by Amal Awad
I laughed, confused because there was no way Lara would have invited Zahra to the Masonic-type meetings. “Okay, I don’t –.”
Zahra smirked. “Please. Just because we’re not close doesn’t mean I don’t know things.”
“What things exactly?” I was genuinely curious.
“Well, obviously Menem’s into you,” she said. “He’s been to your house and you’re getting to know him. But Hakeem is a different story.”
“And what do you know about Hakeem?” I asked, wearily.
Zahra smirked again. “He’s only liked you for the last five years.”
“He’s been engaged before. Don’t you think he would have asked for me if he liked me?” I told her, the response on standby.
“You’d think so. Look, Samira. I never told you, for obvious reasons, but I was interested in Hakeem once.”
I had no idea what my facial expression was but Zahra hastily continued.
“A long time ago. But he wasn’t interested.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing. I just tried to chat to him on MSN, I’d find excuses to email him and that kind of thing. So lame.” Zahra laughed and straightened up. She brushed away a loose curl, a thoughtful expression on her face.
“And he didn’t respond?” I held my breath in anticipation, feeling an unidentifiable twinge all of a sudden.
“Oh no, he’d respond, but it was always so formal and well, it was very clear he wasn’t interested. So I backed off,” she confessed.
“Well, that doesn’t mean he liked me,” I told her, feeling a bit relieved.
“Samira, he likes you. I can’t believe a girl of your intelligence thinks he’d waste his time unless he didn’t.”
“Don’t look now, Zahra, but you’re paying me compliments,” I said lightly, hoping to change the subject.
She grimaced. “Don’t get used to it.” She might have been joking, but I pretended she wasn’t. Much safer that way. Even though the Kill Bill-circling was long past, Zahra and I weren’t close. I wasn’t sure we ever would be. I was okay with that though, because we’d come a long way from snarky conversations about marinated olives and television shows.
“You’d make a good lawyer,” she said a moment later.
“Why’s that?”
“Because you demand indisputable evidence for everything.”
I thought I’d make a terrible lawyer. I’d get all flustered and probably start crying if things were going badly. “But it’s all circumstantial evidence!” I’d wail as they carted away my innocent client.
I got up from the bed and patted down my dress, taking a quick look around to make sure everything was in order.
The carpet was littered with bits and pieces – the box from the florist, some plastic bags and a nightie – so I gathered them and placed them in the corner by the door.
“For what it’s worth,” continued Zahra, “it’s not enough to have a connection and like someone. You really need to be on the same path. If Malek and I didn’t want the same things, it could never work. You know?”
“I guess so,” I said, not sure what else to say.
She looked at me a moment. “Menem really is crazy about you.”
Thankfully, just as my stomach was about to turn in on itself, Lara interrupted the heart-to-heart. “Your husband’s here in a fancy hire car. You ready, snot face?” she said.
Zahra cleared her head with a little shake. “Yes, I suppose it’s time to get going.”
“Wait,” I said to Zahra. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” I couldn’t let her go without asking again if she was all right. I looked her directly in the eyes and she nodded, biting the inside of her bottom lip.
The noise levels in the house rose as more guests entered, all calling out for the bride. Zahra listened for a moment, her face lighting up. In an instant she was more relaxed and she smiled sincerely as she rose from the bed.
“I love him. I’m just a bit of a baby,” she told me.
Zahra’s mum came into the room then, tears gushing down her face and my cousin looked as though she was about to lose it too. But, remarkably, Zahra kept her composure as she hugged her mother tightly. I got a little teary myself as I watched them.
Someone had commandeered a duff, a hand drum Muslims favour for music, and was playing it in the living room. The beat was accompanied by several male voices and clapping. The music filtered through to us as aunt Shaimaa took her daughter’s hand and led her out to the waiting guests. Aunts and uncles and cousins were all gathered around, her father standing to the side, his eyes also full of tears as he clapped and sang.
