by Amal Awad
“I had my reasons, I suppose,” he said, mysteriously.
“And they no longer exist?”
“No ... they do.”
I felt, and surely looked, puzzled. It was a riddle that for the life of me I couldn’t figure out. I wasn’t any good at riddles in general so I was feeling exceedingly unsettled.
The reasons still exist, he said. Was it my job? My penchant for The Princess Bride? My inability to cook anything that required measurements? Objections to my family? (Obviously a ludicrous proposition. Who wouldn’t like my family?)
“And those reasons would be what exactly?” I asked with a fair amount of caution.
Oh, now I wished he’d just throw me a quote and be done with it. I’d guess completely incorrectly. There’d be the usual tug of war, then off we’d go.
All normal. Less thrilling.
“We know each other well. But I wasn’t sure if our relationship would translate well to domestic life,” he said, bluntly.
Well, isn’t he just a ray of bloody sunshine, I thought, feeling a bit wounded. And hurt. Stunned all the while, but nevertheless, hurt. He was proposing, but he was reluctant. I’d not seen this coming. The good news, it quickly occurred to me, was that I had a new category: The Reluctant Suitor (glass half-full and all that).
“Right,” I said, eventually, my face burning.
“Don’t get me wrong,” said Hakeem, sounding a bit tortured. “I want to be with you. But we’re so different.”
“No kidding.”
Hakeem was about to say something more, but I interrupted with, “Are you just saying this now because there’s someone else in the picture?” Just doing some bullet-biting. A round of staring into the wind. A bit of wading right in.
“Well, I don’t want to lose you,” he confessed. He looked torn and a bit helpless.
“Why not before today then?”
“I told you why.”
“But now that’s different? Because it looks as though I may actually get engaged?” I guess I wasn’t done with staring into the wind yet.
“Samira, do you realise what marriage is? Do you realise it won’t just be about banter? And quotes?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’ll have responsibilities. You’ll have to adjust to a new way of life,” said Hakeem, all with a straight face.
Meanwhile, my offence levels were capped. “Wow.” I laughed. “I always thought you saw me as a child, even when you said otherwise. But this is crap.”
Hakeem looked frustrated. “I didn’t say you’re a child. You are intelligent. And kind and funny. And you’re a good Muslim girl. I do care about you deeply.”
“But? I’m silly and have no idea that marriage involves responsibility?” I replied, helping him along.
“Why are you angry?” he said, flustered. “If your answer is no, that’s all you have to say.”
I looked at Hakeem, still swimming in disbelief and confusion. I knew he had a tendency to behave like a strict father, more than my real one, in fact. I actually didn’t care a lot of the time, mainly because I could just ignore half of what he said and block him on Facebook until the waves passed.
But right now I couldn’t do that. Everything I knew of Hakeem flew right out the window. He didn’t seem stern, he seemed like another person. I may as well file a bloody Missing Persons report. I was so mad at him for it.
“Here’s a little tip,” I began brusquely. “When you’re telling a girl you want to spend your life with her, it’s not a good idea to make her feel like a royal idiot.”
Or any kind of idiot for that matter!
I got up from the step and brushed myself off, ready to storm away. He’d managed to compliment me and acknowledge my sparkling wit (just in different words) and insult me at the same time. I’d forgotten how good he was at trifectas.
“Samira, wait,” said Hakeem.
“What?” I said, turning around. “What else could you possibly have to say?” I wanted to add more but I was lost for words. I was on the verge of laughing. You know that horrible feeling you get of wanting to laugh when it’s least appropriate to do so?
I didn’t though. Then – involuntarily, mind – Elizabeth Bennett’s speech to Darcy popped into my head. The one where she says that nothing could have enticed her to marry him even if he had behaved in a more gentleman-like manner. I would have thrown a line or two his way but given the mood, it would have gone straight over his head. That and I didn’t think the Australian accent would do it much justice. My intonation would have been completely off. And well, I suppose the moment deserved a less innovative approach. (See earlier note about laughing.)
