Does My Head Look Big in This? (19 page)

“Shut up, you dork.” Samantha aims a kick at him. He sticks his tongue out at us and runs out before we can attack him. Aunt Mandy walks down the staircase in stilettos and tight Capri pants, her peroxide hair reflecting the spotlights in the ceiling. Uncle Joe follows, his gold chains hanging down his shirt, tufts of black curly hair finding their way through the gaps between his shirt buttons. He’s wearing flip-flops and jeans. He’s fifty years old and uses more New Wave Gel than the guys at school.

“Happy birthday,” I say as Aunt Mandy comes over and kisses me hello.

“Thanks, darling,” she says. “You look so . . .
different
wearing that thing, Amal. A lot older. . .”

I fight back the temptation to remind her that she was born a brunette and her ankles are too thick for stilettos.

“Don’t sound so disappointed in her, Mandy,” my mum says, coming to my rescue. I want to give her a massive hug. “And I think Amal looks lovely.”

Aunt Mandy gives my mum a fake smile. “Oh, of course she does,” she coos. “Would you like to take if off now, Amal, sweetie?”

“Nah, I can’t be bothered. My hair’s a mess. Bad hair day. I’ll just leave it on.”

“Hmm, OK, it’s up to you.”

Samantha grabs my arm and pulls me towards the stairs. But Aunt Mandy insists we join them in the lounge room for a drink before dinner is served. “You’re young ladies now. You should join the adults.”

Samantha makes a retching sound and we reluctantly shuffle behind our parents.

The lounge room is decorated with little stuffed toys, koalas and kangaroos wearing T-shirts in the colours of the Australian flag. There’s a holder on the coffee table that’s filled with toothpicks with miniature flags stuck to their ends. The coasters are green and gold with the words
Sydney 2000
written on them. I’ve never dared to ask where the Crocodile Dundee beanbag came from. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s handmade. I don’t think any free market would have the nerve to sell something so lame. The hands-down most hideous item in the room is the large oval mirror on top of the artificial fireplace with the metal frame. Every last inch of it is filled with magnets with messages such as,
I’m a too right Aussie sheila
or
Strewth, let’s have a shrimp on the barbie
.
The room is like a holy shrine for those craving fairdinkumness and identity salvation.

After a short time of small talk, the doorbell rings. Uncle Joe answers it and ushers in a man who scans the room flashing us an enormous and sincere smile.

“This is Alan,” Uncle Joe says pompously. “He’s head of the department.”

“Just call me Joe’s
boss
,” Alan jokes good-naturedly. Uncle Joe roars with laughter, and Alan looks at him with a tinge of amusement, obviously aware that his joke was lame and that Uncle Joe is kissing butt big time.

As soon as Alan takes a seat, Aunt Mandy’s doting begins.

“Would you like a drink before dinner?” she asks.

“Yeah,
mate
, want a VB?” Uncle Joe interrupts in a let’s-try-an-ocker-accent. “You’ll probably cark it if you don’t get the grog in soon, hey mate?” He roars with laughter, slapping his hand on his knee. Samantha and I lock eyes and try not to gag.

“Oh, of course,” Aunt Mandy gushes. “I’ll get you a beer, Alan.”

“No thanks. Have you got any soda water?”

Uncle Joe and Aunt Mandy look puzzled. Samantha lets out a titter and slams her hand over her mouth.

There’s nothing weird about the fact that Alan’s sitting with us at a family get-together when none of us have ever met him. It’s part of the whole Joe and Mandy campaign to show off how Aussie they are.

Once it was their neighbour, Tim, a forty-five-year-old bachelor who had nothing to contribute to the conversation apart from endlessly blowing his nose because of the chilli in the food. The next time it was Uncle Joe’s work colleague, Matthew, who spent the night talking CD-roms and Java scripts with my dad and uncle. Another time it was Aunt Mandy’s gym buddy, Penny, who sat at the table counting calories and looking ill when my dad started carving the fat off the lamb roast.

The first few times, we just assumed Uncle Joe was being friendly, you know, introducing us to his friends and acquaintances. It all started to make sense when, during one dinner, he started raving about how “broad-minded” his family is for socializing with people “outside the Arabic community”.

Every time after that, it would be the same.

“We live in Australia,” he’d say. “So we should assimilate and act like Australians. How can we be accepted and fit in if we’re still thinking about Palestine and talking Arabic? Multiculturalism is a joke. We need to mix more. Make friends outside our own community. Look at my family. We’re not stuck in Palestinian or Egyptian or Turkish ghettos. We’re part of the wider community. Our friends, our colleagues, they’re all average Australians, not wogs.”

Matthew, Penny, Tim or whichever Anglo Uncle Joe delegated to grace our company with their superior presence would nod politely.

Samantha and I usually roll our eyes at each other and ignore everybody. As for my parents? Well, with fifty-two years of Aussieness between them, they generally don’t swallow Uncle Joe’s performances and would be more likely to belly dance in Bourke Street mall in pink tutus then seek approval as Australians.

Tonight’s no exception. As we take our seats at the dining table, Aunt Mandy and my mum bring out the dishes. My mum’s shooting looks at me to come and help but I pretend I don’t notice and continue gossiping with Samantha.

When it comes to cooking, Aunt Mandy’s a star. Tonight she’s cooked
makloba
,
a spicy rice dish with pieces of marinated lamb and fried cauliflower and eggplant. The spicy smells mingle with the scent of hot baked pastries of minced chicken and garlic. Next to the
makloba
is a huge plate of sliced potatoes and chicken breast swimming in bubbling hot cream, garnished with tarragon leaves and fried pine nuts. Beside that is a pyramid of tomatoes and zucchinis stuffed with rice cooked in tomato paste and minced meat. The food’s piping hot and the aromas tease our noses and stomachs until Aunt Mandy brings out the garden salad and insists that we dig in.

