The Things We See in the Light

by Amal Awad

I clear my throat. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, I was shy but not stupid. I knew exactly what I was doing. Do you think I would’ve listened to you?’

  Lara breaks into the tension with a wave of her arms. ‘Guys, let’s not go down a dark path right now. We can’t change anything. And Sahar has a point. She wasn’t confused like you, so there was nothing to discuss. It was her choice.’ Samira looks upset and I’m ready to call an end to the conversation.

  ‘I don’t need you to feel guilty right now,’ I say. ‘I have enough of that myself.’

  Samira concedes this with a nod. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I’m just going to be clear on this: Khaled was not a great husband, but I’m not innocent either. We were never a good match. I knew it when I went to your wedding, Samira.’

  Samira had made sure to seat me near the exit, in case my nerves overwhelmed me. I almost danced in public that night, such was the excitement of the wedding. But what truly stood out was the joy stamped in her expression.

  ‘I watched you with Menem, and your parents, and it was so natural and real. And I was going to Jordan thinking I would come back to Sydney, but knowing in my gut that it might not happen.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just back out?’ says Lara.

  ‘I don’t know … pride? I felt like I would have failed, and let people down. I thought I’d feel free being married, so I went from telling myself it didn’t matter that I didn’t love him to convincing myself it would come in time.’

  ‘Eight years, Sahar,’ Samira tells me.

  My anxiety blooms. I’m quiet for so long that Lara lets out a groan. ‘Oh my God, Sahar, you’re killing us here. What the fuck happened?’

  ‘I did fall in love.’

  Lara’s eyes immediately widen, but Samira’s response is more tempered and cautious.

  How do I explain that I had no choice? I fell in love with my husband’s brother, and I really had no choice.

  Jordan

  The third year

  Tonight is the first time I will meet Khaled’s brother, Naeem, the revered eldest son. He is a permanent traveller, a doctor based in Dubai who spends many months each year providing his services in refugee camps and war zones. Everyone loves Naeem, even if they disapprove of his nomadic existence. ‘What mother doesn’t want to be close to her son?’ Amti often laments.

  He is in Amman for a few months to work at Zaatari refugee camp, and tonight is his first visit to his younger brother’s marital home. With him is his fiancée, Magda, a cosmetically enhanced Arab woman with bright eyes and an infectious laugh. Khaled’s sisters make fun of her lightly in my presence, joking about her maintenance costs. Naeem and Magda are to be married in a year. I have heard so much about them from my mother-in-law that I feel like I know them already, have conversed with them about life and served them tea. I can imagine how they speak and move.

  Even Khaled’s sister Dina, who is usually so unashamedly forthright in her opinions, speaks highly of Naeem. ‘You will like him,’ she tells me with a twist of her mouth, as though there is more she wants to add. I often sense, but can’t confirm, Dina’s belief that I don’t belong here with Khaled. She often pokes fun at him and how uptight he is, but then she also mocks my conservativism. The first time she saw me in an abaya and headscarf, she scanned me then simply shook her head and said, ‘No.’

  The soft words of praise about Naeem feel like pinpricks of information, carrying an importance I cannot unpack.

  I am feeling unwell on the evening of Naeem’s visit, a little anxious and unsettled, like a storm is approaching but I’m not sure from which direction.

  It’s July and the nights are hot, the air full of the energy of anticipation. Khaled is in high spirits, pondering whether we should hold a party for Naeem after his first visit. He’s excited in a way I’ve never witnessed before, not even on our wedding day, like a child who is finally receiving a long-coveted gift. He dresses up for the occasion in smart, tailored pants and a stylish button-down shirt. He looks handsome and even I find myself buoyed by his enthusiasm.

  ‘Wear something bright and put on a smile,’ he urges me. ‘They are so excited to meet you. Let’s impress them.’

  Khaled often struggles with the way I dress, but tonight I don’t mind and I choose a floral maxi Dina bought for me – black with vibrant red roses in bloom – with a cardigan and a light red headscarf, which I wear shorter than I used to, and looser. I don’t want to be rude, especially as I know it will get back to Amti.