“I don’t mean to hurt your feelings,” he said, looking truly upset. “I’m not good at this.”
“No, you’re not,” I agreed, still mad at him.
“I’m not insulting you,” he said. “You’re a wonderful girl.”
“But you never proposed because you worried I’d be a bad wife?”
Bad wife indeed. He obviously had no idea how seriously I took marriage. I wouldn’t still be single, going through all this nonsense if I didn’t.
“I never said that you’d be a bad wife,” he said, annoyed.
“You didn’t have to.”
Hakeem didn’t say anything more for a moment. He looked like his patience was due for a refill any moment.
“You drive me crazy,” he said. His tone suggested that it was not in an adorable, lovable sort of way.
“I’m sorry I drive you crazy,” I said, flatly. “No one’s ever forced you to talk to me. If it causes you so much grief, just stop.”
Hakeem gave me one of his prized looks. He looked away then back at me.
“You want different things to me, Samira. I’m keenly aware of it. I’m not sure I’d be a good husband to you,” he said, less intensely.
“Fine. So why do this now? Why ruin it all?”
Hakeem flinched. He looked, I imagined, as one might when a sword slices through them.
“Because, I had to try.”
I softened a little. Then a lot. I suddenly felt terrible. He looked so miserable and vulnerable now, not angry. I could easily have cried right then and there.
I cared about Hakeem. He obviously cared about me. So what was it? We were like two magnets, resisting each other.
And in a flash, right there, it hit me like a sales stampede at Myer.
“Hakeem, this is us when we’re not on Facebook,” I said. “This is us, period. We argue all the time.”
Hakeem looked away again but he nodded. He didn’t respond. Eventually he looked my way again but neither of us said a word. I studied him. He still looked sad but not so desperately miserable. Call me crazy, but I thought I sensed some relief on his end, that I understood.
I was feeling a tiny bit easier myself. Still a bit terrible though. Too many emotions to sort through and the tears that had been on standby were raring to go now. They wanted out, and I was doing my best to contain them, which of course only made them more desperate to break free.
Not yet! I wanted to yell. Hold the line! Secure the rigging!
But eventually a few did manage to break free, sliding neatly and fiercely down my face in an act of mutiny.
“Would you have said yes? If I had asked before?” said Hakeem tentatively.
“How can I answer that?”
No, really, I had absolutely no idea. Most likely, had he approached me, I would have considered him. If I let in the Mangas and the Metrosexuals, don’t you think I would have let Hakeem in? Of course I would have. I had liked him for such a long time.
It might not have led to anything in the end. We truly seemed to be a case of sounding great in theory, but not being so great in practice, something this proposal would only cement for good. But I would have let him in. And served him tea and Turkish coffee and fruit, and maybe for a moment, it would have been possible.
He just never tried. He didn’t ask. He never even hinted. Not until a
serious suitor came into my life, someone I genuinely cared about now.
Menem. God, but I was such an idiot.
“I’m sorry,” said Hakeem.
Tears all over the place. The ship was down. I pulled out a tissue I had tucked into my belt and wiped my eyes, feeling horrible and confused. Or maybe it was horribly confused. I didn’t even know anymore.
“Why are you sorry?” I said.
“I’ve only ever wanted the best for you. You know that, right?”
I did. He wanted “more” for me; that’s what he’d told me during that awkward moment in the kitchen what seemed an eternity ago. I hadn’t forgotten. So I nodded, my face a little frozen from the effort not to cry even more. “Ditto.”
We were both quiet. Finally, I said, “Lara’s been on my back about you, you know. She said you’re jealous. I thought she was just being Lara.” I sniffed and laughed.
Hakeem nodded. “Well, not my finest moments, I suppose.” He sat down on the steps, looking utterly defeated.
I sat down beside him. More quiet, still crying because this felt like goodbye.
“Samira,” he said. “I’m sorry. Please don’t think I meant we’d be wrong for each other because of you. It’s me.”
