by Lora Inak
Unspoken Rules
Copyright © Lora Inak 2017
Published by Rhiza Press
www.rhizapress.com.au
PO Box 1519, Capalaba Qld 4157
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Creator:Inak Lora, author.
Title:Unspoken rules / Inak Lora
ISBN:9781925563153 (ebook)
Subjects: Families--Fiction.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
For my beautifully unconventional mother, Janet.
May you always live on in the pages of this book
Chapter 1
Natalie dialled Mama’s mobile again. Still no answer. Where was she? She’d called twice already. Mama should have been home hours ago. They were expecting her sister’s suitor, whom they’d never met before, in an hour and a half, and she had prep work to do for the beginning of the new school year. Instead of reading her English texts, she was making dinner. Why was she making dinner? Mama was supposed to be making it.
‘Nooooo. No. No. No. Natalie. Quick. I need help,’ Misha wailed.
Natalie put down the knife and bounded up the stairs. In their small, shared bathroom she found her sister, curling iron in hand, tears rolling down her face.
‘I dropped it accidentally and now it’s broken and … and … look at me.’
Half of Misha’s head was covered in glossy brown, shoulder-length curls; the other half lay limp and wet.
Natalie wasn’t sure if she should take a picture, or give her big sister a comforting hug. Misha had been stressing out about this night for weeks, worried the suitor wouldn’t like her.
‘Give that to me and calm down. You don’t want your future husband seeing you with puffy eyes,’ Natalie said. Misha was prone to dramatics, and from experience, Natalie knew that the sooner it was nipped in the bud, the better for everyone.
She tore off a few pieces of paper towel and thrust them at Misha. She shoved the curling iron into a drawer and rummaged around until she found a bag of old-fashioned hair curlers that must have been there since Mama and Baba immigrated to Australia twenty years ago. ‘Can you grab a chair?’
Misha pulled in the swivel chair from her room and plonked down in front of the mirror. She patted her eyes. ‘Thank you.’
Together, they worked on the limp half of her hair. Misha handed her rollers and pins while Natalie combed, rolled and clipped.
Keys rattled in the front door. Was Mama finally home?
‘Marhaban, Marhaban,’ Baba greeted, shutting the door behind him. He always double-greeted when he got home from work. He thought it was funny. In fact, Baba was always cracking ‘bad dad jokes’ or making soppy philosophical statements. His attempts at English jokes were the worst because too often they didn’t make sense. He failed to realise that some things in Arabic just didn’t translate.
‘Baba,’ Misha called down. ‘We’re still getting ready.’
‘But you’re beautiful already, Mishelline,’ Baba laughed. ‘Beauty lives in the heart and blooms in the eyes. And your eyes, my dear, are in full springtime bloom. If this boy coming to see you tonight loves flowers, he will love you.’
Natalie rolled her eyes. How soppy was that! And anyway, who knew what this boy coming to see Misha tonight loved or didn’t. Even after they’d immigrated to a liberated country like Australia, where women got to fall in love and choose who they married, women in the Syrian Orthodox community still married for security, money, family pressure, to have children … pretty much for every reason except love.
Natalie didn’t share any of these thoughts with her sister. It wouldn’t make any difference if she did. Misha was totally on board with the old-fashioned traditions and cultural expectations of their community. Perhaps it was because she was born in Syria, or maybe it was because she had only ever really hung out with the girls in the community. Whatever the reason, Misha was still pretty old school in her thinking.
‘He’ll love her because he doesn’t know her,’ Natalie teased, dodging a friendly slap. ‘Hey, be good to me,’ she warned, shaking her finger. ‘I’m stuck here curling your hair and dinner isn’t even ready.’
‘What?’ Misha spun around. ‘Where’s Mama? The guests will think she doesn’t approve of the match if she’s not here to greet them.’
Ignoring the stress knots in her stomach, Natalie shrugged. ‘Don’t start crying again. You’ll get puffy. Mama’s probably stuck in traffic or something. She’ll be here soon.’ She slipped a pin into a curler.
