by Amal Awad
I knew I was being pathetic. Not even two full weeks had passed since our last proper conversation. But after the way we’d left things, I couldn’t blame him if he erased me from his memory completely.
Was I, could I be – no, I couldn’t say it.
No. Not even if you beg me.
Well, all right. If you insist.
Was I lovelorn?
Ekh.
I would survive this, I could move on easily. Yes, I’d made an unsightly mess of things. But who knew, if given the chance, what I could manage were another spiffy suitor to come along at some point? Perhaps I’d be better prepared.
Oh, the relationship wasn’t even cold yet and here I was already looking for the upside. There was no upside just now.
One upside: shopping with Mum and Dad turned out to be a welcome distraction from thinking about Menem. My head hurt. My heart felt bruised. My stomach was still all over the place, unlikely ever to return home, a diaspora. The nerves had permanently set up house, entirely too comfortable to leave.
But as I watched my parents bicker over a goldfish, I realised that this could be all I had to look forward to if I stayed single. Thursday night shopping with mum and dad, a lifetime of curfews and comments about me still being at home. I felt sick and alone at the thought of it, and it only made me more determined to get the cadetship.
For the next hour, we looked around a few shops, stopping occasionally to look at items other than foot massagers. Dad spent about ten minutes in the reference section at a book store. We finally settled on a massager Dad was happy with at Shaver Shop. All the while, I stemmed the panic that I’d die an old maid, never experiencing anything interesting, my professional life never progressing beyond budget reports.
“This is magnificent!” said Dad to the sales assistant, using his new favourite word. He actually did use the word ‘magnificent’. In English. The assistant looked bored but amused by my father’s excitement.
I took the box to the counter. Meanwhile, Dad had found a massage chair and was testing it out, showering a sales assistant with questions about the functions.
“Don’t worry, Samira, we have cash,” said Mum in Arabic when she saw me pull out my debit card.
Of course they did. Arabs always paid in cash. Even in The Castle, Farouk, the Lebanese neighbour, carried hundreds of dollars in his overalls.
“It’s okay, Mum. I’m going to pay for this.”
“Will there be anything else?” the girl at the register asked.
“No, thank you.” Mum went over to Dad. I smiled at the girl and she rang up the transaction.
“Your dad seems really sweet, by the way,” she said, as she handed me the bag. I looked over at Dad, who by now was showing my mother the features of the massage chair and trying to get her to sit on it.
“Yeah, he is,” I smiled, feeling grateful all of a sudden, rather than mortified.
Rather dashing, in his own way.
It was Friday and I was about to go in and meet with Jan Ridley. My palms were clammy and my throat was dry.
I’d recited a short prayer that was suited for times like these, for when one was undergoing a test of sorts, which calmed me somewhat. But it had been a strange couple of weeks, and they sat a little heavy on my mind.
I replayed it all like a movie montage. You know how that goes. The part where the main character is in crisis and you see her going about the day-to-day things while some indie pop music you’d never ordinarily listen to but suddenly think is brilliant plays in the background. And then you see her at work, making instant coffee. Then she’s in her friend’s kitchen, nursing a cup of strawberry tea and eating something calorie-laden (but all halal). Then you see her on a train looking at a happy couple while rain pounds against the window. (Although, in the name of accuracy, I take the bus.)
And then it would cut to this moment. Waiting for an interview. Trying to clear my mind of all the mental refuse. Wondering why I never cared deeply enough about what I wanted for myself. Trying to figure out what took me so long to get here.
Hakeem had emailed me to wish me luck. He included a prayer, which was reassuring and lovely of him. And I thanked him, of course. Other than that, we hadn’t really spoken after the wedding. But we’d left things somewhat decently given how the conversation had unfolded, and better than I would’ve hoped for under the increasingly bizarre circumstances. Bearing in mind that there weren’t enough words in the English language to describe it all. The ache in my stomach returned whenever I thought of him.
Menem, on the other hand, didn’t know about it to wish me luck. Under ordinary circumstances, I was sure he would have. In fact, he would have been exactly the person I’d talk to about this interview. He’d knock any signs of self-doubt out of me. He’d encourage and remind me that I should be wanting more, and that I was worthy.
I often thought of that conversation we had at Zahra’s place, where I pretended I knew how to make bonbonnieres. He’d advised me to find something I liked doing all the time. He’d been so proud of me, even as an assistant.
Was it awfully non-PC and weak that I felt a little hopeless without him? That the notion I could win this position was beyond ridiculous to me, yet with one nod from Menem I’d probably be flying?
I’d taken the time to do some research on the magazine. Circulation figures, primary demographic, structure. Cate mock-interviewed me to help me prepare. I did feel it helped me a little. It got me into the right frame of mind at least.
“Samira?” came a voice. I looked up and saw a woman at the door of the office. She was leaning out and smiled at me. “Ready?”
“Ah yes,” I said, scrambling up from the couch. I followed her into the room.
“I’m Jan, by the way,” she said, extending her hand. “The features editor, Leona, wanted to be here but unfortunately she’s away at the moment. Conference,” she explained with a smile.
