The Slap (36 page)

The assistant, open-mouthed, was obviously horrified.

Antony nodded in grim assent. ‘That’s right, we should kill the cunt. Mind my language. But we should kill him.’

She was doing the right thing. She was definitely doing the right thing.

 

She arrived early at the bar and, on an impulse, ordered a bottle of champagne. Knowing that Anouk would want to smoke she took a seat at a table on the footpath. As she sat down she glanced quickly at her reflection. Antony had, as always, cut her hair short, leaving a heavy fringe across her right cheek. She liked it, it had a hint of flapper style. She was wearing an old white dress shirt of Gary’s and over it a blue velvet vest that she had got sometime back in the nineties. The skirt, expensive, short, black, chic, she’d bought from David Jones before she had Hugo. She was delighted to find that it still fitted her. She sat down feeling pleased. No one could accuse her of looking like a hippie today.

Anouk arrived a few minutes later, dressed in a man’s suit. She was growing out her hair and the thick black locks, streaked with grey, fell to her shoulders. The two women looked at each other, grinned in mutual admiration.

Anouk pecked her on the cheek.

‘You look gorgeous.’

‘So do you. You look delicious.’ Anouk whipped out a cigarette and lit it. She nodded appreciatively to the young waiter who had unobtrusively placed another champagne glass on their table and was now filling it. ‘You didn’t come with Aish?’

‘You know what her work is like.’ Rosie raised her glass. ‘I took the tram and she can give me a lift back.’

‘Good.’ Anouk looked down Fitzroy Street to the grey-green water of the bay, gleaming in the fading afternoon sun. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Beats the concrete and clay on your end of town.’

Rosie said nothing to this. Though she had now lived long enough in this city to understand its divisions and mythologies, she remained uninterested in their pettiness. It was a treat coming to St Kilda, certainly, she’d enjoyed reading
Vanity Fair
on the long tram ride, had enjoyed dressing up, going out. But the bay could not compare to the ocean of her youth. She certainly never swam in it. It felt dirty the few times she had done so; she had felt like a layer of grease was coating her skin.

‘How’s the book going?’

Anouk groaned.

‘That good?’

‘I’m enough of a Jewish princess, sweetheart, to feel the intense shame of having to confess to mediocrity. I’m just trying to write the fucker at the moment, get the story down, but I re-read an earlier chapter this morning and I felt like shit afterwards.’ Anouk took a deep breath. ‘It was so damn
womanly
. All oogie-boogie, feely-feely.’ Her face broke out into a cheeky leer. ‘I told Rhys that the next one is going to be porn. Poofter porn. No feelings, no emotions, no girly stuff. Just hardcore sex.’

‘When do I get to read it?’

‘The poofter porn?’

‘No. What you’re writing.’

‘When I get the courage to show you. When I don’t think it’s shit.’

‘It won’t be shit.’ Rosie was confident. Anouk had always belittled her talents. Arrogant, tough, unafraid when it came to living her life, she lacked confidence when it came to her art. She and Aisha had always seen Anouk’s escape into television writing, into soap operas, as running away. She had made lots of money but it wasn’t what she was destined to do. Even as young women, Aisha and Rosie were convinced that their friend was going to be famous, had teased her about which one of them she would choose to escort her to the Oscars. They had both been ecstatic when Anouk announced that she was giving up the soapies to write a book. It would do well, she would be acclaimed, there was nothing to worry about. Anouk had always had
promise
.

‘How’s Rhys?’

‘He’s working on a student film and he’s over the moon. There’s no money but it’s a good part.’

Rosie took a sip from her champagne. Anouk wasn’t going to ask about Gary, or Hugo. She knew her friend well enough to understand there was nothing deliberate in this omission. She just wasn’t interested. It helped when Aisha was with them; somehow the conversation flowed much more easily. She set down her glass, about to recount something from the magazine she had been reading on the tram. But Anouk spoke first.

‘I’m glad Aish is running late. There’s something I want to say to you.’ Anouk glared across at her. ‘You have to promise you won’t say anything, you won’t tell Aish that I’ve said anything.’

‘Cross my heart.’

‘I mean it. Fucking promise.’

‘I fucking promise.’

