He looked at me, momentarily taken aback. ‘Oh. Yes. On top,’ he replied. His eyes settled on the salad.
‘I guess you don’t want it either,’ I asked.
They say youth is energy. Like, you should be grateful for it and stuff. But youth to me feels like wading through a mass of crap, wishing someone would give you direction because you can’t see (because there’s crap in your eyes, obvs). Dad’s top lip twitched – his eyes still on the salad.
‘Yes, yes. I’ll have it,’ he said, picking up a celery stick and crunching into it. It took him about five minutes to swallow the thing.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Then Dad said: ‘How is school?’
‘Yeah, cool,’ I replied.
He scratched his chin. ‘And, er … this video,’ he said, looking at my phone with concentration. ‘You are filming things?’
‘Correcto-mundo.’
He looked at me, confused.
‘It just means, yes, Abba.’
‘Ah, good, good,’ he replied.
‘My teacher said I’ve got talent,’ I told him.
‘That’s very good.’
I waited for him to ask me some more questions: like, what kind of talent, and what will you do with it when you leave high school? That kind of thing.
After a bit more silence, he asked: ‘You like those smoothies, don’t you?’
‘Only the homemade ones, because you can’t trust what supermarkets put in stuff.’
‘But we buy everything from supermarkets.’
‘Yeah, but they’ve got all those e-numbers and stuff.’
‘E-numbers?’
I nodded. ‘It’s unhealthy. It’s killing us.’
‘But there is nothing wrong with us,’ he replied, looking at his body up and down as if it was an example of supreme health.
It was like trying to explain fashion to Fatti. I gave up.
‘You know what is healthy?’ he asked.
‘What?’
‘YouTube,’ he answered. ‘Very good. For the brain.’
What the hell was my dad going on about?
‘Er, okay.’
He hesitated then said: ‘You said you had scribers.’
‘Subscribers, Abba.’
‘Oh, yes. That’s what I meant.’
‘And?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Just … carry on.’
‘Sure, Abba. Thanks.’
We both sat in silence for a few minutes.
‘Oh, I know,’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ll make tofu curry tonight. For dinner.’
Dad nodded, as if there was someone forcing the movements of his head, and patted me on my back. It’s not on the cheek. Not like it is for Fatti, or a hand on the head like it is for Farah; the pinching of the nose like it is for Bubblee. But who really cares?
CHAPTER THREE
Bubblee
‘You need to get the contours right,’ said Sasha, clearing her throat and observing my latest piece. ‘It’s … it’s coming along.’
I looked at my sculpture, Sasha’s hand resting on the hip of my centaurian woman. The idea is to subvert expectation by showing the interchangeability of sexuality.
‘But that’s the point,’ I replied. ‘What is right?’
‘Still,’ she said, walking towards the window of my poky studio flat and lighting up a cigarette. She regarded the sculpture again. ‘I’m not sure your aim is quite, you know, coming across.’
Sasha really has nothing good to say about anything. My mobile rang and ‘Mum’ flashed on the screen.
‘You gonna get that?’ asked Sasha.
‘Later,’ I replied, looking at the sculpture.
Something was amiss, but why should that be wrong? Isn’t it like in life, where the imperfections are hard to pinpoint and yet are just there?
‘You’ve go to stop over-thinking things,’ she said. ‘Your problem is you always want to create something with multiple layers of meaning, but that should be the end result, not the starting point. Art is about feeling.’
‘A glimpse of the world as you see it,’ I muttered, reminding myself.
Well, I definitely see it as being amiss, so I must’ve been on the right track. My phone rang again. This time Dad’s name flashed on the screen.
‘How many times do they call you in a day?’ said Sasha. ‘No point in exhaling. They can’t hear you. Just pick it up.’
‘I’m busy.’
Before I knew it, Mae was FaceTiming me.
‘Is someone dying?’ I said, picking the phone up, staring down at Mae’s pixie-like face. ‘I’ll call you back.’
‘She failed again,’ she said.
‘Who failed?’ I asked.
‘Fatti.’
‘What?’
‘Tst, her driving test, of course. Don’t you remember?’
‘Oh, yeah. I forgot. I hope you hid the cheese from her,’ I said.
I glanced over at Sasha who was still leaning out of the window, puffing away.
‘One sec,’ I said to Mae, muting the phone and putting it face-down on the sofa while I asked Sasha to put her cigarette out.
‘It’s not like your family can see me,’ she responded.
‘What if they do? Then they’ll think I smoke and it’ll be something else for them to rail against. It’s bad enough I’ve left my family home and that I’m living alone in London; thinking that I smoke will give someone a heart attack,’ I whispered, even though I’d muted Mae.
Sasha sighed and shook her head, throwing the cigarette butt out of the window.
‘You wouldn’t know you’re a twenty-eight-year-old woman,’ she said as I got back to Mae’s call.
‘What was that?’ Mae asked.
I saw her scan something behind me and it was Sasha, waving at her. Mae waved back unsurely.
‘I’ll see you tonight, Bubs,’ said Sasha before leaving the flat.
‘Don’t you, like, have any other friends?’ asked Mae.
‘What do you want, Mae?’
