The Things We See in the Light

by Amal Awad

Lara’s eyes study me then she indicates my hair. ‘Is it permanent or are you just trying it out?’ she says carefully, ripping into the bread.

  ‘My scarf?’

  Lara nods. She stays busy scooping up eggs and cheese then fashioning the bread into an envelope.

  ‘I think so. It just felt wrong to wear it to a bar.’

  Lara nods slowly. ‘And how did it feel not wearing it?’

  I shrug. ‘Honestly? Like nothing.’ Naked but not exposed. ‘It’s been a long time coming, I guess.’

  ‘You’re not going to shave your head next, are you?’

  I laugh, a bit startled at the thought. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because, I love you, but you tend to be a bit extreme.’

  ‘I don’t think cutting all my hair off is the kind of extreme I need right now.’

  ‘But there’s something more,’ she says. ‘If taking off your scarf felt like nothing, then there’s more to come.’

  My phone vibrates on the bench and I pick it up. Maggie has responded to my email.

  Hi Sahar,

  I’ve been expecting your email. Can you come in tomorrow?

  M

  At the bottom of the email is her full name, Maggie Mora, and a business logo for Small and Sweet by Maggie. It’s pastel-coloured but not cute; it has an elegance to it.

  The nerves rush in as I realise that this could lead to an opportunity, but also, that it means I would be working for someone else. I email Maggie back and arrange to meet her at the patisserie kitchen the next morning at 11 am. She gives me instructions: enter through the green door between the chocolate shop (Small and Sweet by Maggie) and the cafe (Sweets by Maggie).

  Then I move to the couch where I study Khaled’s message, so lifeless and matter-of-fact.

  Allah ye’samhik.

  I trace the words on my screen, wishing they could reveal hidden information. I picture the tight expression his face would have held as he typed this. I feel his anger as if it vibrates in the space. For just a moment, I wonder if I acted impulsively.

  Khaled’s temper is short, but his elegance disguises it. And now that I think about it, even his message has a sophistication to it. He’s not angry, he’s making me feel guilty with his calm.

  My hands tremble a little as I type a reply.

  I’m sorry. I can’t do it anymore.

  When I hit ‘send’, I realise my whole body is shaking. Nerves, energy, I don’t know. There’s a much larger conversation to be had, meaning that has not been adequately transmitted in my response. Hurt that should never be unearthed or confronted.

  My reply may be short, but at least I’m being honest.

  Chapter 6

  I don’t know where to begin, or if I have already begun.

  Maggie is folding pastry into croissants then brushing butter across them. She sprinkles thinly sliced almonds across the tops, then lays the croissants out neatly on a tray. There are only a handful of them, so I assume they are for her. She’s not dressed in chef’s whites like the three bakers working quietly behind us, but she wears an apron and is adorned in large resin jewellery pieces. Perhaps she is trying to tell me something with her demonstration. She is easy in her movements. The croissants are neat and evenly portioned. She is a pro, and this studio is her domain.

  We’re in the big kitchen at the studio where the baking is done. The chocolate studio is a smaller room, which sits adjacent to this one. It’s like a hidden world, much larger in its offering than the outside would suggest. There are enough benches for five or six people. The walls have inspirational quotes against backdrops of the sky and the ocean, framed in rose gold. The one closest to Maggie has a quote by Joseph Campbell: ‘Where you stumble, there lies your treasure.’

  ‘So, Leo tells me I ought to give you a go?’ Maggie says.

  I smile at the thought. ‘I’m not a complete beginner.’

  She doesn’t seem convinced. I go with the truth.

  ‘I need to find a job. I’ve been away for a while.’

  Maggie nods slowly. She takes the tray of croissants over to a large oven and with ease slides it in.

  ‘I ran my own cake business for years,’ I tell her.

  Maggie closes the oven door, makes a note on a pad on the wall then turns back to me. ‘I’ve had problems with people trying to steal my recipes.’

  ‘I wouldn’t need to steal them,’ I say without thinking. I feel a burn set in my cheeks and I want to sink into the floor.

  Her smile is one of amusement. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I’m pretty good at copying things.’