I spotted Menem just as I was wiping away my own tears, clapping away with a grin on his face. He looked, of course, extremely handsome in his suit and he was clean-shaven again. He looked at me for a moment, nodded once then turned his attention back to the bride and groom.
That was it. Even though I was hurt and disappointed, I was going to force myself not to worry about it. I was at a wedding, after all, a celebration. Smile and say “cheese”.
By now just about everyone was clapping in time to the music, and I joined in. Zahra and Malek stood together by the couch, happy and excited, while my father and my uncle Hamza danced in a circle in front of them, stamping their feet and hands in the air. I watched as Zahra clutched her husband’s arm and looked up at him, beaming.
Shortly after, the women in the room let loose with the zaghroota. You remember that high-pitched noise from the engagement, right?
True to her word, Zahra hadn’t organised a cardboard cut-out wedding with the standard trimmings. She’d done her homework (with my help, I concede) and the hard work had paid off because the hall looked beautiful.
White linen cloths and smaller silver satin pieces covered the round tables. Each featured a simple but elegant white cake platter holding a bouquet of off-white flowers. There were small candles in little glass holders, and the bonbonnieres we’d made for each guest sat beside place cards with names marked in calligraphy.
This wasn’t a big woggy wedding, but it was far from a simple Islamic one, too. I suppose it was somewhere in between. It seemed a fitting notion: life had always involved a struggle of some sort really, trying to connect two very different things.
It was nice to be sitting down following a tiring afternoon outdoors. I’d begged Zahra not to have her photos in the standard places: by the Harbour Bridge and along the Nurses Walk at The Rocks. I would give her the gift of my location shoot knowledge. I knew of a lesser known, but completely beautiful spot in Watsons Bay, about twenty minutes from the city. I generously offered the tip to Zahra, but she didn’t want to listen.
“The Nurses Walk, Samira!” she said pseudo hysterically as we set off in the hire car. I remained calm, even while the men looked on in amusement.
“No, we’re not going to the Nurses Walk. You’ll have to get in line if we do. There’ll be other couples there.”
“Driver!” I said, shouting over Zahra. Always wanted to say that. Of course, I’d always envisioned it along with something more exciting, like “Driver! Follow that car!” not “Driver! Watsons Bay and take the Cross-City tunnel!”
“Where am I going, ladies?” said the exasperated man after another thirty seconds of bickering. Sydney whooshed by as he drove along, unsure which direction to take.
“The Nurses Walk!” said Zahra, leaning forward.
“The photographer won’t be there! I told him to go to Watsons Bay!” Which granted was sneaky, but I’d been left in charge of organising it so it was tough luck.
I gave the driver precise instructions and he nodded. After several minutes of pouting, sighing and “It’s my wedding, shouldn’t I decide where I have my photos taken?”, etc, Malek reached over to take his bride’s hand.
“I think you should leave it to Samira,” he said, amused. Obviously he couldn’t care less where the photos were taken, but it was going to be a long drive if it continued this way.
> When we arrived and she saw how amazing the hidden spot was, she shut up pretty quickly, actually looking grateful at one point. The men still didn’t seem concerned. Lara was SMSing away all afternoon (no prizes for guessing who).
Menem still hadn’t said a word to me. I’d go so far as to say he was indifferent. There were no discreet looks, no signs of silent longing. If it weren’t for the acknowledgement back at Zahra’s house, I’d be wondering if he knew I was there at all. I couldn’t allow myself to think about how it made me feel though (still terrible, for the record). At least not right now. So I kept my feelings to myself. If Lara noticed, she held back from saying so. The most she ventured to say was, “Bloody hell, he is dashing.”
Lara and I sat at the same table as the bride and groom, with Menem and the parents from both sides. Thankfully we weren’t facing the guests. We just had our own table at the front. I still felt a bit awkward and uncomfortable.