Mae seemed to be sitting on the steps on the staircase. I recognised the green carpeting against the cream walls. I could just imagine her peeking over the railing, spying on everyone with them unaware of exactly what she’s catching on camera. On the one hand it’s an ethically dubious thing to do, but on the other, I’m glad she has some kind of passion that isn’t related to a bureaucratic, unimaginative career-choice. Thank God there must be some kind of an artistic gene in our family. She made her way down the steps and everyone’s face flashed in front of me.
‘Look who’s here,’ she said, as Mum squinted and recognised me.
‘I tried calling you – where were you? Why didn’t you pick up? I was worried.’
Before I had a chance to answer, Farah’s face was in front of me.
‘Say hello to your fave,’ said Mae.
Farah straightened up from stuffing the kitchen cupboards with God knows what.
‘Salamalaikum,’ she said.
‘Hi,’ I managed to mumble.
The sun shone from the kitchen window, right into her eyes. She shielded them as she asked: ‘How’s the big smoke?’
I shrugged. ‘Better than home,’ I said, lowering my voice.
She gave a faint smile. We might be identical twins, but our smiles are different – hers is soft and sweet. Mine? Well, not so much. She looked away but I couldn’t see what she was doing with her hands. I always did hate it when Farah looked like that; so helpless and at a loss.
‘How’s your husband?’ I asked. Only it didn’t come out in the well-meaning way I intended.
Before I knew it Farah was out of screen-shot, and swiftly replaced with Mae’s face.
‘Where’s Fatti?’ I asked Mae, pretending it was normal to have Farah walk away like that. Actually, it had become quite standard.
‘Well done,’ Mae said, ignoring my question. ‘Farah’s only gone and left now, and I needed to ask her about my tofu curry recipe. You need to let it go, it’s been five years. I
mean, come on – so what Farah’s married?’ she added, looking at the leftover shopping. ‘Now I’m going to have to put it all away.’
I wanted to tell her she’s lucky she has Farah who manages to do that for her, as well as everything else.
‘So, she was helping out at home as usual. Not much change then,’ I said.
‘And handing over money from our dear brother, as per,’ added Mae. ‘Who, by the way, decided to call Mum and Dad today. Ugh.’ Mae leaned into the screen as I realised that she’d caught sight of my sculpture. ‘What’s that?’
‘A work in progress,’ I replied, turning the phone the other way.
‘What? Like you?’ She found this a lot funnier than I did and laughed as she made her way up the stairs again.
‘Wait. I wanted to speak to her,’ I heard Mum call out after Mae as she passed the living room.
Not that Mae listened. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear. You can thank me later. Ssh.’
I saw she’d stopped outside Fatti’s room and leaned into the door. Mae put her finger to her mouth, waited for a few moments before shrugging and going into her own room.
‘How’s school?’ I asked, turning around to look at my sculpture, wondering what it was that made it seem so incomplete. What did Mae know? My sisters were so uncultured when it came to anything to do with the art world.
‘Better than your relationship with Farah,’ she replied.
‘Not now, Mae.’
Would I ever be able to say anything to Farah without her taking offence?
Mae shrugged. ‘Whatevs. I’ve got more interesting things to do than think about everyone’s crises anyway.’
Just then there was a loud knock on her door.
‘It’s Abbauuu,’ she said, smiling at our dad. ‘What’s up, Abs?’
‘Your amma needs to talk to Bubblee.’
‘Our amma always needs to talk to someone,’ she replied.
If I’d said half the things at her age that she did I’d have been locked in the cupboard under the stairs.
‘Soz, sis. I did my best but we are all veterans of our familial battles.’
‘Just pass the phone, Mae.’
Before I knew it there was Dad’s face as he spoke. ‘Fatti failed her driving test again so your amma is a little more stressed than usual. Just speak to her for five minutes and make her feel easy.’
‘She’s not going to feel easy until I move back home. And let me tell you, Abba, that’s not happening.’
‘I know, I know.’ He paused as I saw him stop at the top of the stairs. ‘Erm, what is that?’
I’d turned around again without realising that Dad could see the sculpture.
‘Something I’m working on,’ I replied.
‘Hmm.’ He furrowed his eyebrows. ‘And this is what you’re doing in London? Making sculptures of women …’ he leaned in closer. ‘Animals? What is it?’
‘Never mind, Abba. Just give the phone to Amma so I can get the conversation over with.’
I don’t mean for my words to sound short or irritable but that’s just how they come out.
‘I’ll speak to you properly later, okay, Abba?’
He was still looking at the sculpture, worry lines spreading over his features.
‘Hmm? Okay, Babba.’
By the time he’d walked downstairs I heard Mum complaining about Naked Marnie who was apparently out again, basking in the glory of unexpected sunshine.
‘It is a free country,’ I heard Dad say to her.
‘What do you want then?’ said Mum, taking the phone from him and giving me a view of the kitchen walls again. ‘For us all to go out naked?’
‘No-one wants you to go out naked,’ he replied.
‘Hello?’ I said. I had a sculpture to work on, after all.
‘Yes,’ said Mum, putting the phone up to her sour-looking face. ‘I called you two, three times and you didn’t answer.’