  ‘You mean like tracing a piece of art?’

  I could just walk out now, but something holds me in place. ‘I mean, I prefer to follow recipes or come up with my own ideas, but I’m good at this. I’m good with flavours.’

  ‘So if I asked you to make one of my pastries now, you could do it.’

  ‘I think so.’ The thick custard of the mille-feuille was impressive, but not that hard to make. The flavour of the icing might not be note-perfect. And admittedly, I might struggle with the pastry – it was clearly made from scratch. I can do that, but it’s been a while. ‘Yes. I could.’

  Maggie chuckles and starts to clean the bench. I look around and notice the man I saw tempering chocolate when I first visited the shop. He’s working on a set of drizzle cakes at a counter behind her. I guess the cakes are lemon. He’s staring at me, his lips curled in amusement. We make eye contact. I expect him to look away, but it’s a while before he does. He smiles when he finally lowers his gaze, but it doesn’t feel friendly.

  ‘OK then. The tiramisu.’

  I sigh. ‘I didn’t try that. It has alcohol in it and I don’t drink alcohol.’

  The man laughs to himself but continues with his work. Maggie’s eyes widen. ‘I’m not asking you to drink anything.’

  ‘I think I should go.’

  Maggie studies me then nods. ‘I don’t know if I trust you, but I feel in some way we were meant to meet. I have someone leaving next week, then my business partner dropped your name. I’ll take that as a sign.’

  My face flushes again. ‘I wasn’t being sneaky. I’ve only just met Leo.’

  ‘What did you try?’ says Maggie.

  ‘The chocolate tart. The doughnut. The vanilla slice. And the panna cotta.’

  ‘Never mind those. Take this bench. Make me a sponge cake with a cream filling and any kind of icing.’

  ‘Can I make you something a bit more complicated?’

  ‘Sponge cake. Cream filling. Some kind of icing. Go crazy.’

  I look over and see two women standing at a counter behind the man. Below their flat chef’s caps, I see that one of them has a half-shaved head, and the other has her hair knotted into an elegant bun that sits low, her make-up artfully done – elaborate black eyeliner, red lipstick that looks permanently painted on. They too are at work on desserts, and while I want to take a closer look at what they’re doing, I have work to do.

  I place my handbag to the side then wash my hands at the sink. I’m ready to set about making a sponge cake, with the filling and cream cheese icing, but I don’t know where anything is. I don’t even have an apron. I look to the man, but change my mind about seeking his help when I see how cold, or at the very least, disinterested, he seems.

  I approach the women instead, and the one with the elegant bun leads me to a large fridge and the pantry. I thank her with a smile.

  ‘No worries. I’m Inez, by the way.’ She smiles back then wanders off.

  In the pantry, the ingredients are clearly labelled and placed together alphabetically, and I feel a murmur of excitement. This sits well with me because I used to do the same in my own kitchen and the familiarity springs me into gear. I find a large silver mixing bowl, into which I place eggs, butter, caster sugar, self-raising flour, baking powder and cornflour. I add icing sugar to the pile and some thickened cream from the fridge to make the icing. It needs something more, but I’m
not sure what. Cream cheese icing is hardly impressive. Then I spot it: a basket of produce, in which there’s an abundance of passionfruit. It’s perfect, available all year round, and I add three to my pile.

  When I return to the bench, Maggie peers into my bowl of ingredients. Her eyes widen and she smiles before patting me on the shoulder. I have no idea if that means she approves or if I have already failed. It occurs to me how much is riding on this cake; I have never had to audition for work like this and perhaps it’s sparking me into life because suddenly I am determined: I need this job, but now, I also really want it.

  I have to impress Maggie. It will only take about thirty minutes for the sponge cake to bake, and it will need to cool for a few minutes before I ice it. I have enough time to make another dish.

  I return to the fridge and find cream and milk, then I take a vanilla bean pod from the pantry. I never used gelatine in my strict days, but I’m not going to eat this, just make it, so I select a sheet of that, too. I will make panna cotta the way I like it, using a method I hope offers something new and impressive. It’s not going to come out the same as Maggie’s in thickness, but that’s the point. It’s more important that the flavours are on a par with hers. I recreate them in my mind, and try to recall the shape and look of it.