‘Ouch,’ Misha yelped, giving her a dirty look in the mirror.
Natalie loosened her hold. ‘Sorry.’
‘What’s for dinner?’ Baba called up from the kitchen.
She handed Misha a roller. ‘Can you finish the last two or three strands? I better put dinner on. Baba will turn into the Hulk if he doesn’t eat soon. As if he needs any more food.’
She hurried to the kitchen. Her father had his head in the refrigerator, both doors open wide. It was a sure sign of his irritation at finding an empty table. He was spoiled, so used to having a hot cooked meal waiting for him every night, his laundry done, his shirts ironed, his home squeaky clean.
‘Go get changed,’ she said, a little too sharply. She picked up half a potato. ‘Dinner will be ready soon.’
‘Ah. That’s my good girl.’ Baba gave her a quick kiss and left.
Natalie recoiled. Would Baba praise and kiss her if she changed a flat tyre?
She put the potatoes, green Charleston peppers, red capsicum and eggplant in the oven, and called Mama again. Still no answer. The vegetables would be ready in half an hour, the couscous didn’t need to be put on for another twenty minutes, all she had to do was rub the spice mix into the lamb and get it on the hot plate. Using the cordless landline, she tried her mother’s mobile again. This time it was switched off.
She heard the front door open.
‘Hello.’ Mama came in and plonked shopping bags down on the table. ‘Ah … good, you prepared the vegetables for me. Where’s Misha?’
‘Where have you been? The guests will be here soon. Baba is home and dinner isn’t ready.’
Mama calmly unpacked the groceries, putting them away into the fridge and pantry.
‘Mama?’
‘Can’t you see? Shopping. Look at you,’ Mama cried, grabbing a strand of Natalie’s hair and flicking it back. ‘Is this how you want our guests to see you? Hurry. Get ready. I’ll take care of dinner.’
Natalie refused to be side-tracked. ‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’
‘Did you call?’ Mama folded the plastic shopping bags and put them away in the cupboard under the sink. ‘I didn’t hear my phone ring. Maybe it went on silent again. This new phone is too complicated. ’
Natalie held her mother’s gaze, but Mama looked away.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Mama turned to the sink, her cheeks flushed against her pale skin. ‘Go. Get ready.’
‘Can I just skip it? I have prep work to do for school tomorrow.’ She didn’t see why she had to be involved in this prehistoric custom.
Mama pointed Natalie out of the room. ‘Go and get ready. You must support your sister.’
Natalie left the kitchen wondering about Mama. Lately there’d been too many absences. Too many weak excuses. Too many times when Mama had forgotten things or was running late.
Misha called from her room, her hair still in curlers, a pink
robe wrapped tightly around her. ‘Which do you think is better? My purple dress or the dark green one?’ She held both up for Natalie to see.
‘Definitely the purple one. It shows off your boobs.’ Misha was proud of her ample cleavage. She said it took the focus away from her hips and thighs.
Mouth tight, Misha threw the green dress on her bed. ‘Is Mama home?’
Natalie nodded.
‘And Baba is getting ready?’
‘Yep. And dinner won’t be long.’ She was keen to lock herself away in her room, but she could tell Misha wanted to say something more.
Misha furrowed her eyebrows. ‘Do you think he’ll like me?’
Natalie sighed; they’d been through this a dozen times already. ‘Of course he will. Why wouldn’t he? You’re a good person. You’ll make a fantastic wife and mother. As long as he doesn’t mind the fact that you’re a total drama queen, it’ll be a match made in heaven.’
Misha didn’t even crack a smile. ‘But I’m fat. Guys like skinny girls.’
‘You are not fat; you’re curvy, like Mama. And not all guys like skinny girls. Besides, you don’t even know what he’s like. Maybe you won’t like him.’
‘Baba’s friend says that Jozef is a good man and well off. He has a good job and he’s the right age for marriage. That makes him at least a six out of ten.’ Misha made a habit of numerically assessing every potential suitor.
