by Amal Awad
I needed sleep. So I went straight back to bed and tried my best not to think about a single thing.
20
“Matt Damon’s in town! We are so going!” said Lara over the phone on Thursday.
“Okay, what? Start again,” I replied.
I was sitting in the food court at Metcentre with Cate, who was waiting patiently while I spoke to Lara. We were on a coffee break, but neither one of us felt like being in the office this morning. Not highly out of the ordinary, I hear you say. Well we really didn’t feel like it today. There is a difference.
“Samira, Matt Damon is here for his new movie! We have to go!” she declared.
“Lara, I don’t think-.”
“Shhh! No! We’re going. Pleeeeeeeeeease. I have nothing. I’m lonely,” she entreated.
“Oh, for goodness sake. Do you really expect me to fall for that?”
“Maybe,” she said. “Please, come on. This morning I caught my mum doing that evil eye thing while I was still sleeping. I need to get out of here!”
“What evil eye thing?” I sighed.
“You know… The melting the lead in the pan and swirling it over the head thingamajig.”
“Righteo. Lara, the lead-swirling thing your mum did does not sound good.”
I’d heard about the village remedies for evil eye, one of which included melting a small ball of lead in a pan and swirling it above the head of the ‘afflicted’. Sometimes you would look for a shape or a pattern in the hardened lead: a rat (a snoop in your midst), a snake (jealousy and backbiting), and so on. It was a bit creepy because it seemed to be effective. Arabs were fairly superstitious about that sort of thing.
“And why was your mum doing that?”
“She’s convinced someone put the evil eye on me. She says there’s no way I’m naturally this wild and that all these bad things just happen,” explained Lara.
That sounded about right. Her boisterous personality was a little hard to deal with at times. We’d seriously ruled out bipolar a while ago though as she didn’t seem to hover between extremes.
“What happened?”
“I kind of got fired,” she confessed.
“What?”
“It wasn’t my fault. I had a fight with my boss last night. He told me off for something so I threatened him with harassment and then he said I’ve received all the warnings I’m going to get and to leave.”
“Wait, wait. Harassment? When?”
“Oh yeah, one of the doctors kept asking me out. Tosser. Like hello! He’s married. As if!”
“Oh my gosh, I had no idea.”
“Anyways, that’s not even a problem. I am officially jobless,” sighed Lara. “Hence my need to go and see Matt Damon.”
It was my turn to sigh, again.
“Anyway, I know you want to go deep down! Come ooooooon.”
“Hey no, this is your idea. But, because I’m selfless and good, I’ll come along,” I told her. That and I wanted to hear more about the married doctor.
“Yes, thank you! I love you!” she cried.
“Okay.”
“And you really are selfless by the way. Mwah!”
When Cate and I finally dragged ourselves back to the office, I got online to moderate the discussion forum on our website. Aside from my significant coffee-making duties, I did actually have a ton of other tasks to undertake in my daily routine and the forum fell under my expansive job description. A formidable challenge at times, but on the plus side, it did invoke a certain sense of authority in me. I felt powerful. I could ban people and stop them from logging on indefinitely.
The negative though was bridezillas en masse. “Nobody understands the pressure of being a bride! [insert various crying-my-life-is-over-but-in-a-self-indulgent-way-to-be-sure emoticons].” Which would generally be followed by an onslaught of fellow bridezillas who apparently did understand the pressure of being a bride [insert various sympathetic-we-shall-indulge-you emoticons].
And there were your standard flamers and trolls: “You’re making a big mistake! Marriage is a form of slavery!”
Anyway, all of that was tolerable enough. It was the syrupy stuff that really made the task so painful.
“Awww, baby, you’re just gonna be the most beautiful bride evar!” (Note spelling.)
Which would provoke a back and forth along the lines of:
“Awww! No way, you’re going to be so beautiful, so amazing, cant wait to see pics………. you beta post’em up!” (Note spelling, and complete disregard of punctuation and rules of grammar and humanity.)
