Good Muslim Boy

by Osamah Sami

  I recognised her brother from the mosque when he pulled up in his Ford Falcon. He nodded hello, hands not moving from the steering wheel.

  The passenger door opened, and out came an incredibly beautiful woman. She smiled at me, shy, then greeted me in Arabic, barely audible. ‘Salam Alaikum.’

  ‘G’day,’ I mumbled in English. ‘And Alaikum Salam, of course.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, my husband,’ she continued in English.

  ‘You too,’ I wheezed out.

  And with that, I turned from her and walked stiffly into the jewellery store. Maybe I could treat this as a chance to turn her off.

  I pointed at the cheapest rings and enthused about them, hoping she’d go home and tell her family she didn’t want this cheap bastard. Sadly, she praised me for being focused on the future and cleverly saving for our long life ahead.

  The shop owner, a mosque member, was extremely unhelpful. ‘The son of the cleric!’ he said. ‘You’re in for a massive discount, my friend.’

  Good news, I didn’t even have to pay upfront. I felt sick.

  Yomna took a respectful time choosing the right ring for herself. I grabbed one at random and got out of there quick as I could.

  My temporary marriage

  The thirteenth of October was Sisi’s birthday, but we both got a present. We got each other a temporary marriage.

  Sisi had been increasingly beset by a simmering sense of sin ever since our kiss in the Botanical Gardens, and she’d told me our improper coupling couldn’t keep going like this. Luckily, I’d listened to those imams back in Iran, at least where girl-centric loopholes were concerned. The temporary marriage wasn’t practised much down under, but Abu Ghazi, the octogenarian Casanova, was a notable fan. ‘It’s just like a taxi,’ he’d been known to sigh happily. A time-locked marriage: you kept the meter running.

  I tried to convince Sisi of the concept’s validity. She’d never even heard of it, and balked at the notion that marriages could be both proper and short-lived.

  ‘We’re in Australia,’ I said. ‘Most marriages here are temporary.’

  Eventually, I’d showed her enough scriptural evidence that she seemed at least provisionally convinced.

  So on her birthday, as we stood at Brunswick Station, Platform 2, I finally popped the question. ‘Do you feel like marrying me for a bit?’

  My ears were ketchup-red. She nodded.

  ‘Um, I need you to say it out loud,’ I said. ‘It’s part of the vows.’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she said awkwardly.

  I handed her the real present. I couldn’t afford more than her favourite perfume, but I’d embellished the gift with a book of ten handwritten poems.

  ‘And will you accept these as your dowry?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Um, I think you have to say yes again.’

  ‘Okay. I mean, yes. I do.’

  We smiled at each other. We must’ve looked like a couple of dorks.

  ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘How long do you feel like marrying me for?’

  ‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I don’t know, actually. How long were you thinking?’

  ‘A hundred years.’

  ‘Let’s try a hundred days and take it from there.’

  A hundred days! ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘Really.’

  We kissed a little bit more often after that, proper and honest.

  Trying to put Yomna off marrying me

  Honest in the eyes of God, at least. My other wife-to-be was another story.

  Later that same week, I was sitting next to Yomna at my house, the first time we’d been allowed to be alone together. It was supposed to be an exciting day.

  Here was this perfectly nice, perfectly beautiful woman, behaving her best, and not a thing she could do would’ve made me want her. And then there was me, sweaty and bothered, and behaving like a tool—yet it seemed like nothing I could do would make her back out of the engagement. I was depressed for both of us.

  ‘Listen, Yomna,’ I said. ‘I want you to know that I just don’t like children. Also, I want to be an actor, which means we’ll be broke for the rest of our lives. And if I ever get cast as a fat character, I’m going full-on, full-on fat. I’ll eat unhealthily on purpose and die of heart disease in my youth.’

  She poured me tea with three sugars, stirred them in and smiled. ‘And when I put this much sugar in your tea, I’m trying to give you diabetes,’ she said. ‘So basically, it sounds like we’re both great people.’

  I had to chuckle; I couldn’t help it, despite my mood. Trouble is, I’d already found a girl with a sense of humour.

  Detective Dad

  I arrived back from the beach on a glorious November day. I’d studied in the library all morning, but I’d made enough headway, and some guys from the cafeteria were going so I tagged along. Dad was on the couch reading when I walked through the door.

  ‘How was uni?’

  ‘Good! Good,’ I said. It was true, almost: the textbooks were getting easier by the day, and I felt like I was actually learning something.

