No Sex in the City

  She starts to cry again and I walk over to her and put my arms around her. ‘Calm down, Mum. It’ll work itself out. Dad’s been trying so hard to make it up. Working two jobs. It’s all he’s thought about. You have to know how sorry he is. That’s why he couldn’t bear to tell you.’

  ‘He dragged you into this. He had no business! You hear, Mehmet! You had no business doing that. Let her have her own future, not have it snatched away by her own father!’

  My mum’s words sting and my dad walks backwards, slumping into a chair at the dinner table. He sits silently, not responding to the torrent of words pouring out of Mum.

  ‘Mum,’ Senem says gently, ‘you’ll get through this. Forgive him.’

  Mum doesn’t reply straight away. When the silence becomes too much to bear, I open my mouth to speak, but Mum beats me to it.

  ‘There is forgiveness. And then there is the matter of what is to be done. I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘It’ll take time,’ I tell Dad once Mum has left. ‘She’s trusted you all these years. The least she deserves is some space.’

  Dad looks up at Senem and me. ‘Yes, but what if she decides she no longer wants me in that space?’

  Later I call Lisa.

  ‘Have you spoken with Nirvana?’ I ask.

  ‘I called but she texted me to say she needed time to think things through. She said she was sorry for flipping out but she didn’t want to talk about it yet.’

  ‘She’s going through a lot.’

  ‘Esma, I know. You don’t need to tell me, I get it. But I won’t apologise for what I did. I’m only sorry she thinks I betrayed her, sorry that she’d have such a low opinion of me. She has to understand, my job is my life. I love what I do. I believe in it. I believe in trust and confidence and choice and freedom. Breaching somebody’s trust runs counter to everything I believe in. And I just hope that Nirvana gets that. Because what’s left between us if she doesn’t?’

  Fifty-One

  Aydin calls me at eight-thirty on Saturday night. ‘I just got in from Melbourne. Do you want to go for a walk?’

  ‘What, now?’

  He chuckles. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you kidding? It’s freezing outside.’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll keep you warm,’ he says boldly.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sure you will. But we both know that’s not going to happen.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll keep my hands to myself and you can wear a million layers. Come on, I’ll pick you up in half. I’m on my way back from the airport.’

  I laugh. ‘Sure, I’ll just tell my dad I’m going for a romantic walk out in the park with you after dark. Although he’s come a long way since the Rule of Six, he’s never going to accept you arriving on our doorstep to take me out on a date.’

  ‘But he knows we’re getting to know each other, right?’

  ‘Yes. That is the official terminology.’ I chuckle. ‘Mum keeps him in the loop. He doesn’t talk about it directly with me, though. We’ve never had that kind of relationship.’

  ‘Really traditional, hey?’

  ‘Actually, really shy.’

  ‘Okay, so then meet me at the park round the corner from your place.’

  ‘Just drop everything to see you?’ I laugh again.

  ‘You’re killing me here, Esma. Come on,’ he pleads. ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, pretending that I’m giving in reluctantly, although secretly I can’t wait to see him.

  ‘The other week you asked me about my brother. And I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.’

  We’re sitting in Aydin’s car in the car park next to the park, looking out onto the oval where several games of football are taking place.

  He gives me a half-smile. ‘I’m sensing you were annoyed about that.’

  ‘Annoyed?’ I give him a look of mock indignation. ‘Not at all. I was overjoyed when you pressed control–alt–delete right in the middle of our conversation.’

  He laughs. ‘Okay, I get it.’

  ‘I’m only joking,’ I say. ‘To be honest, I was a little hurt at first. But you know what, Aydin? I don’t care about your past. If you don’t want to tell me about it, then I trust it’s for a good reason. Besides, I’ve got my own secrets.’

  He smiles. ‘Okay. So confessions?’

  I smile back. ‘Yes. Confessions. You first.’

  ‘My parents would be mortified if they knew I was telling you. I think they’d prefer that you knew much later on.’

  ‘I’m in exactly the same situation. If I can’t trust you won’t judge my family poorly, then there’s no point in continuing to get to know each other.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Our parents’ generation is all about saving face. But things have changed. People our age tolerate and accept a lot more.’

  He turns to look me in the eye. ‘Can you accept that I have a brother who will be in jail for another eight years for manslaughter?’

  I take a moment to process what he’s said before answering. ‘It’s not for me to accept,’ I say, trying to contain my shock. I don’t want him to interpret my shock as judgement. I’m the last person to hold others to account for something they weren’t responsible for.