I liked her immediately. She seemed pleasant and warm, and lacked Jeff’s intensity. I couldn’t imagine her saying “bloody hell” at the drop of a hat or demanding instant coffee every two hours.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” I said.
34
On the weekend, I reported my dream to Sahar and Lara. I hadn’t told them about what happened with Hakeem, or even Menem for that matter. I’d need to let Lara down gently but I tried not to think about any of it too much. Too strange. Too… I didn’t even know, to be honest.
I’d hoped an afternoon with the girls would distract me from everything, meaning – in no particular order – the cadetship and Menem. Sahar’s cooking and assorted baked goodies usually helped.
We were sitting at the kitchen table, Sahar rolling vine leaves – dawaleh, or as the Lebanese called it, wara eneb, Lara and I stuffing our faces on quiche and muffins. The tangy aroma of rice, mince and spices filled the tiny kitchen, mixed with the scent of freshly baked goods.
“That’s a good dream, Samira,” said Sahar. “Khayr inshallah. Try not to focus too much on it though. You know, it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Do the prayer again if you have to.”
Maybe that would be a good idea. I had some clarity now, which was great except that I’d sort of lost the guy I was seeking clarity about.
I was nursing a cup of tea and biting into a raspberry chocolate muffin. This was my third one. Don’t judge me. They were fresh from the oven and sugar hits always helped my thought processes. Besides, they weren’t the monster-sized-muffins you buy at the shops, they were more cupcake-sized so two were really like one.
Menem hadn’t emailed me, I hadn’t run into him, and I couldn’t bring myself to write to him. There was something wrong with me.
“Once I had a dream after I prayed istikhara, but it involved a Smurf so I don’t think it was very meaningful,” said Lara, her chin rested in her hand.
Sahar smiled at her and shook her head.
“It wasn’t a Smurf actually. It was that bad guy. What’s his name?”
“Gargamel,” I said.
“Yes, that’s it. He was in it.”
We were quiet for a few moments.
“Maybe I should do the prayer too,” said Lara, licking her fork.
“For what?” I asked.
“Your cousin Jamal,” she said, too nonchalantly for my liking.
“Lara, be careful.”
“What?” she said, annoyed at me.
“Are you really serious about him? Remember that he’s younger than you too.”
“Well, I don’t know. He’s a lovely boy,” she responded. Then a moment later, she said, “Oh my God, am I Demi Moore?”
Sahar was shaking her head again but she smiled as she scooped out some rice and meat and placed it in the centre of the vine leaves. I’d offered to help but she was nearly done and insisted I relax. Which was just as well, because I wasn’t in a rage to assist. I always ended up mutilating the leaves. Not surprisingly, Mum never asked me to help on those kinds of dishes.
“The Prophet, may peace be upon him, married an older woman remember,” said Sahar.
We looked at her, unsure what to do with the information.
“I’m just saying.” Sahar shrugged. “A couple of years’ difference isn’t such a big thing.”
“See?” said Lara triumphantly.
“I never said age was the issue! Just maturity. He’s young at heart,” I told her.
“Samira, he’s actually really smart. Just because he doesn’t use fancy words doesn’t make him dumb.”
“I never said that. When did I ever say he’s dumb?”
I’d never even dream of it. Yes, he didn’t use big words and quote Umberto Eco at the drop of a hat (nor did I for that matter. Quote Umberto, that is). And yes, he thought existentialism was a method of exorcism but that was due to a lack of interest on Jamal’s part rather than intellect.
“It’s implied. You’re prejudiced against him because you think he’s too woggy,” said Lara matter-of-factly.
“Right, thanks, Lara!” I got up and went to the bathroom. I could hear her defending herself to Sahar, who was murmuring a reprimand.
Sighing, I stared at my reflection in the mirror and wondered if anything I could see would give me answers. I looked a little sad, I suppose. I had terrible bags under my eyes; they’d popped by unannounced and I couldn’t get rid of them for anything.
On Friday morning before my interview, Cate had handed me a tiny bottle of a top-shelf eye gel that cost as much as a deposit on a nice piece of strata. “Trust me,” she said, “baggies disappear with this stuff. They won’t know what hit’em.”
The miracle cure worked for most of the day, but by the afternoon I thought I looked even worse. Not that it mattered. I was more concerned about looking less like a zombie and more like a human for my interview, which, thankfully, had gone very well.
At least I thought it did. Jan was lovely. We got along well and I was in the interview for an hour. This, Cate assured me, was a good sign. And Jeff had come by later in the afternoon and nodded as he stood before me. “You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had,” he said to me, not for the first time. “But onto bigger and better, Samina. Can’t make me coffee forever.” Then he walked off. I wasn’t sure if Jeff was trying to say I’d gotten the job. I’d have to wait until next week to find out for sure.
I should have been optimistic and excited, but I wasn’t. It would be perfect for me content-wise: children wouldn’t present problems, interviewing doped up pop singers might have been weird. I didn’t even canvass the idea of photography with my parents I lacked the energy and desire to fight for it if they didn’t approve (which was highly likely). Okay, I was a chicken, but I wasn’t even sure if I was any good so I didn’t raise my expectations.
