by Amal Awad
Cate smiled, relieved. “Okay, great, because I was worried you wouldn’t come for a second.” She pinched me, and we continued walking, arm in arm.
We converged on the brasserie-with-a-bar, chuffed that we had an excuse for a long lunch on a Monday. I was feeling a little better, happy to be distracted, and strangely optimistic.
After we’d eaten, Cate began telling me a story about her parents, whom she’d visited with Marcus in Melbourne. He wasn’t with us, so I was getting the uncensored version of events.
“They loved him,” she said, emphatically and a little annoyed. “Now they’re expecting me to get married!”
I laughed. “I happily pass the torch onto you,” I told her.
“No, thanks,” she said, looking mortified.
“What’s the big deal though?” I asked. “If you eventually decide life without Marcus would be just intolerable, what harm is there in getting married? It’s the same as living with him.”
Cate shrugged. “Marriage is… well… it’s a big deal. It’s everything!”
Yes, that’s really what it seemed to ultimately come down to. No matter the culture or religion; marriage was of prime importance. It was not, however, everything. I’d managed so far without it. The world would not come to any sort of an end if I didn’t get married anytime soon.
Of course, I’d be heartbroken and everything if Menem and I didn’t work things out. Probably eat lots of ice cream despite my earlier discovery that it didn’t have true healing qualities in matters of the heart. But my life would not be over in any way, shape or form.
“Well, you don’t seem as freaked out about Marcus these days. That’s an improvement at least.” I smiled and Cate blushed.
“True.”
“You never explained that, by the way,” I said, still curious. I never understood why it needed to be so hard when there were no restrictions in place. They were free to be with each other, stay the night, hold hands in public. Little things I couldn’t imagine doing because I’d never had a boyfriend.
She sighed. “Oh, all right. You know how I give you the edited version of dates?”
“Ahuh.”
“He spent the night after our date. You can figure out the rest,” she said, picking up her wine glass and taking a sip.
“Oh, you mean, you and Marcus, on the first-?”
She nodded, looking terribly embarrassed. I suppose I could have figured that out, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to me.
“Look, I never do that,” she emphasised. “But, he’s a keeper.”
“You were so freaked out,” I remarked.
Cate nodded. “I know! My instinct was to run, just get the hell outta there. But, I don’t know, he seemed a bit different. I liked his honesty. He told me he’d liked me for ages but didn’t have the courage to ask me out, and I was smitten.”
“Okay, but why so uptight about it?”
“Because I liked him!”
“Right.”
“I’m not good at emotions,” said Cate matter-of-factly.
“Neither am I, don’t worry.”
Joanne from advertising tugged on Cate’s sleeve and asked her a question, so I sat back and scanned the busy restaurant. It was noisy and packed. Lots of suits, business deals being dealt, a couple of group lunches like ours. Chatter and laughter competed with the sounds of pseudo fine dining and it occurred to me that we’re all the same at a basic level. We just want to feel some happiness, to fill the gaps with good things, even if it’s a nice meal and some laughter.
I eventually noticed him. Menem was at a table in the same restaurant, in the corner by the kitchen.
He was there with a woman, a very pretty one in point of fact.
I felt a little dizzy. And so stupid.
My God, what had I been thinking? He was too good to be true. Of course he was. No one could be that nice and lovely and adoring and speak Arabic beautifully. He was a Casanova!
Menem had told me he was busy with work. Couldn’t fit me in his schedule. But there he was, sitting and chatting away with a pretty woman.
Cate finished speaking with Joanne and turned to me. She followed my gaze.
“Samira?”
As though he could tell someone was looking at him, Menem looked up and saw me. More importantly, he understood the look on my face.
This would be the moment to make a dramatic exit. Fly out of my seat and run off crying. An extremely appealing plan it was, too. Instead, I held back the tears awaiting their cue.
“Can we go please?” I said to Cate, already gathering up my handbag.
She nodded quickly. “Of course.”
We stood up, scraping our chairs back noisily. Most of our team were at the bar (free alcohol), but I didn’t even give them a second glance.
At first Menem just sat there, but as soon as I began moving, he leapt (well, hurriedly got up) from his seat and called out to me.
I increased my pace once I was outside, while poor Cate tottered after me.
“Samira, wait,” she said.
I felt bad for ignoring her but I couldn’t slow down. Oh, the humiliation. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs. Instead I ran, grateful I was in ballet flats, not caring how I looked with my hijab flying.
“Samira!” This time it was Menem calling out to me.
He caught up with me easily and grabbed me by the arm.
“Don’t touch me!” I said. He let me go.
“Samira!” he said again with some force.
“I’m sorry, aren’t you very busy right now?” I gasped.
“Yes!” he said angrily. “I am.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you,” I said, realising even then just how unoriginal heartbreak could be. I mean, I could have said something unexpected and different. Something terribly clever. But nooooo.
Menem looked tired. He still looked dashing though. Just thought I should point that out.
