by Amal Awad
I took a deep breath and did my best to suppress the nerves. I reread Hakeem’s response, with almost one eye closed.
He wasn’t mad, I guess. What was he though? After the engagement he’d tried to advise me and I rejected his attempt. Clearly he wasn’t going to bother again. Oh, what must he think? I didn’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did. It really did. It wasn’t meant for him, I thought with a mental whimper.
I waited a few minutes before replying, allowing the traces of panic to subside. Then I realised how silly I was being. What was I thinking? So what if Hakeem saw the email? I had nothing to hide. I did nothing wrong.
When I was able to shake it off, I hit reply, this time checking it was the right email.
Subject: Re: ?
Sorry about that, Hakeem. Menem – Malek’s brother (Zahra’s fiancé) – emailed me as he wants to ask me about my degree for his cousin. Thanks for your reply though.
Samira
P.S: I didn’t give him my email address, just so you know.
P.P.S: Zahra did.
I bit my lip then put the lower part of my face in my hands. I suddenly felt like I was in some bizarre alternative universe. Too many things were happening at once.
Hakeem replied quickly.
Subject: Re: ?
No problem.
Before I could have time to over-think things again, I copied my email to Menem and sent it, triple-checking the address.
Everything’s dandy, I assured myself. Although I should have flagged that nothing was dandy if I was using the word ‘dandy’, even in my head. That was usually an alarm bell. That and “peachy”. That one’s cropped up a few times in the past.
It didn’t feel as good sending Menem’s email now. I almost didn’t care if he responded or not. It was all tainted by my stupidity and inability to send email.
Even though Hakeem said it wasn’t a problem, I was sure he would disapprove. He was probably disgusted and annoyed, and wishing he hadn’t given me a book that required me to use my intellect.
12
“I’ve baked a cake in honour of your flying fox success,” Sahar advised me over the phone a few days later. “Come over this afternoon, inshallah. I’m also telling Lara to come.”
“I’d hardly call it a success, Sahar.”
“Well, then, it’s Thursday. Another cause for celebration,” she trilled.
“You don’t need an excuse to bake fancy cakes. You know that, right?”
We never really needed a reason to eat anything sweet for that matter, especially when it was one of Sahar’s delicacies. I’d tried to convince her to go into business for years and she eventually did last year. She operated out of her kitchen, and word of mouth and a Facebook page got her some decent business.
“Just come over!” she implored. “I barely got to see you at the engagement. And I’ve tried out a new recipe. This one involves layers and dark chocolate ganache with a twist.”
“Sounds intriguing. A bit of brandy, perhaps?”
“Very funny. I’ve got strawberry tea!”
“Okay, you’ve convinced me.”
A few seconds after I hung up the telephone with Sahar, it rang again.
“Hello, Samira speaking,” I said, rapidly. I had so much work to do. There was a location shoot planned for tomorrow, which always involved piles of paperwork, as well as a hundred emails and phone calls to the photographer and modelling agency.
“Samira. It’s me.”
“Hi Zahra,” I sighed. “What’s up?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. Look, I’m really busy but I didn’t want to just send an email so I’m calling to ask if you can bring some back issues of your magazine for me.”
“Sure, no problem,” I said, ignoring her implication that I should be grateful for the phone call. “I’ll bring them over this weekend.”
There was a pause.
“Can’t you get them to me sooner?”
“It’s Thursday. Can’t you wait a couple of days?”
“Yeah, fine,” she said.
“Okay, Zahra.” I sighed again. “I’ll bring them by tonight.”
“No, that’s fine. Just bring them whenever.”
“Zahra, I said I’ll bring them tonight, okay? I have to go now.”
“Okay, fine. After 8.30 though. Malek is coming over for dinner.”
“Yeah, great.”
“Ta ta,” she responded before I hung up on her.
I mean, who says “Ta ta”?
Half an hour later, Lara called.
“I’ve just sent you an email,” she said.
“Okies, one sec.” I clicked open the message and saw four convoluted web links.
“I came across some Muslim marriage websites and I had a look and sent you some prospects,” she informed me.
“You came across them? How did you come across them? Actually, you know what, I don’t want to know,” I said, already feeling a bit violated.
Sure enough, the links were to a Muslim matchmaking website. I internally shuddered. I’d heard the rumours about them, but I’d never dared to check out any for myself. It might have left some permanent damage on my already deeply cynical soul.
Lara was laughing. “I’m sorry, but there’s a lawyer in there! Why not, I say?”
“No!”
“You’re not curious?”
“No!”
Not even a little bit. I remembered that Lara had signed up for a few of these sites, but I was pretty sure she changed her stats and identity with each username. Some poor man in the Ukraine was probably awaiting an answer to his proposal right now.
“There’s also a link to a girl’s ad in there. You should see it! Lordie, what an utter tragedy.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Okay, see you tonight at Sahar’s place. She made a cake with layers!”
I hung up the phone, shaking my head in disbelief. I tried to refocus, not sure what I’d been doing before Lara’s phone call.
Cate slid onto my desk. “I love your conversations,” she said. “There’s always someone driving you batty.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
She pinched me and winked. “You look like you want to break something or hurt someone, or both,” observed Cate.