“Awww….I SO wish u cud come but can only invite 300 people!” (Clearly someone of ethnic background, aka a ‘wog’.)
I spent ten minutes making sure everything was in order, methodically scrolling through each sub-forum and checking my inbox for any user complaints.
Afterwards, I logged on to Facebook. I had already accepted Menem’s friend request a couple of days ago but hadn’t a chance to explore it yet, so I went straight to his profile.
I hardly used Facebook except for chat and the occasional facetious update, and to keep up with Lara, for whom it may as well have been invented. In her current profile picture she’s sitting on a Ronald McDonald statue’s lap, kissing his cheek.
I spent a good hour trawling through Menem’s page. It was quickly apparent to me that he was an incredibly active and social guy. He had photo albums for fishing expeditions, bush walks, trips to the Gold Coast, Melbourne, New Zealand, and even Lebanon. Had I not known how lovely and down to earth he was, I’d have felt completely intimidated by his liveliness. I marvelled at it, before feeling a pang in my stomach that lingered. I wasn’t sure if I was just a little jealous I had so little to show for myself in comparison, or if it was that everything I saw of him made me like him even more.
Following the Facebook investigation, I decided to sign into chat. I’m not going to lie: I was hoping Menem would be there.
He was, but a few minutes later he hadn’t messaged me. I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. I stared at the screen for a moment then resolved to log off. Just as I was about to, the little message alert sounded and a window flashed at the bottom of the screen.
Menem. Stomach muscles released. Breathing returned to normal.
Pathetic.
Still, I smiled, a feeling of anxious excitement working its way up my throat.
Menem: Who is Lara and why is half your wall taken up with posts by her?
Samira: My cousin. Zahra’s cousin too. She has a lot of sugar in her diet.
Menem: Ha ha. She’s pretty funny.
Samira: She certainly thinks so.
Menem: You’re very close?
Samira: Yes, very. She’s like a sister to me.
Menem: And Zahra? Are you close to her as well?
Samira: Well… Not exactly.
Menem: It’s OK. I’m picking up on the “don’t go there” vibe.
Samira: Yes, maybe change the subject.
Menem: Consider it done.
Samira: OK.
Menem: So why don’t you get along?
Samira: Stop it! :P
Menem: OK, OK. I’m just teasing. For what it’s worth, even though she’s my sister-in-law to be, I’m on your side.
Samira: That’s good to know.
Menem: No need to thank me.
Samira: OK.
Menem: Unless you really want to.
Samira: How about I wait until there’s a need to thank you?
Menem: That might work. I’ll hold you to it.
Samira: No problem. Done any fishing lately?
Menem: Are you making fun of me and my fishing hobby?
Samira: I’m hurt you’d think that.
Menem: Well?
Samira: OK, I’m smiling, but I’m not making fun. I just don’t know anyone who does the fishing thing.
Menem: The fishing thing? You need to try it. If you did, you would never dismiss it like that.
Samira: Erm, I’l
l pass. But if it’s any consolation, I liked your fishing expedition photos.
Menem: Thank you, I appreciate it. I like your photos too.
Samira: You mean photo. Singular.
Menem: :) It’s a nice photo. Singular. Why don’t you have anything else up?
Samira: Not sure. I guess I don’t have much to show.
Menem: I’m sure that’s not true. Zahra’s mum mentioned something about some photos you took of your nieces. She said they were beautiful.
Samira: Well, aside from family, whom I don’t put online, there was my trip to the Blue Mountains five years ago. ;)
Menem: Ha ha, fair enough. Do you mind if I ask you something personal?
Samira: Depends on the question.
Menem: OK, well, I’ll ask and you can tell me to buzz off if you don’t want to answer.
Samira: Works for me. Shoot.
Menem: How long have you worn hijab?
Samira: About six years. And no, no one forced me. :)
Menem: I didn’t think that all, I was just curious. Do you ever think about taking it off?
The last question threw me. What on earth could he mean by asking me that? Did he not like hijab?