God, I hoped we weren’t attracting a crowd of curious onlookers. That’s what always happened, wasn’t it? The crowd would slowly form, people smiling and pointing, curious for an outcome.
I looked around self-consciously. No one was looking at us. I didn’t even know where Cate was by now. I realised we were standing in the same park we’d had that terrible argument.
“What is wrong with you?” said Menem.
“Me?” I said, incredulously. “What’s wrong with me? I just saw you having lunch with another woman when an hour ago you told me you were busy. ‘Sorry, Samira. Not today,’ you said. Well, guess what, Menem? How about never? How does that work for you?”
I know. I know. But it all seemed appropriate as I said it. What else was I supposed to say and do? Slink away quietly and be tragic? Not I.
“She’s a colleague!” he said, helplessly. “And we weren’t alone! There were three other people with us.”
“A colleague!” This was not a question.
“I swear to God!” He wasn’t lying, I realised. I guess I hadn’t noticed the other colleagues while I’d been busy fuming away at Menem’s betrayal.
“Why on earth would you think I’d do something like that?” Menem said, very hurt and annoyed. He looked so wounded, for which I couldn’t blame him if he indeed was as innocent as he claimed to be.
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling embarrassed to the core.
Menem let out a sigh of relief. “You’re crazy,” he said.
“Well, I haven’t heard from you. What was I supposed to think?”
“You told me you needed time!” he said, exasperated.
“Well I didn’t think you’d give it to me!”
Gawd. I was such a female, wasn’t I?
Menem shook his head. “My God,” he said. He held up his arms in surrender.
I pondered a suitable response. He turned back to me and waited.
“Do you hate me?” I said, shakily. Diving right in. No need for pleasantries and momentum and all that other superfluous padding.
Menem l
ooked taken aback by my question.
“What? Hate you?” he said in disbelief.
I nodded.
“Samira, what are you talking about? Why on earth would you think that?”
“Because I just accused you of doing something awful. Because I’ve been so difficult when all you’ve ever been is kind and patient and sweet.”
Menem shook his head. “Samira.” But that was all he said.
So I stepped up with, “I know I’m selfish and-.”
“Why are you like that?” interrupted Menem.
“Like what?”
“You’re not selfish! Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” he continued, annoyed. “It’s like you don’t think you deserve this or something. Is that it?”
I wasn’t quite sure if they were rhetorical questions. I suspected the one about me being amazing was.
He thought I was amazing?
I really shouldn’t have been surprised, I guess. After all, he wanted to marry me once upon a time. Actually marry me. He’d said he’d do it tomorrow if he could on the day we fought after the strange driveway incident.
“Menem, I’m saying this because I was wrong and I know it.” My hands were shaking and I think even my lips were quivering by that point.
He studied me for a moment, a tiny flicker of something in his eyes.
“What are you saying, Samira?”
Oh God. It was now or never. There was nothing to lose, but my self-respect and pride, both of which I’d deserted many times over throughout my life journey so far. I knew they wouldn’t mind another hiatus, particularly on such an important matter as this. I had to say it. I honestly would never forgive myself if I didn’t attempt to fix this up now, right and proper.
Old Samira would walk away. Old Samira would concede defeat. And by “old” I mean, a-few-months-ago-Samira.
I was really struggling though, as evidenced by my use of third person just now. I always knew I was in some sort of trouble whenever I referred to myself by my own name, which is but one of the reasons why I generally avoided doing it.
That and it always sounded a bit lame and creepy.
“If the offer is still there,” I said, cautiously, “I would like to get engaged to you. I want to marry you.”
Heavy silence. I couldn’t look up after I’d said it. That was, quite simply, one of the hardest things I’d ever had to say. I’d mustered all my courage. Thrown caution to the wind. Put myself on the line (possibly several of them).
A few tears tumbled down my face. I felt so completely exhausted and utterly emotional. Menem still hadn’t said anything, but when I looked up, I saw that he was studying me, doubt marking his features. He obviously wasn’t sure what to make of me just now.
I couldn’t blame him really. For all I knew, he might have supposed I was just settling. That I’d woken up this morning and thought, “Hmm, I think I might take Menem up on his offer after all since no one else has come my way in the last five days”. But you have to imagine me saying it in a Scarlett O’Hara way, all coquettish and fancy and spoilt.
But I wasn’t settling. Not at all. Whatever the opposite of settling was. I suppose it didn’t have a direct opposite. Whatever the case, it was on the other end of the Accepting Marriage Proposals Spectrum.
In another world, if we’d been able to just date like everyone else, this might have been a whole lot easier.
“Do you mean that?” Menem said.
I nodded. “I meant every word. I want to be with you. I should have said that weeks ago. It’s just … it’s your fault, you know. You’ve opened my eyes, and I’m not sure where to look.”
That was the half of it. I had work to do, yes. But I might not have even gotten started if Menem hadn’t entered my life.
“You give me strength,” I said.