I took a deep breath. “I’m okay. That first phone call was my friend inviting me over for cake. The second was a phone call from my cousin. You know, the one who’s getting married. She needs back issues, but she must have them tonight and not a moment later.” I rolled my eyes.
“You’re too nice.”
“Not really. It’s just less of a headache doing this for her now.”
“Samina,” said Jeff.
“Sorry, Jeff. Would you like a coffee?” For the love of God, I’d just made him one an hour ago.
“Samina. Cate. Going green. It’s all the rage. I need some ideas on how to make an issue environmentally friendly. A green issue. But still white.”
Cate and I looked at each other then at Jeff. “Ah, sure,” said Cate.
“Yes, good. Samina. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with Cate. Please take back issues for reading if you’re ever so inclined.”
Yes, that’s what I wanted to spend my spare moments looking at, I thought balefully. “Thanks, Jeff. That’s very kind of you,” I said.
We had a ton of back copies. We’d use some of the excess stock whenever we attended bridal fairs and conventions, and for general promotion. I was pretty sure we’d even ended up in an Easter Show bag one year.
Cate was trying her best not to smile. She fiddled with today’s badge: “Why are you still talking to me?”
Jeff was still standing in front of me and we all shared a moment of silence. Cate smiled politely at him, as did I.
“Yes, well,” he said. “Goodbye, Samina.”
“Yes, goodbye, Jeff.”
Jeff nodded again, and he smiled awkwardly.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Cate erupt
ed into laughter. I smiled and shook my head.
“I swear that man’s on something,” she said, watching Jeff as he stopped at Marcus’s desk and leaned over with one hand rubbing his cheek importantly.
“Have you seen how much instant coffee he drinks?”
“True. But I think there’s more to it,” pondered Cate. “I told you about the monkey, right?”
“Don’t start on the monkey again. Please,” I said, turning my attention to my PC screen and scrolling through some files.
“He lives in a compound with a pet monkey,” she told me seriously.
When she first mentioned it, in my first days at Bridal Bazaar, I assumed it was some strange initiation ritual, and that an hour later the staff would all be holed up in a pub laughing about my gullibility. But to this day she insisted it’s true. I’d point out that Sydney wasn’t home to compounds, but Cate said it was probably a flat.
“What does it matter? He has a pet monkey,” she’d said in exasperation the last time. Cate said there had been an “incident” involving the monkey at last year’s Christmas party, but when I asked others about it, they all went quiet.
Nobody talked about last year’s Christmas party.
When my response was a stern look, Cate shrugged.
“Just sayin’. But okay, I won’t bring it up again.”
“In any case, he’s obviously doing something right since he’s the editor in chief,” I added.
“True. He does have some creative genius to him,” agreed Cate, still watching Jeff, who by now was lambasting Marcus, probably over a font.
But I’d seen Jeff at his best. Although he was quite possibly the strangest man I’d ever known, he delivered a fantastic magazine four times a year, as well as two mini editions. I wasn’t sure how, but like Loch Ness, some things were best left unexplored.
“Start thinking up some feature ideas, Cate,” I said. “Perhaps how to make your wedding bio-friendly?”
“Maybe it’s because he’s English,” said Cate, still looking at Jeff.
“What does that have to do with it?”
“They can be a bit eccentric, can’t they?”
“I guess so.”
“Anyways, keep going,” she said, motioning towards the phone.
I indicated to the email on my screen. “Caller number three was my cousin Lara,” I said. “She sent me links to a Muslim matchmaking site. She’s-.”
Cate leapt off the desk and was in the process of shoving me over. She clicked on the first link.
“There are Muslim websites for this?” she said, more excited than the situation called for.
“Ooooooooh, a lawyer,” she said. “Okay. Ahuh. No sign of hair gel, that’s a plus.” She continued reading, while I wrestled her for the mouse. But she wasn’t giving it up for anything. She grabbed my arm and held it away from her as she scrolled down.
I didn’t even get a look at the lawyer, because when I finally glanced at the screen, I was facing Lebsta99999. I doubted he was a lawyer or even, and not to be mean, tertiary educated. Cate laughed aloud at the profile picture, in which Lebsta99999 wore an Adidas tracksuit and was leaning against a Cortina (were they even still around?!). He was making the peace sign, so he was probably a nice chap. Nonetheless, I would be having words with Lara this evening.
“Oh tragedy be thy name,” laughed Cate.
I cringed. Why were these websites allowed to exist? I realised it was the cyber equivalent of a doorknock, minus the coffee and snacks. Which left it with very little to recommend itself as a courting system, when you think about it.
“I wonder if the numbers symbolise anything,” wondered Cate. “Why five 9s? Why not just three or four?” She looked at me with curiosity.
Now I laughed. “You’re so bad!”
“It’s a legitimate question!”
Cate looked back at the profile, seemingly intent on finding answers to the meaning behind the username.
“I don’t bloody know,” I whispered when I realised Jeff was looking in our direction. “Maybe Lebsta9999 was taken?” I found I was actually a bit curious myself now. Maybe the numbers were deeply symbolic. Perhaps they involved something secretive and mysterious. Like the numbers in Lost.