It’s going smoothly. My dad, Uncle Joe and Alan are talking football. Probably the one thing that my dad and uncle have in common. Aunt Mandy’s talking recipes with my mum, and Samantha and I are trying to decide whether Hugh Grant is cute or quirky.

But then, halfway through dinner, as I’m beginning to hope that we’ll get through the meal without being tortured with lectures about citizenship, Alan takes a bite of
makloba
and I want to run for cover.

“I love Middle Eastern food,” he says, smiling at us. “It’s so delicious, I could live on it! This meal is superb, Mandy, thanks very much.”

“Thank you!” Aunt Mandy says, beaming.

Alan takes another bite, unaware of the silence that has overcome his host.

Uncle Joe takes a sip of water and then clears his throat. “Mandy knows how to cook all kinds of recipes. Not just Middle Eastern food. She knows Spanish, Chinese, French. She’s a very
well-rounded
Australian.”

Alan doesn’t know what to make of Uncle Joe’s outburst and smiles awkwardly. “Yes . . . I’m sure she is. . .”

“Mandy is, mate. A fairdinkum cook who knows all kinds of recipes.”

“Come off it, Dad!” Samantha groans. “You sound like the Crocodile Hunter guy!”

“See, Alan, how my daughter talks to her old man? No respect.”

“Dad called himself old!” George yells in delight.

“Old man is what
we
say about
you
,” Samantha says. “You’re not supposed to say it! You’re just insulting yourself.”

Uncle Joe looks embarrassed and a blush creeps over his neck. He darts a glance at Alan who, thankfully, is gracious enough to pretend not to have heard and mercifully changes the topic back to sport. My dad and Alan go off into their own world and Uncle Joe pretends to be occupied with the task of refilling everybody’s glass.

“Bloody hell, when’s he ever going to get over the slang?” Samantha whispers to me.

“When he realizes that flip-flops and a Bonds singlet aren’t going to make him more Aussie.”

“In other words, I’m doomed to hear him say
fairdinkum
,
crikey
and
mate
for the rest of my life!”

“Too right, Samantha, you beaut sheila.” We look at each other, groan and erupt into giggles.

22

T
his Friday evening I’m at Leila’s house watching a Ben Stiller comedy. We’re sprawled on the couch, stuffing our faces with chips and Tim Tams and laughing over the movie when Hakan walks in. He nods at me and grunts a hello.

“What time did you get home last night?” Leila asks him.

“What the hell is it to you?”

“Dad woke up this morning and found the front door left wide open. He freaked out! Anybody could have come in the house. We could have been robbed. Attacked. We’re on a main road, for God’s sake!”

He chuckles. “Hear that, Amal? I’ve got a frigging paranoid family. They start hallucinating about robbers because a door’s left open. Bloody wogs think so stupid.”

I ignore him, not wanting to interfere, and pretend to be watching the movie as they argue in front of me.

“You left the door wide open! Were you off your face again?”

“Got a problem with that?”

“What was it this time? Drugs? Alcohol? You’re so predictable.”

“I enjoy life. Not like this crap family, stuck in the Dark Ages. Bloody villagers.”

“At least Mum and Dad aren’t alcoholic weed-heads like you!”

“Why don’t you frigging stop trying to show off in front of your friend? Trying to act like the Queen of Sheepa.”

“It’s
Sheba
,”
Leila says, rolling her eyes. “Jeez, why don’t you go read a book?”

“Shut your face.”

I adjust my position on the couch and start biting my nails. This is getting really uncomfortable.

“So I guess they haven’t told you off about it yet? You’re in big trouble. Mum and Dad are going to chuck a fit at you!”

“
Me?
Huh! Like those old wogs have the guts to tell me off. You think I’m going to listen to
them
?”

“You’re so full of it.”

“Watch your mouth, you bitch, got it?”

“Don’t you dare call me a bitch!”

“
Ooh!
Leila’s upset! What’s she going to do? Run to Mummy? Sweet talk Daddy? What are they going to do? Tell me off? Huh! Like they would! Man, you’re warped. I’ll say and do what I want and nobody’s going to stop me!”

He storms out of the room and Leila stares at the coffee table, her breath heavy and angry. “Sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s
me
. Family fights. Way normal.”

“I swear, Amal, I hate him. I absolutely hate him. How can a sister hate her brother? He’s my blood brother but if he left home now I wouldn’t feel one single atom of sadness.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about him. He’s all show. Just macho and full of himself.”

“But what he said was so true. Mum and Dad probably won’t tell him off. Mum has this almost reverential fear of him. Her first child. Her only son. I know she cries about what he does and I’ve heard her and Dad talking about how to control him and pull him into line, but they won’t do anything about it.”

“What about your dad?”

“Sometimes he has a go at Hakan. Like when Hakan gets home really late or when he’s all doped up and has a hangover. When he’s like that, Dad orders him to get out of the house and Hakan storms out and shouts he’s leaving for good and then Mum breaks down and fights with my dad for losing her son and blah blah blah. So then Dad gets fed up because Mum gets hysterical that Hakan might not return. So now he lies low, for Mum’s sake. If Hakan left, Mum would never forgive Dad and Dad’s just too attached to Mum to make her angry at him like that. It’s all a big mess. . . Let’s just not talk about it.”

She snuggles up next to me and places her head on my shoulder.

“Amal?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you rewind the movie to the start? I missed the whole thing and I can’t even remember what I’ve watched!”

I rewind the movie and we watch the comedy in silence.

23

O
n Saturday night I stay up late and watch
Erin Brockovich
on TV. It makes me feel kind of emotional and do-gooder, so on Sunday morning I tell my mum I want to visit Mrs Vaselli and she chokes on her breakfast.