‘She had a big fight with Hector on the weekend. She wanted to come with you on Tuesday. She’s been feeling like crap that she can’t be with you.’

Rosie remained silent.

Anouk looked nervous. ‘Are you okay?’

Okay? She was bloody gleeful. It was what she needed to hear. Not that she was delighting in her friend’s marital conflict, but she needed to know that Aisha was looking out for her, that she understood exactly what this moment meant for her. She didn’t have to be physically there because she was there already. Had been all this time.

‘I’m glad you told me.’

Anouk took another deep breath. ‘Rosie, I’ll come with you if you want me to.’

She almost burst out laughing. The last thing she would need that day would be trying to make sure Gary and Anouk didn’t scratch each other’s eyes out. She grabbed her friend’s hand.

‘Baby, thank you, but you don’t have to.’ She winked. ‘I’d be too scared that you would make a good witness for the defence.’ She saw her friend baulk at this and this time Rosie did laugh. ‘I’m joking. Thank you. And thank you for telling me about Aish. I know she can’t be there. Shamira’s coming with us.’

She realised Anouk was uncomfortable with the physical intimacy; she withdrew her hand.

‘How’re she and Terry, I mean, Bilal?’ Anouk shook her head dismissively. ‘What the fuck is that about, that stupid name change? Can’t a Muslim be called Terry?’

In her heart, Rosie agreed. Why couldn’t Shamira remain Sammi, Bilal remain Terry? The taking on of new names had always struck her as something affected in their conversion, as if they knew that they were never real Muslims. She recalled the Lebo and Turkish women in the park the other day. One of them had called herself Tina, another Mary. They didn’t have to prove their religion. Like you, Rosie looked across at her friend. You’re born Jewish. That’s what’s real, you’re just born into it. Nevertheless, she thought she had to defend her friends.

‘I guess it’s like baptism, proof of accepting the new religion. It’s making it public to the world.’

‘I don’t think the world really cares.’

‘I think it took a lot of courage for Terry to become Bilal.’

‘Because he’s Aboriginal?’

‘Yes.’

Anouk lit another cigarette. ‘I’m not sure it takes any more courage for an Aborigine to become a Muslim than a white guy.’

Rosie shrugged. ‘I think in this world now it takes courage for anyone to call themselves Muslim.’

‘And Shamira? I guess she became a Muslim to marry Bilal.’

‘No. That’s not it. She had already converted. They met at a mosque.’

‘Really?’ Anouk looked astonished. ‘What the fuck makes a yobbo chick like her become a Mussie?’

‘She heard the call.’

‘The what?’

Rosie felt inadequate for this explanation. She had asked Shamira, early on, the very same question, possibly with an equivalent lack of comprehension. Shamira’s answer had been so simple, and so lovely in its simplicity, that Rosie knew she would do it no justice in telling it to her cynical atheist friend. Sammi had been working in the video shop, the same shop she still worked in on High Street, when a man and his young son had come in to look for a video to take home. Sammi was listening to triple J on the store stereo when she became conscious of a song that was falling from the young boy’s lips. It was a chant, and it made her switch off the radio. I felt light, Rosie, she’d said. I felt a light and I felt a peace. She had asked them what the boy was singing when they came up to the counter and the tall African man laughed and said it was not a song but a verse from the Qur’an that his son was learning. Shamira seemed to remember every detail about that day: the vermillion skull-cap the father was wearing, the boy’s chipped front tooth, the copy of
The Lion King
they’d taken up to the counter. And Rosie, Shamira confided, that night I went back to the flat and Mum and Kirsty were there, ready to go out, and they offered me a beer and a bong and for the first time in my life I said no. I’ve been smoking bongs and on the piss since I was twelve. But I said no. I just wanted to lie in bed and think about that chant. Really, that was it. That was the beginning. Sure, there was a lot of shit. I had to work hard to get people to believe I wanted to learn about Islam. The Lebo girls at school thought I was crazy. And so did Mum. Kirsty still doesn’t get it. But I heard God, I heard him speak.

Rosie poured Anouk another glass of champagne. ‘I don’t know what made her convert. Ask her yourself one day. What makes anyone religious?’

‘Fear of death. Ignorance. Lack of imagination. Take your pick.’

