Dessi's Romance (21 page)

‘Well he does nothing for
me
that
way,’ I say
firmly.

‘And this other person, he
does
do something for you,
is that it?’

That’s enough for me to
tell her all about Abdul. How we met in the supermarket-from-hell, how gorgeous
he is, how clever, what he does in his spare time. When I finally wind down,
Laura is frowning. ‘Abdul? Funny sort of name, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, he’s Lebanese,’ I add,
having forgotten to mention this.

She concentrates on
painting a thumbnail. ‘Don’t see too many ethnics up here.’

‘Course you do.’ I
straighten up. ‘Surfers is full of them.’

‘Oh, as
tourists
, yes. But not living here. A few Asian
investors here and there, but not too many. Hardly any Muslims, thank god.’

The atmosphere has turned
frosty.

I blink.

How am I supposed to
respond? After a while I say, ‘Don’t you miss that?’

‘Miss what?’ Her tone is
sharp.

‘The multicultural
society... Like in Melbourne?’

‘Really, Emma... Why on
earth would I miss it?’

‘Well, the d-difference,’ I
stutter. ‘Not everyone being the same. All the restaurants and different food
and…‘

‘I certainly do not miss
suburbs turning into ghettos.’ Her face hardens.’ Nor do I miss the rising
crime rate or the Muslim gangs.’

‘Sacha is Ukrainian,’ I say
testing her further. ‘His full name is Sacha Dimitri Bukowsky.’

‘Yes, but he’s
European
, isn’t he?’ She looks at me as if I
can’t grasp her meaning. But I grasp it all right. Laura openly despises anyone
not from a Caucasian background. Confronted with such open racism, I’m left
wordless though my Picasso woman rises. Before Laura can say something else
I’ll hate, I say, ‘Look, don’t worry about the hinterland. I just remembered
the guys have other plans tomorrow.’

‘Oh, in that case...’

There’s a long silence.
Once I’ve judged that enough time has passed not to appear rude, I go back into
what could be my bedroom, change back into my clothes and return to ask to be
driven to Broadbeach.

After a silent journey that
seems to go on forever, I hop out of the jeep, remember to thank my driver and
rush away before Laura can respond. At least I now know where I stand. No way
can I live with someone who has such opposing views. Wouldn’t we spend all our
time arguing?

I find Kaz and Jodie on the
balcony sucking stubbies and say with a straight face, ‘Finished your
antibiotics then, Jodes?’

‘Nearly. A couple of beers
won’t hurt.’

‘We’re going down the coast
this arvo,’ Kaz tells me. ‘Bodie’s taking us in the van. Wanna come?’

Won’t that mean fighting
Jeff the Surfie off? ‘No thanks,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ll just hang around here.’

‘Hey, what gives with
Sash?’ Jodie carols. ‘Says he’s going to stay up here.’

‘More to the point,’ Kaz
rushes in, ‘He’s told us everything. What are
you
going to do, Emma?’

Heart in mouth… what has
Sacha blabbed? I manage, ‘About what?’

‘We know your Dad wants you
to stay and…’

I won’t let Kaz finish.
‘Not even an option,’ I retort. ‘I’m going home.’

I stalk into the bedroom
where I find an orange hibiscus on my pillow. Sacha. I will have to set him
straight, make sure he totally understands there is nothing between us except
friendship. All the same, still feeling like a proper bitch, I distract myself
by heading down to the foyer. ‘Yes,’ I’m told by the woman at the reception
desk. ‘You’ll get a bus to the hinterland in the terminal at Surfers. Oh,’ she
adds as I turn away, ‘there’s a message for you.’ She hands over a slip of
paper. ‘Came last night.’

Emma Simpson. Your mother
called from Melbourne. 7.30 pm. Please phone her ASAP.

I know a twinge of guilt. I’ve been
meaning to phone her, but not right now. Julie will only want to hear how I’m
getting on with Robert and the truth is I’m not sure what to say. If I say
‘fine’ or ‘terrific’, she’ll be upset. If I tell her the truth, it will only
give her more ammunition to talk about the ‘husband-from-hell and that slut he
ran away with’. No, I’ll do it tonight when I get back.