Oh God. I’d assumed he was observant if not very strict. You see, totally non-religious boys tended not to gravitate towards girls who wore a headscarf. Not that they would never end up with a hijabi, it was just less likely to happen.
A few doorknocks had failed from the moment I entered the room, essentially because the suitors failed to hide their disillusionment when they saw me walk in with hijab. Those guys were easy to detect, you simply had to recognise the signs.
There was the wide-eyed look first, the sort that swiftly turned from dismay to “How can I make it look like I didn’t just look dismayed?” This was followed directly by a bright smile, no eye contact. Then the mental countdown: how long do I have to stay so that it doesn’t look like I’m put off by the hijab? Finally there’d be some uncomfortable shifting on the couch.
Those ones were forever after deemed the Sellout Suitors. They were lower on the scale than the FOBs, the Metrosexuals, the overly anxious fundies, and of course, the Mangas. They barely edged out the Delusionals, who comprised would-be suitors denied the actual visit, usually due to unreasonable and/or perverse pre-doorknock demands.
These demands ranged. Their mothers called ahead with the rider list, but instead of requesting five cases of sparkling mineral water, a bowl of yellow peanut M&Ms and scented candles, they had particular needs that had to be met. Otherwise their sons could quite possibly die.
There was the one who insisted he see me without my headscarf at our first little meeting in case, I presume, I had frightening bangs or something equally traumatising. Mum said it wouldn’t be a big deal if the suitor’s mother saw my hair. I begged to differ. Mum regaled me with tales of how things were done in the village once upon a time. I was unmoved.
Mum issued a polite refusal, adding something about how it was all destiny, which no one can ever argue with. Invoking the naseeb approach was popular amongst Muslims. We believed in it so deeply that it featured in practically every conversation.
A couple doesn’t make it through the engagement? There’s no naseeb. Didn’t get the job you wanted? Ma’fish naseeb. And, of course, it worked in the opposite way. Two unlikely people meet and get hitched? Subhanallah, keef il naseeb – which basically means those two were never going to get together without divine intervention.
Now here was Menem asking me if I’d ever considered taking off hijab. What if he liked me but was hoping I’d eventually go au naturel? He probably thought I’d be totally glam without it, all luscious locks, spilling over my shoulders!
Menem: Sorry, I hope you don’t mind me asking that.
Samira: No, no, it’s ok. I was just a bit surprised. But to answer your question, not really. I have my moments, I guess. I miss the anonymity, just blending in. I miss little things, you know?
Menem: I can imagine it must be hard. BTW, I hope you didn’t mind me adding you on Facebook. But I felt a reasonable amount of time had passed and that it would be ok for me to “Facebook you”.
Samira: You do realise Facebook isn’t a verb?
Menem: Are you always like this?
Samira: Is this a trick question?
At 5.30, I signed off for the day. Collecting my handbag, I left to meet Lara. She stood outside my building, looking like a cat among the pigeons and not at all like someone who had just lost her job. After pecking me on the cheek, she linked her arm through mine and we began walking to the theatre.
“I hope you told your mum you’re going to be late.”
Not surprisingly, Mum wasn’t too enthusiastic about my evening plans. However, she didn’t ask me not to go. She just gave me that sarcastic Arab response of, “Oh really? And do you think Matt Daymoon cares about you?”
Of course, I didn’t think Matt Daymoon cared two straws for me, particularly as he didn’t know me, nor was I ever likely to become friends with him, what with him being a world-famous celeb. Anyway.
“I remember the first time I watched Good Will Hunting,” Lara began dramatically. She sighed. “Why can’t we just find nice, down-to-earth boys like Matt Damon? But who are Muslim. I mean, really. Is that too much to ask?”
“Um, yes,” I said. I did a quick mental scan of every suitor and general interest in my life thus far. Definitely no Matt Damons. Not in looks, charm or talent. Some of them certainly could have benefited from his acting ability.
Lara sighed again. “Thank God I got fired. Otherwise I’d probably be stuck in a shift right now. Instead I’m with you and about to meet Will Hunting!”