  Maggie returns when I’m pouring the mixture into the moulds.

  ‘This isn’t a sponge cake.’

  ‘I’ve done that and it’s baking. I’m making a panna cotta as well.’

  Maggie stares back in silence, her eyes wide in a new way. She purses her lips, nods once then moves off in the direction of the man who doesn’t smile.

  Maggie returns two hours later, just as I’m putting the finishing touches on the sponge cake. It looks as nice as a sponge cake can; it could probably be taller, more generous, but the icing is on point. A good sponge cake is never overdone. Maggie takes a knife to it, slices through to the centre easily, and says, ‘Kept it simple – good.’ I worry that she is making a judgement, but she does her little head-nod and seems to be reluctantly becoming convinced. She takes a second bite and closes her eyes.

  I have already prepared the panna cotta. It would do better with another hour, but it has held its shape. I used some of the leftover passionfruit for a topping, not the strawberries that Maggie uses.

  ‘You forgot the mint. And I use strawberries.’

  She doesn’t wait for a response, going on to check the wobble, which she seems to tick off with another sway of her head. She takes a spoonful and closes her eyes, stocktaking.

  ‘What have you done differently?’

  ‘The cream. I used seventy per cent cream, thirty per cent milk, instead of 100 per cent cream.’

  Maggie considers this. She turns her attention to the man, who is watching, his amusement never-ending. It seems like Maggie is negotiating with the revelation. When she remains silent, I keep talking. ‘It’s lighter, less dense; more of a palate cleanser than a thick dessert.’

  ‘Lighter,’ Maggie repeats. ‘What do you think, Luke? Does it work?’ She procures a fresh spoon, dips it into the panna cotta then travels over to the man’s bench. Luke accepts the spoon and tries it.

  ‘Would make a great mousse.’

  ‘Ooh, bit harsh,’ says Maggie.

  I don’t know if I have impressed her or turned her off me completely, and I want to start again, to reintroduce myself. My cheeks flame afresh, but I refuse to allow Luke to deter me with a cheap dig.

  ‘Look. It’s nice,’ Maggie says at last. ‘But I asked you for one thing. A sponge cake. I didn’t ask for a panna cotta, and I certainly don’t want one that’s meant to … well, what? Teach me how to do it better?’

  The panic sets in. ‘Oh no, not at all. I just wanted to show you what I can do.’

  Maggie studies me. ‘The cake is good. I like it. Do you know chocolate?’

  ‘I do, but not as well as you do. I used chocolate in my cake business sometimes.’

  ‘Artistically?’

  ‘For the figurines I used to put on top of the cakes.’

  Well, I mainly used fondant, but I would use chocolate for eyes or props. Dancing elephants with the trunks up for luck atop a chocolate bucket. Lions with chocolate beach balls. White chocolate hearts for a happy couple.

  ‘Used to?’

  ‘I lived in the Middle East for several years, so I closed my business.’

  ‘The Middle East.’

  I nod. My olive skin, darker from the Jordanian sun, tells the story of where I come from better than anything else about me. I suppose my features hint at my heritage, too. Lara and Samira could pass for Anglo. I never could.

  ‘And what did you do there?’

  ‘A few things. I worked at refugee camps with an aid agency for a few years. I taught baking workshops for a bit. I mainly worked as a translator. That sort of thing.’

  I keep my expression neutral as Maggie’s gaze flickers down to my hands.

  ‘But you grew up here.’

  ‘I was born here, yes. I got married. That’s why I went there.’

  Maggie studies me for what feels like minutes. Her look is thoughtful, intense; she seems by turns frustrated and excited, like she is wrestling with herself.

  ‘Will you be going back there anytime soon?’

  I shake the idea away. ‘No. I’m here to stay.’

  Maggie smiles, her eyes curious. ‘What is your story?’

  ‘Which one?’

  This makes her laugh. ‘I like you. You’ve got spunk.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘OK?’

  ‘I think so. Yes. We’ll give it a shot.’

  ‘Thank you so much. Will there be a chance to learn more chocolate skills?’

  ‘Well, we can work on that, but I want you in the kitchen supporting the senior staff to start with.’

  My face must have fallen, because Maggie softens and moves towards me. ‘The women you saw earlier? Inez, studied and worked in Europe. She’s a pâtissier and is making us vegan-friendly. Kat, ten years in commercial kitchens. The best décoratrice I’ve ever had. And this one here – Luke. A qualified chocolatier. He’s an OK baker.’

  ‘All right, then,’ he says with a more genuine smile, despite Maggie’s dig about his baking ability.

  They obviously get along well. I glance around and feel small. They all look like they’re in their thirties, but younger than me. And so much further ahead.

  ‘I ran a business for several years. I’m not a beginner.’

  ‘In this space, you are. Now, that is what I have to offer. It’s up to you. If you’d rather go it alone, not have to be the junior and do the hard yards to earn your spot, I understand.’

  I am lost for words. A junior? Earn my spot? My head is screaming at me to retreat. Hole up in my parents’ house and start baking. Take some professional classes and return to safety. But my insides are pulling me elsewhere. My body is speaking to me at the same time, and I know that my fear in this moment is not a warning but a demand. I am meant to be here.

  ‘Would it be full-time?’

  ‘Three days a week is all I can offer. Starting with a trial.’

  I look down, fighting back emotion. My feelings are morphing too quickly for me to comprehend them. I glance up and find Luke watching me, even as he continues to drizzle the small cakes. They are uniformly done, lined up neatly, looking delicate and pretty, topped with a piece of curled lemon rind.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll take whatever you can give me.’

  Then I exhale as I feel my first genuine burst of excitement in so long, mild as it is. I extend my hand. ‘Just tell me when to be here.’

  ‘Super.’ Maggie takes my hand into both of hers and gives it a gentle but firm squeeze. ‘Take the weekend. We’re closed Mondays. Tuesday, 5 am. But sometimes, it might be an earlier call.’

  My eyes widen, but I recover quickly. ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘Check your email for a contract. What else? Wear b
lack.’

  I glance at Luke in the chef’s whites. Not there yet. ‘No problem.’

  Maggie smiles dimly. ‘I like your panna cotta. But my recipe stays. OK?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, mortified. She thinks I was challenging her. I suppose I was trying to prove myself.

  I start to clean up and Maggie places a hand on my arm. ‘Leave that. Get some rest. This is going to be a big change for you. I feel it.’ Maggie’s eyes flash and she does a brief little dance with her shoulders, suddenly excited. ‘Luke will be your primary contact. Go say hello and get to know him before you leave.’

  Maggie departs, buzzing, like a puppeteer who has just received a delivery of new toys. And, briefly I wonder if she is and I have just signed on to be part of her next show.

  ‘Hey,’ Luke says. He abandons the last of the cakes. His blue eyes scan me as he wipes his hands on a tea towel.

  ‘I’m Sahar,’ I say, extending my hand.

  He awkwardly holds up his hands – not yet clean – and I feel silly.

  ‘Well, see you Tuesday,’ he says. ‘Congrats.’

  ‘Do I need to bring anything?’

  ‘A lucky apron.’ Then he offers a faint smile and rolls his eyes. ‘That was a joke.’

  ‘Right. Is there anything else I need to know?’

  ‘Don’t be late. The early starts are hard if you’re not used to them.’

  Chapter 7

  I hate being a beginner. I want to fast-forward to mastery

  ‘Sahar. Sahar. Sahar. Sahar. What. Are. You. Doing. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me.’

  Luke.

  At least once every shift.

  Every. Single. Shift.

  Another thing: ‘Too many questions.’

  At least he can say my name right.

  It’s September, and Sydney’s weather is half-heartedly making an effort. I walk to work so early that I need a jacket to guard against the morning chill, but I leave the kitchen in the afternoon when it’s much warmer, despite the temperamental skies.

  As I journey there, I am always deep in thought – about something new I’ve learned, or something I could do better.