As we climb the winding hilly road, the
scenery changes from coastline and sea to dense vegetation. Heaps of tree
ferns. Avocado, mango and banana trees. I’ve brought my pad and crayons and I
manage several quick sketches of the wonderful foliage and the view from the
top of a crest. It takes about an hour before the bus makes its first major
stop, just enough time to brood over the events of the last few days.

But it’s hard to forget
Sacha’s forlorn face. How I wish I hadn’t given in to his need to prove to
himself that he isn’t gay. We were in Year 7 when I first noticed his pale
hair, delicate skin and fine features. Those few classes we took together, he
always sat at the back of the room. Sometimes I noticed him sketching. One day
walking past, I glimpsed clever cartoon figures, and paused to admire them.
That time he didn’t glance up, only reddened with pleasure. After, I always
asked to see his drawings. But it wasn’t until we shared the same art classes,
that we became friends. Now I’m even crosser than ever with myself for sleeping
with him. Not that I didn’t enjoy the sex. But it’s sure to mess up our
friendship. At least that can’t happen with girls. I give a sigh of relief. At
least sex can’t come between me and Dessi.

The bus stops at a village
completely different from the brash coast. We pass Tudor style houses and
shops, English style teahouses and art galleries. Further down the main road I
come across heaps of antique-stores. I sift through irons, butter churns,
delicate cups and saucers, figurines. In the end I choose a couple of horse
brasses. The owner assures me that they once adorned the dray horses that
pulled beer wagons. I hand over one hundred and fifty dollars, more than I
planned, but this is for Abdul.

I buy Julie a card,
scribble a quick message on the back, buy a stamp and post it in the main
street. Then it’s time to hop on a bus that will take me back to Broadbeach.

When I go through the
foyer, the receptionist calls me over. ‘Ms Simpson, your mother phoned again,
just after you left. She says it’s urgent. Do you need to use this phone?’

‘Yes. Please.’

What does Julie want?
Suddenly, I’m anxious.

I’m anxious. That’s because Abdul’s
invited me home once again. After the last fiasco I can’t help wondering why.
Though I’ll do anything and go anywhere to be with him, I nearly refuse. Then I
decide that maybe this time it will be easier, maybe the Maloufs will be more
used to having a ‘Skip’ in their house.

I make an effort to dress
even more conservatively. Last time I’m sure Mr Malouf disapproved because I
showed too much skin. No skirt tonight. Instead I pull on a long sleeved shirt
I wear over my loosest jeans. I spend more time on my face than usual. Do
Muslim women wear make-up? Yes, Mrs Malouf wore eye-liner and a bright red
lipstick that set off her dark eyes. Taking heart from this, I tie my hair
neatly back. Just clear lip gloss and a dab of mascara. In the mirror I’m the
very image of a ‘good Skip girl’.

Things are great in the car
all the way there. Abdul cracks jokes about his latest acquisition, an old
dresser he claims is riddled with woodworm. When we get to the Maloufs, at
first things
seem
easier.
Old Mr Malouf beams his cracked teeth ‘hullo’. A ghost of a smile flickers
across Mr Malouf’s face. Mrs Malouf asks after my ankle in English. Then Mrs
Malouf lapses into Lebanese and Mr Malouf returns to acting as if I’m
invisible. Only Grandfather’s gaze remains benign. As well, certain vibes
between Abdul and his parents keep me on edge. I order myself to stop feeling
paranoid. Speaking English must be tiring. Remembering all Leila told me about
their natural fear of strangers, I tell myself not to feel hurt.

But what makes things hard
is when shortly Mrs Malouf starts quarrelling with Abdul. Watching them argue
is like looking into a bowl of fish mouthing angry bubbles. Only my broken
ankle and old Mr Malouf’s smile stops me running away. This fight has to be
over me. At least the food is delicious so I politely praise the meal.

To my astonishment, Abdul
bursts into sarcastic laughter, his father scowls and Mrs Malouf looks
embarrassed.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask
Abdul.