“You do realise that he’s not really Will Hunting, right?”
Lara stuck her tongue out at me. She grabbed my hand and squeezed it then said, “I’ve missed you, sweet! How are things going with you?”
I wasn’t going to say anything about Menem. There really wasn’t much to tell, and I didn’t want to spoil the mood. Any mention of him would certainly do that given Lara’s objections to him, and quite possibly ruin my own mood too. I just hoped she didn’t notice we’d become Facebook “friends”.
“Alhamdulillah, I’m OK. Work’s been pretty busy,” I said. “And needless to say Zahra’s wedding is somehow taking way too much importance in my life.”
I’d gotten another email request, this time for printed lists of hire car companies and florists, and, if it wasn’t too much trouble, categorised according to location.
“Oh gawd. She’s like a bad smell that won’t go away,” said Lara.
“Well, she’s our cousin, for better or worse.”
“No. The only ones who we’re absolutely obligated to respect are our parents,” she said. “We’re tied to them whether we like it or not. Childhood trauma and all that emotional stunting guarantee that.”
I smiled. “Well, in any case, I don’t mind helping so long as she doesn’t think she can take advantage,” I said, reasonably.
“Of course she’ll take advantage. She’s already taking advantage! Which bloody reminds me. I have to be a bridesmaid at snot face’s wedding,” she whinged.
We were getting closer to the theatre, and already we could hear occasional screams from the swarms of fans lining the barricades. From what I could see, the crowd was huge.
“Me too,” I said. “What’s with that?”
“Mum said they’re having a crap wedding because Malek doesn’t want a big party where everyone’s looking at Zahra. They’re making out like it’s a religious thing, you know, simple wedding, all women, no music, blah blah. But really, he’s just a jealous toad!” said Lara, more gleefully than was appropriate.
“But it’s going to be a fancy wedding,” I said, chewing over this latest information. “She’s going to a lot of trouble.”
“Well, maybe not crap as such, but it was supposed to be just women. Then all of a sudden it’s men and women. I’m pretty sure I heard
Mum say something about those belly dancing aunts,” said Lara. “I don’t know. It was a bit hard to hear through the door.”
I shuddered at the memory of the belly dancers. But my mind quickly went back to the jealousy. I’d only seen Malek a couple of times, so I was hardly equipped to decipher if there was truth to what Lara had heard. Besides, it could simply be a case of Arabic Whispers.
For example: Jamal tells his mum that he wants to join the air force. She cries and berates him because if he does he’ll end up, God forbid, getting injured or killed and she’ll be without a son to marry off. His mum complains to her friend. The friend tells her neighbour, whose son went to school with Jamal.
Except that what she heard is that Jamal has joined the air force already and has been shipped off to Baghdad. He’s needed there because he can speak Arabic fluently.
The friend’s neighbour’s son mentions it to his other friend from the class of ’99. The friend’s friend’s father is a local butcher. The local butcher tells one of his customers that a friend’s son was in the air force and got killed in a cluster bomb attack. Prayers are said even though Jamal is happily fixing a car at his best mate’s garage in Willoughby.
In any case, it was quite possible that Malek was just the jealous type. He and Menem weren’t likely to be identical. Yet, it was quite possible Menem was the jealous type too! How was I to know? It’s not like we’d ever met up in a bar and I’d try to keep him on his toes by flirting with the stocky guy by the jukebox. Assuming Sydney bars had jukeboxes. I’d have to ask Cate about that.
“I think we’re only bridesmaids because Aunt Shaimaa is making Zahra pick us,” I told her.
“Yeah. But who cares? We get dresses,” said Lara.
By now we’d reached the throngs of fans swarming the theatre. They were mainly young girls, waving signs and taking photos of themselves, cheek to cheek, no doubt for Facebook.
Lara jumped up and down as we drew closer, pulling me towards one of the few open spaces. Her excitement was only minimally contagious, mainly because I was keenly aware of my hijab, even if no one around me seemed to notice.