The best thing about the wedding was that it was the first time in years we – meaning assorted family members with whom I’d spent my earlier, somewhat formative years – were all gathered together. Just like old times. Zahra’s brothers had come to Sydney also to attend the festivities. It was hard to believe that once upon a time I’d attended Saturday school with them all. Even Omar was here, and he’d given me rare praise about my appearance when he saw me earlier. Sahar was missing though. She’d declined the invitation when the wedding went from segregated to cirque du spectacular.
Zahra’s brothers each acknowledged me when they saw me, not having had a chance to say hello at the house. Hani returned to his wife and son straight away, but Nadeem lingered, standing before me, beaming with pride.
“Masha’Allah, look at you. You’re a woman now!” I knew he had a crush on me once, but the whole cousin thing was too much for me to stomach so we never even flirted.
I smiled and blushed as appropriate and asked about how everything was going in his life. I’d always liked Nadeem, but he’d been away for about ten years now. Lara often hypothesised that it was no coincidence both brothers chose to live on the opposite side of the world from Zahra.
As Nadeem went off to join his family, I spotted Hakeem sitting beside his father in the centre of the hall. I felt a little rumble of anxiety as I waved at them. Meanwhile, Hakeem’s expression was completely unreadable. There was no time to try and figure out what his mood was today though. Bridesmaid duties, etc.
32
By the time the third R’n’B dance song began blasting through the speakers, I was ready for an intermission. I watched the teeming dance floor, where even my father and uncle Hamza were joining in. Embarrassing, particularly as they had no idea they were dancing to suggestive lyrics.
Menem was also there and for the briefest of moments we caught sight of each other. Our eyes locked and I felt a sweep of nerves rush through me. For a second I was breathless, but he before long he turned away and I smiled scathingly to myself.
I needed to get out of the hall and get some fresh air.
“I’ll be outside if anyone wants me,” I told Lara as I placed my napkin on the table. She barely looked up, preoccupied with a message she’d just received.
“Okies,” she said. “But wait, there’s dancing!”
“Count me out,” I said with a smile. I wasn’t much in the mood for dancing, especially in front of such a large audience.
“For now!” she said, still pounding the keys on her phone.
I exited the hall, immediately breathing in the crisp, clear night air, unwilling to contemplate having to return to the party.
I walked around the parking lot for ten minutes. I still didn’t want to go back inside. My wanderings led me to the side of the building where I found a set of steps I could sit and rest on for a few moments. There were some cardboard boxes beside a dumpster so I took one and flattened it before placing it on the step. I sat down, careful not to stain or damage my dress then stretched out my legs. I admired my shoes: they had pretty diamantes across zig-zag straps. My feet were freshly pedicured – Zahra had treated us to some pampering yesterday.
Eventually I turned my attention to the few people milling about, most of whom I didn’t recognise. I people-watched for a few minutes, the sound of the bass coming through from the entrance to the hall.
“Assalamu alaykum,” came a man’s voice.
Hakeem.
I sat up properly and faced him. “Wa’alaykum assalam,” I said, that slight rumbling in my stomach returning. (“Wake up!” yelled the nerves. “Hakeem’s here. Quickly, assume the positions!”).
“Some wedding, huh,” he noted without commitment. Hakeem didn’t like these gatherings in general; add music and dancing, and he was ready to leave. Lord knows why he even came, although it was probably for his father’s sake more than anything.
“Well, Zahra wanted a fancy wedding. At least we’re being spared the belly dancers,” I said, lightly.
Hakeem kicked a small bottle about. He had his hands shoved in his jacket pockets and he looked sullen. He continued kicking it around until it landed metres away, the sound of glass rolling on concrete louder than the muffled music.
I fought the urge to go and pick up the bottle and put it in the nearest bin. Instead I sat mutely on the steps for a few moments, unsure as to whether or not I should get up and leave or stay and try for more conversation.