Natalie held up her hand, exasperated. ‘Well then, if according to your ranking system he’s a six out of ten, then surely it’ll all work out.’
She walked across the hall and into her room. Throwing herself onto the bed, she gazed through the branches of the pear tree outside the window. It was so beautiful. She lay still, closed her eyes and let the darkness calm her. Darkness always calmed her.
Mama used to tell people the story of her as a four-year-old, when she went missing during a family picnic at Westerfolds Park. She’d wandered off while the adults were busy. The men around the barbeque cooking the skewered meat; the women pulling Cling Wrap off the salads, dips and desserts; the kids kicking the soccer ball or running around the playground. Around dusk, Misha had sounded the alarm, the first to notice her little sister’s absence, and before long, a search party was out looking for her. Her mother would always clutch her throat and drag her fingers through her hair as she retold the story, then laugh as she recalled that Aunty Jasmina had pressed a glass of whisky into her hand—her first taste of spirits. Eventually Natalie had been found in an abandoned wombat hole, fast asleep, oblivious to the trouble she’d caused. When asked why she’d hidden in there, she’d simply said that she liked it because it was dark. Since then, it had become a bit of a family joke—Natalie loved dark places. Mama took to calling her a ‘night child’. Her sister called her ‘wombat face’. She did love quiet, dark places. To her, darkness was still and calm. There were always so many friends and relatives around her, and so much noise and clatter that sometimes she felt crowded. In the dark, she could disappear and think. Darkness smudged things, blurred them. It was a sort of freedom.
‘Dinner,’ Mama called.
She heard Baba rush downstairs, eager to fill his belly.
While they ate their lamb and drank their salted Ayran, Misha prattled on about her prospective suitor, and pressed Baba for more details about him. Baba had none to give other than that he had recently immigrated to Australia. He made a tasteless joke about Jozef being ‘fresh off the boat’ while Mama fussed over Misha’s hair curlers and insisted she wear the green dress because it was classier. Natalie ate silently, wishing the guests had already come and gone. Once her sister was married off, how long would it be before suitors came for her? She hoped they would never come, but she knew inevitably they would. She just hoped she’d end up with a man who was open minded and modern.
Misha rushed upstairs after dinner to finish getting ready. Natalie was in charge of clearing the table and doing the dishes while Mama prepared for the guests. As usual, Baba turned on the news and made himself comfortable on the leather recliner. Since the crisis in Syria started to make global headlines, he spent every free minute watching the news, scanning news sites on the Internet, listening to the Arabic radio stations, and reading both local and Arabic newspapers. Most of their close family had immigrated to Australia or America before she was born, but both Baba and Mama still had friends and past neighbours living in Syria. Baba had made enquiries regarding the whereabouts of some of his old school friends and so far they were all safe, living in areas mostly untouched by the fighting. Even so, Baba feared the worst and had his eyes and ears glued to the television and radio for any news of them.
As soon as Natalie finished cleaning up, she went to her room and changed into jeans and a nice top. She ran a comb through her hair and put on a light sheen of lip-gloss. She wasn’t the centre of attention tonight, so she wasn’t required to make any special effort.
The bell rang at eight.
‘Ya Allah,’ Misha squealed, running into Natalie’s room and hopping from one foot to another, her curls bouncing in sync. ‘Did you see their car? It’s a Mercedes. A brand new silver one.’
Natalie raised her eyebrows. Baba’s friend was right. Jozef must be well off.
‘Ya Ya Allah,’ Misha said again, her face bright red.
Natalie grabbed her hand and tugged at it. ‘Calm down. Breathe.’
They waited a few moments until they were sure the guests were inside and properly welcomed by Mama and Baba, and then they walked downstairs, making an entrance just like they’d been instructed. A welcoming smile was planted on Natalie’s face, but Misha’s hand shook in hers.