  I have just finished applying eyeliner when I hear Khaled open the front door. I head straight to the kitchen to start preparing tea and sweets, serenaded by the sound of enthusiastic murmurs then the clap of a manly hug followed by deep voices. Magda’s voice rings through louder, feminine and distinct in its high pitch, her words sounding like they could end on a laugh. I hear my name.

  A few minutes later, I make my entrance. With Dina’s help, I have become better at looking at people in the eye, but I am still a bit shy and uneasy around strangers. Khaled will get annoyed if I lower my gaze. His previous words echo in my mind: It’s rude. There’s no harm in making eye contact.

  I enter the living room and immediately our guests shuffle out of their seats. Magda wears too much make-up, like an Arabic pop star, yet she is elegant and has a firm presence. Her hair is long and straight, a golden brown that is not her natural colour. Despite the plumped-up lips and fake eyelashes, she is beautiful, and I sense a maternal warmth. This is confirmed when she smiles and embraces me like an old friend. She takes a step back to assess me, placing my head between her hands. The praise in Arabic is poetic and overflows. ‘What a moon! How she lights up a room! What a sweetheart!’

  Inside I am cringing at the way she’s infantilising me, but I smile and politely thank her for the praise. Then I look to Naeem, who undertakes a more sober assessment of me. He is taller than Khaled, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his stare. He has piercing light eyes and they widen a little as he extends a hand, his gaze unwavering, as though he is searching for truth in my eyes. It is startling, but there is an eagerness to his expression, a softness to his look that puts me at ease. He smells of oud, the musky fragrance that everyone wears in the Gulf, and being in his presence is like being wrapped in a warm blanket.

  I find myself unable to look away as I take his hand. His grip is firm but not tight, his skin soft and warm. It sends a rush through my body. I am not used to it, and the feeling, rather than ordinary, is electric.

  I don’t know how many seconds elapse as we take each other in, Naeem’s gaze unapologetic in its intimacy, but eventually I detach from his grasp and escape his look.

  Naeem is attractive, like the rest of his family, but he is slightly more boyish than Khaled. Dressed in a grey suit without a tie, Naeem is thinner, rougher, distinguished in a very different way. His hair is short but curly.

  I have never experienced anything like this: meeting a stranger but feeling as if something invisible connects us. When he first rose from his seat and appraised me, the look on his face moved from soft indifference to hard investigation. His gaze was not one of connection, but of reconnection, like he was trying to remember where he had seen me before. And I leaned into it without thinking because I felt the same sense of recognition.

  As I take my seat, I snap out of this daze. If Magda and Khaled noticed the charge between us, they show no indication of it.

  I have been married for three years, and even in my most intimate moments with Khaled, I have never seen a man look at me with such basic desire.

  It would have been impolite for them to arrive empty-handed, so Naeem and Magda have brought us sweets from Dubai – dates stuffed with roasted nuts, candied orange peel and caramelised pecans. They also gift me a box filled with baking utensils. I open it, and with a tepid smile explore its contents. A packet of cake-decorating tools, some wooden spoons, a whisk and a mixing bowl.

  ‘We asked them to show us what a proper baker wou
ld use,’ Magda tells me, her hands crossed at her knees. ‘I love the photos on your Facebook page from Australia,’ she gushes. ‘You have to keep going. I told Naeem that you would do very well here.’

  I force some enthusiasm but tell her the truth. ‘I don’t think it would work here. It’s very expensive to run a business like that.’

  ‘You’re in a nice area of Amman. Lots of people will pay for your cakes.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ I add the term Arabs use to indicate that it’s up to the fates: ‘Inshallah.’

  I don’t believe there is a market for my cakes here, but more importantly, I have lost my thirst to create them.

  I thank Magda and Naeem for the gift and promise to make them something special for their next visit. Magda giggles at my speech. She calls my Arabic helou, an interchangeable term that can mean sweet, pretty, or, as is her meaning, cute. It can be casual or condescending.

  But Naeem gently scolds her in Arabic. ‘What are you talking about? She practically speaks like a native.’