‘Mum doesn’t want you to
know all this is ‘take-away’.’

Everyone laughs. Though I
make an effort to join in, I know more was said, that it was directed at me,
and definitely uncomplimentary.

The meal over, Abdul rushes
me into his room and pushes me onto his bed. I shove him away. ‘What have I
done?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your folks don’t seem too
happy about me being here.’

‘Oh, they think I’m wasting
time. And Dad won’t stop carrying on about my hair. They expect me to get a
haircut and grow a decent beard.’

‘Why is hair so important?’

He sighs impatiently.
‘Haven’t you ever noticed that good Muslims wear most of their hair on their
faces?’ He points to his locks and then the little tuft in the cleft of his
chin. ‘These are my little rebellions.’

‘If you go OS, that won’t
matter, will it?’

‘Suppose not.’ But he still
looks uneasy.

I hold him at a distance.
‘What do they mean by, you’re wasting time?’

‘They think that I
shouldn’t be dating,’ he says impatiently. ‘They say I should be concentrating
on study.’ His hands slide under my shirt. Right then, old Mr Malouf opens the
door and mumbles something.

‘Shit,’ Abdul mutters.
‘Phone.’

He stays away maybe ten
minutes or so. I use the time to take an inventory of his wardrobe to see what
else I can discover about him. I find jocks, socks, jeans, collared shirts,
some classy T-shirts. Two jackets: one denim, one leather, slightly worn. Three
leather belts, and four pairs of joggers. Boots, somewhat worn at the heel. A
little loose change. Biros, pencils, rubbers, etc. One new passport, no travel
stamps inside. Nothing out of the ordinary.

‘Anyone important?’ I ask
when he returns. Abdul shakes his head. Five minutes later there’s another
phone call. Abdul yells something in Lebanese. This time his mother shouts
back.

Abdul’s angry face sends a
shiver down my spine. He grimaces. ‘Sorry.’

This time he’s away nearly
twenty minutes. Half asleep, it occurs to me to wonder for the first time:
What
if it’s a woman?

Suddenly I’m chilled to the
bone.

Can fortune-tellers be
believed?

Just before our final exams
we were passing an advertisement for Madam Chloris, a clairvoyant. Emma was
really interested. ‘Only fifty bucks to find out if we get a place in Uni.’

‘Why bother?’ I scoffed.
‘She’ll just con you.’

‘You don’t know till you
try,’ Emma persisted. ‘Come on. You go first.’

The fortune-teller turned
out to be small, dark and in her mid-forties. She peered at my palm. ‘You’re
still at school.’

Considering my obvious age,
I wasn’t impressed.

Then Madam Chloris said,
‘You’ve got a brother, he’d be twelve, thirteen. He’s tall and skinny and has
very curly dark brown hair.’

That stopped my smile.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘About getting into Uni.’

Red tipped fingers waved my
fears away. ‘No worries. You’ve worked hard, and you deserve to do well.’ She
peered more intently. ‘Just beware of getting into other people’s cars. And
watch out for placing your trust in the wrong person.’

Until now I always thought
both warnings were about Jon. Only now do I dare question this. When Abdul
returns, I casually ask, ‘Who was that?’

‘Uh... Antler wants me to
lend him five hundred.’

‘Will he pay you back?’

‘He’d better. I have to
meet him tomorrow at the bank.’

My eyes widen. ‘Thought you
said Antler was in Perth?’

‘Did I? Well, he’s back and
stony.’ He pulls me onto my good leg. ‘Tell you more later,’ he promises.
‘Let’s get out of here.’

‘Okay.’ I’ve temporarily
lost interest in Antler, anyway.

In the living room, both
older Maloufs are glued to the TV. I say, ‘Thank you for a lovely dinner.’

Both parents scowl. I feel
sick. I know they see me as awful. What do they think Abdul’s doing with me,
anyway?

As he helps me into his
van, something Sacha once said springs into my mind. I was in hospital,
semi-drugged, but awake enough to complain about the heavy boot encasing my
ankle. ‘Don’t worry.’ His blue eyes were bright with sympathy. ‘Cripples are a
real turn-on.’