In the entrance stood an old woman with hunched shoulders, a mantilla on her head and whiskers on her chin, a couple in their sixties—the man in a suit with a gift in hand, the woman in a black beaded dress that fitted snugly around her rotund figure—and a tall man in his thirties, carrying a huge bunch of red roses.
‘This is our beautiful Mishelline.’ Baba took Misha’s hand and guided her front and centre. ‘Mishelline, this is Jozef.’
The man came forward and graciously handed Misha the bunch of roses. He smiled at her, his front tooth grey. He took her hand and laid a light kiss on it. Misha cast her eyes downwards.
Mama spoke up. ‘And of course this is our younger daughter, Natalie.’
Everyone turned. Natalie’s cheeks burned, but she smiled politely. ‘Ahlan. Welcome.’
Jozef held her gaze. His black eyes worked their way down her body. He gave her an approving smile. Natalie flinched; surprised that Jozef would be so brazen.
Baba ushered their guests into the best room, reserved for only the most important occasions. Polite exchanges were made, and Misha gallantly made conversation with everyone except Jozef. It would have been too bold if she’d made conversation directly with him. Too forward.
Natalie kept quiet, using the tips of her toes to roll up the edge of the Turkish rug and then flatten it again. If she happened to catch someone’s eye, she’d smile, but this wasn’t her night and she preferred to sit back and watch, speaking only when she was spoken to. Jozef’s Meyme sat slumped in the brocade armchair and smiled serenely, while his parents complimented Mama and Baba on their home and the tasteful way it was furnished before launching into a discussion about the crisis in Syria. Having recently immigrated to Australia, they still knew many people trapped in the warzone. Baba enquired after a few old friends and neighbours, but Jozef and his parents either didn’t know them, or didn’t know where they were.
Mama stood, offered the guests coffee and then ushered both Natalie and Misha into the kitchen.
‘He’s so old,’ Natalie told Misha when they were out of earshot.
‘Yeah, I know. He’s like a silver fox. Did you see his suit? It’s an Armani.’
‘A fox? Like as in sly and cunning?’
‘
Girls … sssshhhh.’ Mama planted her finger over her lips. ‘The walls have ears. Natalie, make everyone a coffee. Misha, it’s customary for you to serve the guests. Always offer it to the oldest person first, so to Jozef’s Meyme, then to his Baba and Mama, then to Jozef, your Baba and me. It’s important you remember that order. It shows you know and respect the old ways.’
Misha nodded, swallowing.
‘But, Mama, did you know he was this old?’ Natalie just couldn’t get past it. ‘He must be mid-to-late thirties.’
‘We were told he was a few years older than Misha, but Baba’s friend didn’t mention exactly how much older. We thought maybe seven or eight years. That’s what happens when you let a man do a woman’s job.’ Mama laid the ornate Turkish coffee cups and matching saucers out neatly on a gold-trimmed serving tray, her hands quick and graceful. ‘Anyway, they are here now, and we must make them welcome. After the coffee is served, bring out the desserts and fruit, and put them onto the coffee table. Use the good servingware, and oh, get those roses in a vase and then out where they can see. We must show them we appreciate their gifts.’
‘Can I go upstairs after that? I have to do some reading before school starts tomorrow.’ Natalie was glad she had an excuse to steal away. Would the world end if Jozef’s Baba got his coffee before his Meyme? Wasn’t the important thing that everyone actually got a coffee?
‘Yes, yes. After that you can go.’ Mama headed back to the guests.
Natalie boiled water on the stove, added Turkish coffee and sugar to the pot, stirred, then let it simmer until the froth bubbled away. The rich, strong aroma filled the kitchen. Misha put the baklava on a glass platter and the orange syrup cake on the floral cake stand.
‘Did you see the ring on his right hand?’ Misha whispered, cutting up the watermelon. ‘It’s huge. Must be a two carat diamond.’
‘And did you see the finger it was on?’ Natalie replied. ‘Covered in gorilla hair. You could hardly see any skin.’
Misha burst out laughing but quickly covered her mouth. ‘Men should be hairy.’