  Dad raised his eyebrows.

  ‘But could be better,’ I added, for a little bit of realism. What kind of student admits that they like uni?

  ‘You were just at uni then?’

  My flesh blanched, as pale as cauliflower. How did Dad know?

  Relax, I thought. Dad doesn’t know.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said casually.

  ‘Huh. A concerned community member rang me up and said he was in his taxi when he witnessed you at a place not consistent with your religion. He was also of the firm belief that you were actually not enrolled. Is this person lying?’

  I knew who ‘this person’ might be. And even though he was right, it galled me that my dad could possibly believe him.

  ‘I don’t know if this person’s lying, but he’s certainly wrong,’ I said.

  ‘So you wouldn’t mind if I came to speak to your dean today.’

  My turn to cock an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s still, what, 2 pm? We can make it with plenty of time. I’ll even shout you dinner on Sydney Road afterwards.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I muttered. This was the most enthusiastic consent that I could muster.

  In the car, Dad enthused about my impending marriage, because fate was determined today to turn him into an all-purpose instrument of torture. I squirmed in the passenger seat as he chatted away about how happy he was that I was getting married in the mosque. Between the two families, they’d invited about a thousand people. He wanted me to write a speech for all my fellow youngsters to show how great it felt to be engaged.

  Sure, Dad! I wanted to say. Can I borrow a pen? I would then use this pen to stab myself.

  At 3.40 pm, I was walking him through the campus. We passed a librarian; we passed a guard. Both of them smiled at me and said hello.

  Seeing me so comfortable in the space, familiar with these people, I could sense Dad’s suspicions draining away.

  Unfortunately, I was not be
sties with the dean of the Medical School, yet we were death-marching towards this person’s office right now.

  First, there was the receptionist to deal with. I wondered if I could possibly use this to my advantage—could I whisper to this stranger, wink, get her to play along? It was too risky. Dad was standing right beside me.

  I stood before the desk and asked to see the dean. ‘Could you tell him one of his students is here please.’

  She looked at me blankly. ‘You mean tell her?’

  I cleared my throat and nodded my head like a baboon. ‘Yes, obviously that is what I mean. Good day to you.’

  Dad and I sat down in the reception hall and waited. He started chatting about totally trivial matters: whether cricket season had started, how many batsmen I’d bowled out to date, why a batsman could be stumped by a wide delivery but not a no ball, since they were both sundries. To my own horror, I mentally begged him to start talking about the wedding—that way, I could’ve distracted myself with a different breed of dread.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the receptionist. ‘The dean’s gone home for the day. Can you come back tomorrow?’

  I allowed my heart to flutter.

  ‘I think we’re good here. Thanks!’ Dad said.

  As we walked back to the car, he said, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with Sayyed Ghaffar; he’s a very strange guy.’

  And then he bought me dinner, which I pretended to enjoy while my stomach filled with a bottomless shame.

  MARKET TRADING

  Mashhad, Iran, 2013: one day until visa expires

  I arrive at 3.30 pm.

  The cargo office is closed.

  I spot a mobile number in the window. I dial.

  ‘Yes?’ The man is gruff-voiced.

  ‘Is this Keyhan Cargo? I have an emergency. I need a ticket to Australia.’

  ‘How much luggage do you have to send?’

  ‘It’s not exactly luggage.’

  ‘We only do freight.’

  ‘It’s my father. He’s passed away. I need to get him out.’

  ‘Why Australia? Rest his soul, by the way, and condolences, but why Australia?’

  ‘I am an Australian citizen, so…’

  ‘Okay. We won’t open till later tonight, so come back at seven, eight.’

  ‘But my visa expires tomorrow. I don’t have that much time.’

  ‘I said come tonight, at seven, eight. What does tomorrow have to do with anything? Your father will be out of here by then.’

  ‘Really? You can get him out?’

  ‘For the right fee, we can move ghosts. Just come back tonight.’

  ‘Wait, wait. I’ve run out of Iranian money.’

  ‘We accept dollars.’

  ‘Australian?’

  ‘American only.’

  I think quick. ‘It’s trading stronger than American.’

  No reply.

  ‘The banks are closed today and tomorrow.’

  No reply. Last bets, now.

  ‘Maybe you know where I could find a black-market exchange?’

  ‘Don’t even think about it, kid. We have a machine in the office and we run every note under blue light.’

  ‘The Aussie dollar is good,’ I blurt. ‘It’s really, really good money.’