Just as I was about to go with the former, Hakeem stopped, turned and looked at me, kind of in the same way he had the other day at Zahra’s house.
“Samira,” he said, but that was it.
He still hadn’t said anything a minute later and I was starting to get annoyed as he wandered about. I waited for more. For God’s sake. This wasn’t in the script. I demand a rewrite! Some new lines and character revision. Some conflict, please.
What did he want to say? What was with the high drama levels? Should I just put the bottle in the rubbish?!
Still nothing. All we needed was a sliver of lightning, and a foreboding rumble of thunder and rain to start coming down in sheets for the scene to be truly dramatic.
“May I speak plainly?” I said.
I’ve always wanted to say that. “May I speak plainly?” is so much better than “May I be honest?” It didn’t exactly fit in the context of this conversation, but never mind.
“Of course,” said Hakeem. He moved closer to me.
How was I going to say this? I could deal with quotes and being lectured and annoying him. Email and Facebook were easy enough. But any sort of face-to-face confrontation demanded a clear movement beyond my comfort zone. Besides all that, I didn’t want it to get dramatic. And besides all of that, I wasn’t quite sure what I was even thinking, or if I wanted to know what Hakeem had to say.
Oh God, was I really turning into a soap opera character? With problems to work through? Things to sort out? I much preferred the general ennui of my life prior to Zahra’s engagement.
Fuss and Bother.
“Were you going to say something to me the other day? At Zahra’s place?” I said, a thrill rushing through me.
“Yes, I was,” said Hakeem.
I felt a little sick. I hadn’t expected him to give in so quickly, thought I’d have a few minutes of buffering. My heart was positively thumping and I was beginning to feel tense and jittery.
“Okay,” I managed. “What did you want to say?”
Hakeem didn’t reply though. He was studying the wall. I waited, patiently. All the while feeling as though a paperweight was squatting in my stomach.
Finally, Hakeem looked at me again and said, “You’re not dumb.”
I almost laughed. I smiled instead, a little astounded. God, but his behaviour was odd. I had to rule out drunkenness for obvious reasons. I had absolutely no doubt whatsoever that Hakeem had never touched a drop in his life. Maybe he’s on meds, I thought, a little alarmed.
“Thanks?” I said.
Hakeem shook his head in frustration. “No, what I mean i
s, surely you know what I want to say to you.”
“Actually,” I stammered, “I don’t.”
Hakeem looked deeply uncomfortable.
Out with it, I wanted to yell. The suspense is killing me here!
“You know I care about you,” he said, hesitantly.
I felt another thrill slide through me. Bewildered by his glibness, I responded with, “I care about you too.” A bit nervously though, because this was Hakeem and I didn’t want to freak him out. Propriety and so forth.
“I never asked for you,” he continued, looking at the ground.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Should I have?” he said, sounding a bit gutted. I fixed my eyes on the ground, feeling embarrassed and out of place, as though I’d stepped into someone else’s strappy heels for the evening.
“Why would you ask me that?” I said. “Of course not.”
Hakeem, hands still firmly in his trouser pockets, looked ahead for a moment.
“Of course not,” he said.
“I never expected you to,” I told him. Well, apart from that awkward adolescent period, before the doorknocks.
More silence.
“Hakeem, what are you doing?”
“I want you to marry me,” he said, quickly. Just like that.
“Excuse me?”
He hesitated. “I want you to marry me.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “What?”
Hearing Hakeem say this was not something for which I’d prepared myself. I’d been half-expecting him to come out with a completely logical explanation for his behaviour of late. Alien abduction. Lack of sleep. Brotherly concern that I might not have a big, fancy wedding like Zahra. That sort of thing.
“Would you? Would you marry me?” said Hakeem, as though he was asking if I’d seen his misplaced wallet.
“Why are you asking me this?” I said, suddenly alert.
“Because I should have asked you a long time ago,” said Hakeem.
“Why didn’t you then?”