‘I was going to call back.’
‘When? Next week? Next month? Next year?’
I didn’t see why, between Fatti failing and Jay calling, I had to be the one who faced her aggression. This is why I make a point of calling home as little as possible. What’s the point when you’re only going to get told off? I’m an adult, for God’s sake. I bet Jay doesn’t get this antagonism. No, the golden child is probably showered with all manners of kindness.
‘Poor Fatti failed again,’ said Mum without any prompt from me.
‘Hmm.’
‘You know how hard it is for her. She doesn’t have your confidence – you should help her but you don’t even answer your family’s calls.’
‘It’s not as if I’m loafing around, Amma. I’m working.’
She looked up at my dad, presumably, and decided to mirror his worried face.
‘But, Bubblee, what kind of work? Look how beautiful you are – such a small nose and light-brown eyes. You shouldn’t take these things for granted. Maybe you should think of getting a proper job where you are making some money. Maybe banking, hmm? Whenever I have a nice boy’s amma on the phone who asks me what you do, I tell her and I never hear from them again. If you had a normal job they would see you and then your beauty would do the rest.’
‘These aren’t exactly the type of people I want to know anyway, and you need to stop trying to find me a husband. I don’t want to get married yet.’
‘Your youth won’t last for ever. Already you’re so old for marriage.’
‘I’m twenty-eight, Amma. And Fatti’s older than me. Why don’t you bug her about marriage? I’m pretty sure she cares a lot more about it than I do.’
Mum shook her head and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Allah, what have I done to deserve a girl who answers back so much? A girl who doesn’t even speak to her own twin sister?’
Which was, of course, a complete exaggeration. I speak to Farah. When we’re in the same room. Which, granted, might not be very often, because I avoid it as much as humanly possible, but that’s for her sake as well as mine.
‘And why?’ Mum continued. ‘Because she married a man?’
‘A man who’s not her equal,’ I replied, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.
Why does everyone find it so hard to understand? Why couldn’t they see that my twin sister deserved better than this prosaic, uninspired individual? Why does a husband have to be horrible, or abrasive, or neglectful to not be right for you? Of all the things Farah could’ve done with her life, achieved or aspired to, she decided to settle down and marry the first man that asked her. Forget the first man – her first cousin. And I bet it was all because he wanted to stay in England; coming here to study and then conveniently ‘falling in love’ with my sister, who then – naïve woman that she was – decided to fall in love right back. I mean, don’t even get me started on the notion of falling in love, let alone marrying your mum’s sister’s son.
Mum sighed and muttered something under her breath. ‘And when will you visit your family? Or do we have to wait for someone to die?’
‘Jay’s Amma,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t say things like this.’
I looked as Dad seemed to be putting grass in the blender. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
He turned around as he put the lid on the blender after adding a banana to the mix. ‘Making Mae a smoothie,’ he explained.
‘With what?’
‘She likes fresh things, you know. Says that supermarkets are no good, so I took some leaves from the hedges for an extra … boost.’
‘I only say what is true, Jay’s Abba,’ replied Mum, ignoring what was happening in her kitchen.
I mean, how can I take seriously the words of two people who refer to each other as the parent of their only son? Their only son who comes and goes as he pleases, hardly ever showing his face and exists more as an idea than an actual being. Not that he gets any flack for it because, of course, he’s a boy and the same standards don’t apply.
‘Maybe at Jay’s wedding,’ I said, straight-faced.
‘Yes, Abba. Thanks.’
He gave a short nod and winked at me before he ‘accidentally’ hung up on me. Dad will probably end up paying for that in rationed dessert servings tonight.
I exhaled as I sat on the edge of my chair and looked at my sculpture. It was difficult to concentrate, what with Mum mentioning Farah. I turned to look at a photograph of us on my wall; it was taken on our thirteenth birthday. We were so excited about being teenagers. We thought there’d be this shift where things would change and life would somehow be more exciting. And it was in some ways; I discovered art and how a painting could make you feel things that life somehow couldn’t; how there was beauty in the stroke of a brush or the curve of a shape; the way a drawing might speak a truth that reality only hinted at because it never stayed long enough for you to capture it. But art – it kept that feeling static in time, and you could re-visit it and be moved by it all over again, in a different way. I wanted to make people feel that way with my art. And I wasn’t about to give up until I succeeded. Farah never took to art. Or literature. I waited for her to talk passionately about something. I urged her to read the same books as me, but she’d be tidying up after Jay, or straightening out her room, sewing a button on someone’s jacket. Always busy but never with the important things. Never outraged at a news story, or delirious with joy when a dictator had been overthrown, or even about something stupid, like winning fifty quid on the lottery.
‘Oh, Farah,’ I whispered, picking up the photo, rubbing my finger over the frown on my face as if that’d wipe it away.
Why does no-one understand that I wanted more for her? After all, isn’t that what sisters are meant to do? Want great things for each other? I turned my attention to my sculpture again, pleased with what I was in the middle of creating. This was going to wow people. I just had to get it right. It would be spectacular. I shook my head at my family and their ways. No-one understands: there’s nothing great about mediocrity.
The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters Page 2
