FICTION
‘How much longer must we wait, ya3ni?’ Aunty Mahasen scowled. ‘Till our funerals?’ Her white square handkerchief bounced around in her hand, reminiscent of an Umm Kulthum performance. Although her glossy lips were pursed in an attempted whisper, her voice boomed like a Friday-night football broadcaster’s. Thankfully, we were the only ones seated at Table 36.
‘It’s Sahar’s fault for bringing us here so early like we have nothing better to do,’ Aunty Nabila chimed in snidely. Her long, thin tattooed eyebrows arched across her forehead in what looked like an infinite line. She glared at me but I shifted in my cushioned chair so the giant centrepiece of fake blush roses and leafy greens blocked her view.
I hated how OTT our Leb weddings were. How the whole village showed up like Australia’s own Lebanon, ready to celebrate everyone and complain about everything. Deep down though, I did love the nauseating stockpile of tulle and diamantes and Arab aunties and fireworks and chicken mushroom and tablehs.
‘And what about these seats, are we the help?’ Aunty Mahasen added, her voice jumping a decibel with each word, the handkerchief helplessly flailing about again. ‘This is worse than that table we bought for Nancy’s concert. Took out a mortgage to sit in the car park.’
Zeynab might have been an Australian-born South African, but she was fluent in Ethnic Migrant Aunty
A splash of colour caught my attention, the scarlet hue demanding to be seen before I realised the gown belonged to Zeynab. She was still a few metres away but I stood to greet her, careful not to make any sudden movements. My own dress had me feeling like a stuffed shrimp taco. I adjusted the satin, smoothing it out over my belly and hips.
‘Sahar!’ Zeynab grabbed my hand and air kissed me to avoid smudging the layers of coppers and caramels on her face, her cinnamon-bark skin iridescent under the harsh hall light. She inspected me closely and wiggled her bushy brows. ‘Auuuunties!’ she bleated, turning to face them. ‘Wow! Kardashian who? You are both dazzling mashaAllah!’
She ignored my eye rolls and continued, slowly enunciating each word. ‘Don’t go breaking any hearts tonight!’ Zeynab might have been an Australian-born South African, but she was fluent in Ethnic Migrant Aunty. They both tipped their heads back in rehearsed humility and high-pitched giggles. Zeynab grinned, pleased with herself.
‘Lips emoji, peach emoji,’ I said, shaking my head.
‘Did this venue shrink since our last time here?’ Aunty Mahasen’s white handkerchief was back up again as she reached for a handful of roasted nuts from the glass bowl in front of her. Her face shrivelled in disgust. ‘Stale.’
‘This food tastes like cardboard.’ Aunty Mahasen’s face crumpled as she chewed.
‘Another Australia’. Source: Supplied
‘More like rubber,’ Aunty Nabila announced, as she scooped a piece of bread and hummus off her plate.
I exhaled loudly. Zeynab popped up, still immaculate. I beckoned for her to eat, pointing to the extra plates of food. Presumably the other guests assigned to Table 36 were a no-show, or didn’t want to sit next to my aunties.
‘The carrots! The carrots taste like plastic,’ Aunty Mahasen muttered to herself, clearing her throat before shovelling another baby carrot into her mouth.
‘I need to go, uh, powder my cheeks,’ Zeynab said. ‘Join me?’
‘Is this about that thing you wanted to tell me? Listen, if it’s Ali, I already spotted him and I really don’t care. I’m fine, I’m fiiine.’ I shrugged. There, nailed the casual nonchalant tone this time.
‘No, no.’ She looked me in the eye, her neon-lit hands pleading with me to stop.
We were the only ones in the hallway as we walked past the real-estate ad/wedding photoshoot and back towards the bathroom. Zeynab swung open the doors and checked the empty insides.
‘Okay. What’s going on?’ My heart raced. If it wasn’t Ali, was it work? Did she know something? That interview had been a Hail Mary. Zeynab, like a magician with a bottomless black top hat, unzipped her purse and pulled out a grey and pink thermometer. She handed it to me and quietly stared into the mirror, avoiding eye contact. I squinted at the plus sign in the little window of what I was realising was not a thermometer. ‘Is that what I think it is?’ I asked, my confusion cutting across the quiet. It was the first time I’d seen a pregnancy test, let alone registered that its owner was my stepsister and best friend.