“He’s looking for a girl who’s pious but open-minded, pretty but modest in dress, outgoing but shy,” said Cate. “Are they all this confused?”
“Possibly. In any case, I don’t really think he’s my type,” I said, trying to reclaim the mouse.
“Yes, see, everyone’s right about you. You’re too fussy,” she said, refusing to relinquish her spot.
I did the mature thing and stuck my tongue out in response. Jeff walked past but didn’t look at us. But Cate still paused as he did, minimising the browser with astounding efficiency. When he was out of sight, she clicked the window open and laughed.
My phone rang and I braced myself, unsure what to expect. I didn’t have to worry though – it was our photographer for next week’s shoot and he had only work-related things to say
13
Lara, Cate and I were sitting in Sahar’s kitchen devouring the mud cake with layers and discussing Sahar’s eventual – “God willing” – wedding. Cate and I were stuck at work late, so I invited her to come along. She wasn’t going to say no to cake.
We were alone because, as usual, Sahar’s parents were out. Her mother ran a local Muslim organisation and spent most of her time at the office. Her father owned a mixed business, one of the few left in our area. He was still the go-to person for Arabic delicacies, like olive oil from the West Bank, cheeses, labneh and zaatar spice mix. To this day he would give me free lollies whenever I went in to the shop.
Anyway. The topic had segued (unintentionally of course) towards the Arab warrior types one might find in the Middle East. Or, as Lara reminded us, in a number of convenience stores throughout the Sydney metropolitan area.
Lara was extra pleased about that because any time she’d go into one of the stores, the guy behind the counter would take one look and practically give up his shop for her. They nearly lost their minds when they realised she was also Arab (her favourite gold necklace, which had her name written in Arabic was the giveaway).
Lara would go in, unperturbed if it turned out to be a Pakistani or an Indian behind the counter because they tended to gravitate towards her too. There’d be a conversation during which the convenience store assistant would ask Lara where she was from. Following that they’d laugh over the fact that they were both Palestinian, and try and figure out how close their villages in the homeland were to each other.
Of course, he’d have no idea that Lara barely remembered the name of her Dad’s village.
Then Lara would leave with a handful of free chocolates, or a bottle of Coke at half-price, which, admittedly, worked out well if we were on our way to a movie.
“The fact is, you’re going to have to go OS if you want an Arab warrior type,” Sahar told me.
I almost choked on my cake. “Go overseas? I can’t find someone here and I have things in common with these guys. Imagine how compatible I’d be with a guy from there,” I said in disbelief.
“What about a Westley type?” said Lara, invoking the hero of The Princess Bride. “Surely they’ve got those?”
I somehow doubted that. I didn’t think the Arab men in the Middle East would find the black mask and black clothing look suitable. Which was fair enough. It wasn’t very practical.
“Very funny. You know, here I am thinking my friends want the best for me, but instead I’m getting lectured about marriage.”
I tell you. And what was it with your married friends who suddenly felt this overwhelming need to get everyone else hitched? Was it like trying a new chocolate bar and thinking, “Oh, but isn’t that just the most amazing thing I’ve ever tasted! I must get everyone on to this immediately!” All said in a posh accent, of course, so the “immediately” was more like immeeejutly.
“Sahar, can I strip?” I said.
“Nobody’s here, as usual,” she replied, doing up her own hair in a ponytail.
Cate raised her hand then laughed. “Okay, you’re going to have to bring me up to speed here,” she said, turning to me. “Define Arab warrior type.”
I removed the pins from my headscarf – two on top, one safety pin at my throat. With a flutter, I dropped the scarf and the cap I wore under it onto my handbag, which sat on a side table by the kitchen door. I removed the elastic holding my bun and shook my hair out.
“That’s better,” I exhaled.
“Oh my God,” exclaimed Cate.
“What?”
“You look so different!”
Lara looked up from her cake to see what all the fuss was about. She glanced at me then gave Cate the once over.
“You’ve never seen Samira’s hair?”
Cate shook her head in awe. “You’re beautiful, Samira,” she said. “I honestly wouldn’t have recognised you straight away if I saw you on the street like that.”
I blushed to the roots of my hair. “Thanks, Cate. You’re exaggerating though.”
She shook her head. “Seriously, I can’t believe what a difference a headscarf makes. I mean, you’re beautiful either way, but …”
She got up from her chair and came to my side of the table. She cupped my hair, which fell just below my shoulder blades, as though it was lost treasure.
“Is this your natural colour?”
“Yep.”
“I didn’t expect it to be so light. I knew it was brown, but it’s almost golden,” she said, still vaguely awestruck.
She looked at me with a mournful smile. Lara studied her curiously as she tapped her spoon against her mouth.
“Funny, I’m so used to seeing you both ways,” said Lara, mildly amused.
Sahar was watching the exchange, but I wasn’t sure what she was thinking.
“Okay, well, thanks,” I told Cate. “But you’re just not used to seeing me this way.”
“Maybe, but I just, I can’t believe this is all hidden.” She played with my hair some more, taking strands here and there and inspecting them.