  ‘Not in the world we live in. Good luck.’

  He hangs up.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  At 4.15 pm, a cabbie finds me a bureau that opens for a half-day, usually till one or two, he says. When we get there, the exchange is open. Thank Noah. I walk in.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I smile.

  ‘Not trading today.’

  ‘Why? You’re open.’

  ‘We’re counting money.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, just leave the premises.’

  ‘No, you’re open. I need money exchanged. I have a lot of it, please.’

  ‘Just get out.’

  ‘Where can I exchange money today?’

  ‘I don’t know. Leave, thank you.’

  The man has so much money in front of him; I can see it on the desk. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘It’s not hard. Australian for Iranian. It’s so easy. So, so easy. So easy to do.’ I wave my Australian bills at him, demonstrating how such an exchange might take place.

  ‘I’ll call security if you don’t leave at once.’

  I close my eyes, and take a deep breath, and prepare my story. I wonder if this is how my father used to feel before a story: he’d come up against an obstacle, and use a parable to beat it down. He’s become my parable so many times since he died; I wonder if he’d have been proud of this. It feels exploitative.

  ‘My father has passed away,’ I begin.

  The teller cuts me off. ‘Sorry for your father’s loss but we are not trading today.’

  I climb into the cab and ask if there’s anything else open. He shakes his head, and I get to thinking for a long, long minute. Long enough for the driver to smoke two cigarettes and grind them out.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  It’s a funny world: any city as strictly regulated as Mashhad is the kind of place that’s always going to have its black markets. Being the kind of place that’s always going to have its black markets, the authorities will always act strictly to shut those markets down. And since that makes a place like Mashhad a city that’s strictly regulated…now isn’t the time for thinking in this circular logic.

  What it means, in practice, is that if the cops catch me, they will confiscate my money and I’ll be left flat broke. I’ve seen cops raid a street like this and take everybody’s money—everyone’s, including the poor foreigners, who then must undertake a legal process as labyrinthine as this one.

  I’ve therefore left my money in the boot of the cab, buried as deep in my luggage as possible. I’ve also written down the number plate of the cab, which hardly makes it less risky—but it’s still less risky than trying my luck with the police.

  I pass shady guys who all murmur ‘exchange’ in hushed tones.

  ‘What’s the exchange rate?’ I ask one.

  ‘For American, two thousand six hundred.’

  ‘I have Australian.’

  ‘Same.’

  ‘Australian is stronger.’

  ‘Same.’

  Another dealer approaches me. ‘Australian, you say?’

  He grinds his teeth, all greedy: ‘Two thousand five hundred.’

  ‘I’ve been exchanging at three thousand three hundred all month.’

  ‘Okay, I can do that for you,’ he agrees, fluidly.

  ‘Uh…actually, no thanks.’

  ‘But my money is legit!’ he calls after me. ‘I’ll go higher if you like!’

  I might have foreign ways now, but I still grew up here.

  Two dodgy youngsters conceal their mouths and noses with scarves. I have no
choice but to keep trying my luck with people like this.

  ‘What do you have?’ one enquires.

  ‘I have a face and you can see it. Show me yours or I’ll walk.’

  ‘Maybe I have a deformed face.’

  ‘Better than a deformed soul. It won’t bother me,’ I respond, standing tall.

  Maybe my body language does it; they both remove their scarves. They are two clean-shaven men, around my age.

  ‘So, what have you got?’ one says.

  ‘Australian.’

  ‘I can give you two thousand eight hundred. That’s the best anyone can offer you, I guarantee that.’

  ‘Three thousand, at least! I’ve been exchanging at three thousand three hundred.’

  ‘You’re pushing your luck on a public holiday.’

  ‘But I have a lot to exchange, so maybe we can agree on three thousand?’

  ‘We’re not the banks, we don’t do big sums, so our profits are lower.’

  ‘I don’t need an economic breakdown of your small business, thank you. You’re here ripping people off and you know your sob story is too much. Let’s make this fair.’

  They look at each other. ‘How much have you got?’

  ‘Three thousand dollars.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Take a guess.’

  ‘Oh, yeah! How is it in Australia?’

  ‘It’s shit. So? Can you do three thousand? That’s still heaps profitable for you.’

  ‘Two thousand eight hundred,’ he says firmly.

  ‘That’s a rip-off.’

  ‘I’m the only one in this whole street that can guarantee you genuine bills.’