Menem was studying me again, his expression sombre. He slowly brought his hand up to my face and wiped a tear from my cheek. More tears immediately followed and I could barely breathe. This was the first time he’d touched me properly and I felt an instant jolt run through me. I placed my hand over his and pressed my cheek against it. He moved closer and cupped my face. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was about to kiss me. Instead, he pulled me in so that my head was resting against his chest and held me tight.
He exhaled. My first proper hug and I was yet to breathe. I didn’t care if anyone was watching. I felt safe, and the feeling was electric.
“I still want you,” he said.
37
As with all matter of marriage-related business (Muslim Standard Time is tossed out the window), things were already on track for an engagement. This only slightly freaked me out, but there was a scattering of genuine excitement, too. I’d met a lovely man and it was a new experience.
However, I felt nervous about telling Hakeem. He’d hear it from his father, but I owed him a conversation. So the next evening I got online and logged on to Facebook, hoping to find him on chat.
I’d called Lara this afternoon to tell her the news. She cried, which surprised me to no end because she only cried in BBC productions, never in real life. She even got me teary. It was emotional. Then she promised to go shopping with me to buy a dress for my party, something I’d not given any thought to, mainly because I would elope if I could.
She was mortified to realise, however, that I would be marrying into the same family as Zahra. “Lord, who’d have thought it?” she cried. “I think you got the good brother by the way. But gawd, it’s bad enough being related to her. Now you’ll have the same in-laws! Make sure they like you more!”
I promised her I’d try in order to appease her. Then she started talking about Jamal, who was wholeheartedly declaring interest in her. She also hinted she might get into cake-making with Sahar. Somehow, they seemed to balance each other out, and Lara did have creative flair. Still, she had the attention span of a flea, so I wasn’t highly optimistic on the longevity front.
When I spoke to Sahar (more tears), she praised Allah, in several variations: Subhanallah! Mashallah! Alhamdulillah! As well as a few obscure expressions I couldn’t even translate accurately.
Then, of course, my parents.
It was so bizarre telling Mum and Dad. Almost like an out-of-body experience. What I supposed an out-of-body experience may feel like in any case.
They were in the sitting room watching an Arabic program when I walked in to announce that I’d accepted Menem’s proposal. I was probably beaming, about to burst, but managed still to be the essence of composure. No need to get silly now.
When I told them the news, Mum and Dad looked away from the television and studied me carefully. Dad was the first to speak.
“Alhamdulillah. Very good, Samira. This is magnificent news!”
Then he changed the television station and tuned into the Lebanese version of Who wants to be a millionaire? As though it was every day that his daughter announced she’d found a dashing man.
Mum, meanwhile, still hadn’t said anything. She had a strange look on her face. Not her standard Look, yet it was somewhat familiar. Then I remembered where I’d seen it before: it was that same odd Look she’d given me the night Menem’s mother asked if I was taken. She didn’t seem terribly surprised, but that was probably because Menem’s mother would have spoken to her already.
I waited, expecting something profound to be sent my way. Mum and I didn’t really bond, but she seemed to be in a peculiar mood, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she started quoting Keats about then.
The most I got out of her were Arabic proverbs and they were usually stern reminders more than fluffy and heart-warming offerings.
Ask for the knowledge that would be useful to you, would keep you from harm and shame, then elevate you.
He who does not understand a look, will not understand long explanations.
(Coined especially for Mum.)
“Mabrook, habibti,” said Mum eventually with a tender smile. Congratulations, sweetheart.
>
I nearly died. Mum never called me sweetheart. It might have made for a perfect moment too, had the heartfelt congratulations not been followed by “Fold the washing.”
It wasn’t metaphorical, I immediately realised. Mum was just telling me to fold the clothing in the basket by the sofa.
I nodded, disappointed that Mum didn’t get inspirational on me.
No matter. Current state: excited. About everything. No guilt to be found here. No nerves to be seen or heard, except for one little annoying thought. Something was beginning, but I was also facing an ending. And I wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it.
Hakeem finally signed on an hour later, just as I was imagining Menem and I doing fancy things like hot air ballooning and taking long drives in the country. And all that other stuff you see people do on Facebook.
Allow me a bit of pre-honeymoon period delight, will you?
I needed to tell Hakeem my news. I formulated my plan of action even as my anxious nerves dropped in for a brief stopover. (“Not so fast, little lady. You didn’t think we were gone for good, did you?”)
It was a sit-and-wait-for-Hakeem-to-message-me plan. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was the best I could come up with just now.
So I sat waiting, hoping he would message me first. When he hadn’t five minutes later, I moved onto newly formed Plan B: Taking the bull by the horns.
After a few more moments, I did just that.
I messaged him.
Samira: I have to talk to you. Do you have a moment?
Hakeem: Sure.
Then I stopped. I was so grateful he wasn’t standing in front of me just then. This was so hard. How was I going to say it? I was never lost for words like this. It should have been the easiest thing in the world. But of course, after everything that had happened, after our conversation at the wedding, it was anything but easy.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to worry about telling him.
Hakeem: I hear congratulations are in order.
Samira: You do know already then?
Hakeem: Of course. Did you forget you’re Arab? :)