However, all of that aside – and very importantly – I did appreciate that Childhood wouldn’t involve weddings.
No weddings. Let’s take a moment to appreciate that.
I sighed and shook my head. I was getting ahead of myself.
I made my ablutions for the next prayer, doing my utmost to block out all the negativity in my mind and making a mental list of urgent Things to Do. First task: banish damaging thoughts forever, or at least for an extended period of time. Second task: rid myself of horrible eye bags.
I concentrated through my repetitions, the water running soothingly over my hands, my arms, my feet. I felt better, cleansed.
As I left the bathroom, I heard my mobile phone ringing. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed it then went straight into the hallway to answer it.
I might have been hoping it was Menem. Or not. No biggie.
Turned out to be a wrong number.
After I prayed, I returned to the kitchen and dumped my mobile phone in my handbag. Lara looked contrite.
“I’m sorry, Samira. I was out of line.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “But how long have you thought of me as a snob?”
“Don’t be silly! I’m just sensitive about this.”
Lara crossed her legs and picked at the tablecloth. “I know you think I’m corrupting him.”
Before I could say anything, she continued, “Which I sort of am doing, I know. He’s very innocent.”
Sahar, who was still rolling the vine leaves, was quiet but very likely repenting on Lara’s behalf.
“I’m just asking you to be sure he’s someone you can see yourself with,” I explained. “Jamal is a pure soul. If he’s interested and nothing eventuates, he’ll be crushed.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to hurt him,” said Lara.
“I know. Which is why I’m saying it.”
No one spoke for a couple of minutes, me still in a bit of a snit after Lara’s comments, Lara probably wondering if she really was at all like Demi Moore.
Sahar was also thinking about something, but I didn’t know what. She placed the last roll in the saucepan and got up from the table.
“Question,” said Sahar cautiously. “Isn’t Jamal a bit, well, religious?”
Lara pondered. “Yeah,” she said, finally. “But the fundyness is attractive.” Lara shrugged, playing with her fork.
Sahar looked furtively my way, her hand poised over the stove top with an oven lighter.
“It’s true,” I confirmed. I plopped down into the chair opposite Lara and cut a slice of quiche.
“Totally,” said Lara. “The really religious ones – the nice ones, that is – have an amazing presence.” She paused and looked ahead in reflection.
I nodded slowly.
“Just look at Hakeem,” added Lara.
I rolled my eyes but Sahar smiled.
“Which makes for a nice change,” said Lara. “Muslims can be so dreary. They’re always on the news crying and screaming. All those protests. They need to get out more.”
I shook my head. “At some point I’m going to insist on a blood test to check that we are in fact related.”
“What’d I say?” asked Lara innocently.
I had no doubt that one day, far into the future, there would be several scientists rubbing their hands in glee because Lara had unwittingly donated her body to science. She would have signed a form, thinking it was for a credit card or something, but it was actually given to her by a scientist in disguise. Yes, from some obscure organisation. They would have seen her Facebook profile and realised they’d found their next case study.
“Maybe I should put on hijab. You know, just bite the bullet. Cover up and be done with it?” said Lara as though she was mulling over whether or not to go for a walk.
I looked at my cousin dubiously. She was wearing a tight black V-Neck that hinted at some cleavage and skinny jeans. “Sure, why not?”
“Maybe it’ll give me a bit of a jolt. Help me to become more pious and such,” said Lara.
“It’ll give you a jolt, all right,” I told her.
Sahar looked thoughtful, perhaps weighing up how much encouragement she wanted to give Lara, knowing she wasn’t likely to put on hijab anytime
soon (unless it was the large, flowy type she wore when she prayed). Instead she fired up the stove to cook the dawaleh.
I sighed then rested my head on my arms on the kitchen table, shutting my eyes tight.
“So can we expect an update anytime soon?” said Lara.
I opened my eyes and mumbled, “About what?”
“What do you think?”
I sighed. “It’s Sunday afternoon and I’m OD-ing on quiche. So what do you think?” I replied, sitting up again.
In fact, I’d barely touched the quiche. I wasn’t feeling very hungry, but it may have had something to do with the muffins.
“Leave her alone,” said Sahar unexpectedly and with more force than I’d ever thought her capable of. Even Lara was stunned.
“You’re confusing her,” she added, placing the lighter to the side and crossing her arms.
“I am not,” protested Lara. “I’m just trying to show her why Hakeem could be right for her.”
“Hakeem hasn’t proposed to her. How do you know he’s better?”
I would have interrupted it if it weren’t for Sahar’s boldness. I hadn’t seen her this emotional about something since the time she found out her favourite brand of cooking chocolate had been discontinued.
“Samira, you don’t want to marry someone who’s going to be like a father,” said Sahar.
“Ew!” exclaimed Lara. “Sahar, what in bloody hell is wrong with you?”
“Lara, she doesn’t mean it that way. Can we please stop discussing this?”
They both kept quiet for a moment. I got up and walked over to the fridge, rubbing my face in my hands. About now I needed a snappy, reasonable answer to my problems, not more drama. You know, so that I could get past this choke point and start living life to the full. Whatever that might entail.