“It’s okay. You want something else. So do I.”
“In a way, yes,” he admitted. “But I’ve liked you for so long. I just couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it.”
“Hakeem, there’s a reason for that,” I said. “You said it yourself.”
This was Hakeem and I without banter and quotes. Perhaps looking in the same direction but arguing about which road to take in order to get there. It was a rather poetic way to put it even if right then I was feeling totally crap about everything. And I couldn’t help it, but I was still bothered by Hakeem’s estimation of my wifely abilities.
I may have helped Blockbuster reach annual budget in the last year, but I wasn’t a complete delusional half-wit. Only a mild one. For starters, I knew that all of this shouldn’t be such hard work; life was going to be difficult enough.
As if I didn’t realise there was more to marriage than banter and quotes. Of course I bloody well did. I’d had many conversations with Menem that didn’t involve either. Thoughtful, deep discussions about life and joy and, well, serious things.
Menem. Patient and adoring and ready to make things happen within a week of his first visit because he felt certain. I’d known Hakeem my entire life and he’d never once had the courage to give it a try.
“I’m an idiot,” said Hakeem.
“Not everything is about you, you know,” I said, sniffing.
Hakeem smiled.
“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you with my response,” I said.
“I deserve it.”
We were both silent again.
“That was the worst proposal I’ve ever had.” I laughed again, still all sniffy.
Hakeem smiled again. “I’ll know better for next time.”
“Maybe check with me first.”
“You’ll be spoken for by then, I’m sure.”
“Maybe not. Things aren’t going too well. I might have messed things up.”
“Kulshi qismeh wa naseeb,” said Hakeem. In everything there is your share, your destiny.
Not sure how it all worked. I didn’t quite understand it. But I did believe some things were written, which incidentally always made me feel a bit better after a sub-standard doorknock.
“Did you ever think of me in that way?” said Hakeem.
“Yes,” I said. “When I was younger.”
“And after?”
“Well. Around first year uni,” I confessed. “But after that I never really allowed myself to. You got engaged a couple of times. You never showed interest. I guess part of me wondered, but I kept it ... dunno, out of mind.”
Hakeem nodded. “Yeah.”
“I wanted you in my life though,” I said, honestly.
And that was all true. The boat had set sail on that front long ago. There it was, melting into the horizon. I wasn’t going to call it back.
Just then, I wanted so much to get up from the steps and find Menem to speak to him. But I didn’t move despite the ache, lingering right there in the pit of my stomach. I couldn’t leave Hakeem alone and I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to him.
We sat quietly side-by-side for a little while, a load lifted, things feeling less intense, despite an overwhelming sense of loss. They weren’t joking when they said nothing in life is ever simple. All of that conjecture, all the drama, all this love between us, and it came down to this: a heartbreaking “what if”. Hakeem seemed better, still relieved. Even so, the look on his face broke my heart.
“You know,” he began, “even though we both know it wouldn’t work, I just don’t know how to live without you, Samira.”
“You never have to.”
But his look said the complete opposite. Marriage, for either of us, would change everything, and we both knew it.
33
That night, after the wedding, I finally prayed istikhara. I was feeling positively grief-stricken about everything and I realised I most certainly needed Allah’s guidance and assistance about now. I was in a complete state of unrest.
It was time for some damage control, and a little faith. I always had that, after all (fierce look of “back off!” to anyone who dared try to take that from me).
Anyway, I knew I liked Menem. There was no doubt about that whatsoever. Tonight’s events only confirmed it for me. And I missed him terribly. I really did. But the cadetship was also pressing on my mind. I had an interview lined up for a position I felt zero excitement about.
I wanted to progress. I needed to have something more fulfilling to look forward to in the mornings besides being a world-class instant coffee-maker. But I wasn’t sure writing for Childhood was it. If I was being completely honest, in my heart of hearts, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to write at all.
