’s opinion? Being wrong? Compromise? All of the above?
“Malek is very protective,” she said, slowly. So slowly in fact that she seemed to be regretting the words the moment she uttered them. Her face
turned a little red.
“Well, protective can be good, right?” I said. “You don’t want a husband who doesn’t care about you and what you do.”
Obviously. God, but I was such an idiot at times. And the prize for Understatement of the Year goes to! [Envelope, please, drum roll, tense silence] Samira Abdel-Aziz! (But you have to imagine one of those fancy Hollywood actors saying it).
But wait, let’s just back up. Let’s back the hell up. Reading between the very tight lines, Zahra seemed to be suggesting that she had to answer to Malek. A lot. Granted, it would be an adjustment for Zahra to listen to anyone. But I could sense there was more to it, and I was worried.
Oh God, what do I say? Was this one of those “You don’t have to go through this if you don’t want to” moments? That always happened in the movies. Down with the cost of the wedding! Damn the humiliation! Marriage is life-changing, after all. It’s helpful to get it right.
Well, I wasn’t going to say it like that. I opted for, “Are you sure everything is all right?” Hang the expense, I would have added, but since I wasn’t paying for the wedding, it wasn’t really my place.
Zahra didn’t answer immediately. Soon she nodded and smiled. “I’m fine.”
She wasn’t exactly fine. Five minutes later we were still sitting on her bed, Zahra with her arms stretched out behind her as though she was on a picnic rug.
“Marry someone you can be yourself with,” she advised, settling in for a chat, seemingly unaware that this was her wedding day.
I was a little concerned that she wasn’t going to move. Might have put a dent into a few plans given she was due for photos in an hour and, of course, there was a whole reception to worry about later.
I nodded in surprise. “Okay,” I said, but almost as a question.
Zahra shook her head. “No. Really. Someone you don’t have to pretend with. Someone you feel good being around.”
“Inshallah,” I replied, invoking the answer that never failed to work in any awkward situation.
“Menem is a good guy,” continued Zahra. “Hakeem is too. Even if they’re both very different.”