  ‘She’s improving my English and I’m improving her Arabic,’ Khaled tells them, pleased. ‘And you should try her cooking. It’s like she’s from the country. Next time you’re coming for lunch.’

  My eyes meet Khaled’s, but he quickly looks away. I force a smile. Inside, I am burning. My husband is calling me a peasant.

  ‘Amazing,’ says Magda. ‘If we had more time, I’d get you to teach me how to make something. Naeem always complains that I inherited lots of good things from the women before me, but not their cooking skills.’

  She laughs, and I can’t resist checking Naeem’s reaction.

  ‘Magda likes to exaggerate,’ he says with a light smile, but he looks embarrassed – by her, or the accusation?

  We sink into a stiff silence, with only the clatter of tea glasses to fill the quiet space. But I see Khaled’s amusement play out in a tight but self-satisfied grin. He and Magda are more in tune with each other than I am with him. I know he isn’t in love with her, but I wonder, for a fleeting moment, if there has been some wild cosmic mistake. Magda is the perfect match for Khaled, who loves beauty and ease in his connections. She is accomplished. I could have studied law or pharmacy; I had the grades to become a doctor like her. What I lacked was the temperament. I loved my cake business. But for the first time, I feel embarrassed by it.

  Given her status, I am surprised that she is behaving like a habla. The kind of woman whose sweetness overtakes her energetic nature. The kind who doesn’t think before she speaks and so will say too much, or the wrong thing, and the embarrassment will fall to the person she has implicated as well as her.

  Without spending more than an evening with them, I can see that she doesn’t match Naeem, who exudes a quiet knowing.

  Khaled queries Naeem and Magda on their work. Naeem will be based in Jordan for a while, visiting the refugee camps to offer his services. Then he surprises us all when he addresses me. ‘You should visit the camps with me one day. We could use your skills.’

  Magda looks taken aback but quickly adjusts her stance, smiling as she shrugs her agreement, hands again resting at her knees. ‘True. A lot of foreigners come through, but they can’t speak Arabic.’

  ‘We need translators,’ Naeem continues. ‘And you have artistic skills and they need to keep people busy. I’ll put you in touch with the program director.’

  I am surprised, but the idea electrifies me. Instinctively I look to Khaled, who shrugs, but does not make an effort to smile through his unease like Magda. He would say no, for sure, if he were the older brother. But Naeem has authority in this space.

  ‘Do you think refugees want to learn how to bake? How is that useful?’ Khaled says to Naeem, his tone neutral.

  Naeem grins. ‘Do you think people stop wanting nice things when they’ve lost the life they once had? Useful, akhi? It’s never been more useful.’

  I sense Khaled’s insecurity against Naeem’s authority. I turn to him. ‘What do you think?’

  Khaled shrugs. ‘I don’t know if it’s useful, but if you want to try, Sahar, why not? Inti horra.’

  My meeting with Naeem unsettles me. He is attractive, but I wonder if I am simply transferring my desires onto him. Khaled is an ideal tick-box husband in so many ways, but I cannot sustain a connection with him. In Jordan, my sense of self has become fractured, and I don’t look to Khaled to fill the void. He struggles to look me in the eye everywhere except in the bedroom. Naeem has done nothing more than shake my hand and look into my eyes. But everything about him moves me. It awakens something in me, a fire, a need – genuine desire that physically hurts.

  I try to shake off the feeling. But then, four days later, Naeem sends us the details of a direct contact at the aid agency. And a week later I’m on a minibus to Zaatari refugee camp. I am buoyed by new potential. I want to work, but the idea of seeing Naeem also thrills me a little.

  Chapter 10

  What once held me together has fallen apart. All around me, this wreckage.

  I’ve said enough for one night. I pause here for my friends, who have been quietly listening. It will unravel, this strange history, but in parts, because tonight, I have nothing left. And while I know I’m only just getting started with the story, its essence lies exposed and a new energy fills the kitchen. Lara and Samira must now think I’m here purely because of Naeem. An extramarital love affair.