You’re hard. You’re hard, Anouk. At that moment they heard an insistent honking and they turned around. Aisha was in her car, waving at them, indicating she was trying to find a park. Anouk pointed towards the esplanade. The cars behind Aish started to beep their horns. Aisha nodded and drove off. Rosie caught the waiter’s eye and asked for another glass.

Aisha looked flustered when she walked in. ‘I’ve just met the devil and she is a seventeen-year-old drug-fucked bogan from Preston.’

Anouk chuckled. ‘Satan sounds like he downsized.’

Aisha, taking her seat, laughed as well. She raised her glass. ‘I need this.’

‘What happened?’

Aisha looked across at her friends, a scowl on her face. ‘Look at you two. I feel so frumpy and middle-aged.’

Anouk scoffed. ‘Shut up, you look gorgeous.’

‘I don’t feel gorgeous. I didn’t have a chance to get home and change. I’m scared I smell of dog piss and cat’s blood.’

Anouk laughed again. ‘That’s alright. You always do.’

Rosie smiled at her friend. Aisha’s olive top was plain, her navy pants simple and functional, but she would always look beautiful, no matter what she wore. Even in her forties, she had the slim body, the high, elegant neck, the sculptured, lean feline face of a fashion model. And that almost uncanny porcelain skin. She was the most splendid woman Rosie knew. ‘You look great. Now tell us what happened. ’

‘It was my last consult, this doped-up young girl and her kitten. She just needed a vaccination, nothing serious. Anyway, one of our clients rushes in with their dog bleeding all over their arms and in the waiting room. It’s been hit by a car, Tracey runs into the consult room to tell me and I turn to this girl and say, Excuse me, I’m just going to have to attend to this emergency.’ Aisha’s tone was urgent, but as she spoke she began to calm down. ‘So I’m trying to revive this dog and we suddenly hear shouting from the front. This little bitch is screaming that she had an appointment, that we should see her first and attend to the dog later. Tracey goes out to calm her and she starts yelling even louder. I’m trying to save this dog, his owner is crying next to me and we have this little shit screaming down the clinic. Anyway, the dog dies on the table, I’m feeling like crap but I go in to finish the consult with this girl who is telling me she’s going to lodge a complaint about us. Then she has the gall to complain to Tracey because we don’t have discounts for concession-card holders.’ Aisha looked from Rosie to Anouk, a look of incredulity on her face. ‘I wanted to kill her. How do these people exist? What makes them think they have the right to act like that?’

Anouk crossed her arms, sat back in her chair. ‘Don’t start me, Aish, don’t even start me. These kids, they’re unbelievable. It’s like the world owes them everything. They’ve been spoilt by their parents and by their teachers and by the fucking media to believe that they have all these rights but no responsibilities so they have no decency, no moral values whatsoever. They’re selfish, ignorant little shits. I can’t stand them.’ Anouk’s outrage was so vehement it was almost comical. ‘You know what you should have said, you should have said that if you can’t afford a vet visit maybe you shouldn’t have a cat in the first place. Losers. I’m sorry, there’s no other word for it. What the hell makes them think any of us owe them a living? How can they be that way?’

Aisha nodded. ‘Tell me about it.’

Rosie couldn’t speak. It was a terrible story, of course, the selfishness of this young girl, not understanding the imperative for saving the dog’s life, but she was hurt by the crudity of her friends’ responses. Sometimes you just don’t have money, sometimes you just want a discount and you get so embarrassed about asking that you come across as nasty or belligerent. The girl did sound selfish. But not everyone without money was like that.

‘She doesn’t sound quite normal.’

Aisha swung around to Rosie. ‘Oh don’t worry, she was out of it on something. Of course she was. She had no money, she was on the dole, she was on drugs, the perfect victim. Just perfect. And of course she was going to report us to the vet board. Of course. She has
rights
.’ The force Aisha put into that final word was like a blow.

Rosie twisted her fingers together. I’m not going to say anything. I shouldn’t say anything.

Anouk waved the waiter over and ordered another bottle of champagne. ‘It’s our world,’ she said flatly. ‘Can you imagine what the future is going to be like when these kids rule this country? Expecting everything on their plate and having to do nothing for it. It’s going to be hellish.’

Aisha nodded in approval.

Rosie thought, when is a girl like that ever going to rule the world?