An extra prayer sent up could do no harm. I filled my mind with my scattered thoughts as I prayed. I focused, doing my utmost to concentrate.
“Don’t necessarily expect some major dream or signal,” Sahar had advised once. “Just keep going as you are right now once you’ve done the prayer, assured in the knowledge that whatever is right for you will happen, inshallah,” she’d told me.
I did dream that night though, a lovely, comforting dream. Warm towels straight out of the dryer lovely.
All of that, only to have the warm towels ripped viciously from my grasp and replaced with soggy freezing cold ones when I realised it wasn’t reality.
I’d been in a nice car with Menem. He was driving, I was happily observing the rolling hillsides. Yes, they were rolling. It was magical. I’d never felt such peace and comfort; never felt so safe. Meaning in my dreams heretofore had comprised little more than anxiety and fears. Like that dream where you’re rooted to your spot and can’t run away from the people who are chasing you, or where your teeth are all loose.
Even I was a bit taken aback by this sudden spiritual awareness. It might have just been my subconscious talking, but I figured that was a sign in itself.
I was waiting for my parents on Pitt Street mall on Thursday evening. We were to meet at 6.00, which on my father’s time meant 6.30. I had agreed to meet them after work because Dad wanted to buy a foot massager.
My parents were both extremely capable people, but they would ask us to do the simplest things, which is why I sometimes thought they’d rely on us to test our loyalty. It was all tied in with the Arab Guilt thing. I didn’t mind, but I avoided shopping expeditions like chicken pox, or any other skin-altering condition for that matter.
It wasn’t so much my mum, but my dad. He liked to talk to everyone and what would ordinarily take ten minutes would take half an hour because he’d be comparing gardening tips with Rajiv in the sound and vision department of Myer. That and there was the ever-present threat of bickering.
I eventually caught sight of them
, my father pausing by a busker’s magic act. I could have sworn that Mum was assessing me, but it was hard on a good day to tell what she was thinking, really.
“Ready?” I prompted.
Mum was still looking at me, but she nodded and we walked over to Dad who was happily clapping for the magician who’d just done something with a flamethrower.
“Unbelievable! Did you see that, Samira?” said Dad, still watching.
“Yes, Dad. It’s amazing,” I replied.
“Did you have your interview yet?” asked Mum.
Somewhere in the chaos of the last few days I’d taken the time to mention the job opportunity to my parents. Dad was ecstatic, mainly because he hoped it would send me on the path of great writing. He still wanted me to write a book, although when I prompted him as to what I could write about, he told me to be creative and think outside my “squares”.
Anyway, they were extremely pleased and encouraged me to be confident in myself and to embrace the opportunity and all that. I half-expected them to pull out a camera and take a photo given the extent of their excitement. My job prospect was, it seemed, a landmark event. It was a pity I didn’t share their exhilaration.
Gabriel was still nagging me about the photographer cadetship and threatened to go to Jeff if I didn’t change my application. I told him I’d think about it, but the more I did, the less likely it seemed a suitable career choice.
“It’s tomorrow, insha’Allah,” I told Mum. I’d already sent in my pitch last week, which Cate had looked over and approved. I’d spent last Thursday night agonising over every word. I even changed the font five or six times (to be fair, research has shown that certain typefaces are easier to read than others). At one point I was prepared to trash it and tell Jeff that I would be staying on at Bridal Bazaar. Then the thought of instant coffee popped into my head and I immediately got over myself and started typing again.
Mum nodded. “Good,” she said. We left it at that.
Meanwhile, I’d managed small stretches of time where I didn’t torture myself with thoughts of Menem. I didn’t have the guts to email him, despite my lovely dream. I suppose I should confess that I went out for coffee three times on Wednesday, hoping I might run into him. I didn’t. Nor had I even caught a glimpse since the wedding. He wasn’t posting anything on Facebook. What if, rather than giving me my space, he was planning on avoiding me forever? I was a little fearful that I was too late, that he’d already moved on.