  In the stillness, we find our bearings. Samira looks distant, head lowered, as she plays with the fabric of her top. Reliably, Lara punctures the silence, her eyes wide, staring into mine. ‘Bloody hell. I thought you were going to tell me you’re a lesbian. This is kind of worse, gotta say. Holy shit, Sahar.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep with him.’

  But I imagined so many things. In my mind, I did everything with him. I gave him something I withheld from my husband. I reassured myself that Khaled didn’t want it, but even if he had, I had already carved out an irretrievable space for Naeem.

  When we’re done for the evening, I walk Samira to the door. She collects her jacket and slowly shrugs her way into it. I get the door for her, but then she takes hold of my arm and leans her forehead into mine. My instinct is to detach, but she keeps me in place. I savour the familiarity of her scent; she always wears fruity perfumes.

  When she looks at me, her eyes are wet. ‘Love is everything,’ she says, then rushes off.

  I return to the kitchen, where Lara is trying to interpret the grains in her coffee cup. She exhales, abandoning it, then runs her hands through her hair.

  ‘OK look. The scar. It wasn’t your husband, was it? Did he do that to you?’ She looks me square in the face and I shake my head.

  ‘No. He was never violent with me. It was an accident.’

  How it happened is an event I have managed to scramble in my mind so that it’s not real. I have no intention of sharing it now.

  Lara looks mildly relieved, but worry still creases her features. Although her eyes look misty, she’s not crying. ‘I’ve never known anyone as strong as you. But remember what I always used to say when we were younger and more innocent? Boys suck.’

  ‘Yes. I remember.’

  ‘Don’t let it take over, you know?’

  ‘There’s nothing to get sucked into. Don’t worry. We’re done.’

  Lara gives me a brief but fierce look then nods once, satisfied enough to end the interrogation. She starts to clean up, but my stomach aches.

  So much emotion, and I haven’t even told them the whole story.

  A week after the divorce text, on an unseasonably grey and stormy Friday afternoon, I’m prepping caramel apple scrolls in Maggie’s kitchen. Luke is in the chocolate studio, and Inez and Kat have disappeared. Two juniors, Justin and Olivia, float in and out, while I peel apples, core them then slice them. Nowadays, I usually have earphones in, playing ambient music or Lara’s songs (‘You always need a soundtrack’), but today the roof is being pounded by heavy rain and I feel comforted by it.

&nb
sp; Being busy makes it easier to push away thoughts of Khaled divorcing me by text. I thought the divorce would feel more liberating, but instead it’s been like a hard landing because my parachute didn’t open. And oddly, some part of me is searching for a way to deal with the injustice of it, the searing insult of a bad ending to a movie I didn’t even enjoy.

  I am sure I am being gossiped about outside of his family, and the idea that Khaled’s parents and siblings will be forced to indulge people’s fantasies about who I am, and my worth as a failed wife, physically hurts. People will be diagnosing me as majnooneh; Khaled, the poor husband married to a woman who was not well. I push back waves of grief, anger and annoyance – at him then myself.

  Maggie appears at my bench. ‘You’re my hardest worker, that’s for sure,’ she says, pulling over a stool then sitting down. We’re in the same spot she first interviewed me.

  ‘It doesn’t feel like work.’

  ‘Passion is not the same as obsession.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Maggie shrugs. ‘I used to do that: stay so busy that I didn’t have time to think. I covered up all my problems with things to do. Worked a treat. Until it didn’t.’

  ‘I’m not forcing this. It’s easy for me.’

  ‘No, I know. That’s the problem. You love it, but it’s still an escape. You need balance, Sahar. I’ve only known you for a little while. You’re shy but no shrinking violet. You could run this place, but there’s a reason I have loyal staff; they like what they do and they like working for me, too.’

  ‘I’m not likeable?’

  ‘Goodness, no, that’s not it. But you’re not flexible. You’re compassionate. I can see that you feel very deeply, that you take things seriously and do them with care. But don’t strive for perfection. The best stuff is the messy stuff.’ Maggie rises from her stool. ‘I want you to have fun, even when you’re at work. Lighten up. The Gordon Ramsay intensity thing is a myth. Luke just didn’t get the memo.’