‘Speaking of haram. Ha. Ha,’ Zeynab said meekly, biting her bronzed bottom lip. ‘I was sick this morning and it didn’t occur to me until I was on my way here that I’m ten days late. I stopped and bought the test. I couldn’t wait.’
‘Oh my God … are you … are you okay? And … how did … I mean I know how … but … how? What?’ My mind swarmed as I struggled to think of what to say. I wanted to ask about the father, but my mouth was suddenly dry – a mixture of pleasant shock, cautious happiness, searing curiosity and over-protective panic.
‘The father is not important.’ There was Zeynab with her Jedi mind tricks. ‘I guess … there’s a lot to think about. I’m doing this solo, as an Unmarried Muslim Woman. And I know with everything going on, the curfew, your interview, Ali, it’s just really bad timing …’ Her voice trailed off, her gaze lowering to the floor.
‘No, stop, don’t say that.’ I felt like I was seeing her for the first time all night, and yet, inexplicably, it was like I’d already known all along. Our weddings had a way of inciting realisations before we could even name them. ‘Okay. Okay. We can do this together.’ I caressed her arm with one hand, the other clutching the test. ‘Oh. I just realised I am still holding your pee.’
She snorted softly. ‘I’m scared, Sahar. Absolutely no one can find out. I don’t want to be the hot goss for the next five years!’
‘Well, we better get out of here then, avoid this hotbed of aunty activity at all costs.’
Almost prophetically, the bathroom door swung open, banging the wall behind it. An older lady with a pearl-studded black hijab whom I recognised as Tante Fathiya, one of my aunties’ closest friends, sauntered into the bathroom. Noticing me, Tante Fathiya approached, as though she was about to say her salams. She then took one glance at the pregnancy test in my hand and jolted backwards, gasping loudly to the Almighty and pirouetting on her heels towards the exit.
Zeynab and I stared at each other, limp in place, two lambs on Eid morning. ‘Eemmm … I guess you won’t have to worry about that anymore, Z!’ Stunned, I walked out of the bathroom and left Zeynab behind. I dashed back to the table before the headline could make its way down the Aunty Newswire. As soon as I stepped into the hall, Aunty Nabila grabbed me by the torso with the grip of a wrestler. Damn. The Newswire was more efficient than ever.
Sara Saleh Source: Liza Moscatelli
‘You’re late!’ she scolded, thrusting me into the centre of the dance floor where all the young women at the wedding congregated. ‘Don’t want to miss the bouquet toss!’ Aunty yelled after me, her badly dyed roots stark under the dance floor lights. I smiled helplessly, feeling trapped in a bowl but thankful I was temporarily alive and well.
Dalia, with her tan stains and nightgown dress, stood like a teacher at the front of her classroom. ‘Are you readyyyy?’ she screamed, swirling her thick blush-and-green bouquet over her tight chignon, still intact hours later thanks to an entire bottle of extra-strong-hold hairspray. I looked towards the bathroom door – no sign of Zeynab – then searched the crowd for a way out, a way to prevent Aunty Fathiya from airing the news. Then my gaze landed on a face: my bathroom superhero in the ’80s velvet dress. She was standing next to a man with a familiar cleft chin. She squeezed Ali’s hand, as if there was an inside joke between them, before joining the dance floor. She spotted me and winked. My mouth reflexively stretched out so wide I felt my lips crack like plaster. The image of Tante Fathiya walking in on us like a gust of wind, of Zeynab’s look of dread, dissolved from my mind. I am going to get the bouquet and a shrapnel of dignity along with it.
As I swivelled, Dalia yelled something in the background and a bunch of girls screamed, diving towards me. Whack! The bouquet hit me in the face like a rogue coconut then landed at my feet. Fluttering my lids through the sharp discomfort, I finally located Tante Fathiya, who was standing like a preacher amongst a throng of tantes gasping and shaking their heads. I could almost see the ripple of scandal spreading through the wedding like a wildfire.
This news is bigger than the Western Sydney curfew … It then dawned on me that this last celebration together for who knew how long was going to be the talk of town for months, but for all the wrong reasons. I raised a hand to my face, which was still stinging, and thought of my pregnant stepsister who I’d left wallowing in the bathroom. I definitely deserved that hit to the head.
Sara Saleh is a writer and poet.
This is an edited extract from Another Australia edited by Winnie Dunn, out now through Affirm Press in partnership with Sweatshop Literacy Movement and in association with Diversity Arts Australia.