  ‘He was a drug addict.’ He sighs deeply. ‘He dropped out in Year Ten, promising my dad he’ d go into a trade. Dad got him a zillion jobs through friends – plumber, electrician, labourer. He’d stay for a week or two, get into a fight with somebody, then quit or get the sack. When he hit about twenty he started going to rave parties. He’d smoked pot up until then, but he started on the harder stuff. Mum and Dad bailed him out of trouble so many times. Ayshe and I did too. We covered for him, paid off debts, gave him money for all the times he’ d leave home to live with his friends, which we knew meant bumming it with other druggies. And then a couple of years ago he was off his face at a party and he got into a fight and punched some other guy. The guy fell and hit the pavement. Cracked his head open.’ My stomach turns. ‘Karem got ten years.’ Aydin lowers his head, staring at his lap.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed about.’

  He laughs bitterly. ‘Esma, I’m not ashamed. I’m furious with him. He’s put my family through so much and he’s not remorseful. He still insists the guy had it coming. Sure, he’s devastated that he died, but he still defends his actions. He’s cocky, walks around thinking the world owes him. He hasn’t learnt a thing. He’s in Silverwater, another eight years ahead of him. He picks fights all the time.’ He throws a glance my way. ‘You must think I’m an arsehole talking about my own brother like this.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ I say. ‘I get it. I really do.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. You can’t get it, Esma, because even I don’t get it. I know blood is thicker than water, but there are times I hate my brother. I hate the burden of caring for such a son of a bitch.’ His voice falters then and he stops himself, opens the window and breathes in the crisp night air. ‘That’s why my ex broke up with me. She couldn’t handle the stigma.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘Well, not really.’ A smile spreads to his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t.’

  I smile back shyly.

  ‘Family does count,’ he says. ‘And this is my family. Are you comfortable getting to know me with that scandal in my family? You don’t have to answer me now. And I totally understand if it’s a problem for you because—’

  ‘Aydin,’ I say gently, ‘I’m not like that. Your brother is his own person and he made his decisions. That shouldn’t be something you have to pay the price for.’

  ‘What about your parents, though? There’s no way they’d see it like that too.’

  I shrug. ‘It shouldn’t matter. I don’t think it will.’

  He puts his hands behind his head. ‘Well, that’s a weight off my shoulders. Your turn.’

  I gulp, take a long calming breath and, in a low voice, tell him about Dad’s debt.

  Whe
n I finish I look up. He’s smiling.

  ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘I’m smiling because you have nothing to be ashamed of either. Your dad’s situation isn’t unique. I know so many families going through similar problems. I would never expect the woman I’m with to turn her back on her parents, especially when they depend on her.’

  He stops, because to continue means articulating something we both haven’t expressed yet. There’s silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. I’m just enjoying the feeling of weightlessness that confessions can bring. I turn to face him and can see desire in his eyes.

  ‘You’re really beautiful,’ he says softly.

  I blush.

  He shakes his head and grins. ‘It’s really hard to keep this kind of distance.’

  ‘Not used to self-control, hey?’ I tease.

  ‘You know something, Esma? ... Actually, I wonder if I should tell you. Nah. I better not.’

  ‘Nobody who starts a sentence like that gets away with nondisclosure. It’s plain cruel!’

  ‘So is sitting here with you in a car in the moonlight and having to think about tax bills and work to keep myself under control.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Sorry about that. Nothing I can do about it, though. This is who I am.’

  ‘We were talking about hypocrisy the other day.’

  I nod and he continues.

  ‘I get the feeling you think I was some kind of player.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Were you?’

  He folds his arms across his chest. ‘Well ... hmm ... how should I say this? I wasn’t as rebellious as you might think.’

  I give him a quizzical look. ‘Meaning?’

  He leans closer and motions to me to lean in. ‘I’ve never gone all the way,’ he whispers.

  ‘You’re a virgin!’ I cry.

  ‘Thanks, Esma,’ he says dryly. ‘The entire football oval is going to take that home with them now.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Oh, and laugh while you’re at it too.’

  That only makes me laugh harder.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he says, although he’s smiling.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘You said you had girlfriends and mucked around.’

  ‘I may be a virgin, but I’m still a big hypocrite. I mean, I’m not exactly innocent here. I just never went all the way. Something always stopped me. Guilt. Shame. A feeling that I was selling out to a double standard, wanting to settle down with a girl who would be with me for her first time but applying different rules to myself.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, too stunned and touched to offer more.

  ‘So are you relieved? Disappointed?’ he asks eventually. ‘What are you thinking?’

  A smile. A long pause.

  What am I thinking? I’m thinking this guy has character. I’m thinking that I don’t care what the movies or magazines or society says, sex is a big deal and being with someone who ‘saved’ himself for me is exciting and terrifying and thrilling all at once.

  But I’m not about to tell him that. Instead, I look at him, smile and say, ‘I’m thinking I’m happy. That’s all ... What are you thinking?’

  ‘Exactly the same thing, actually.’

  Fifty-Two

  My parents call a family meeting on Sunday morning. Senem and I exchange an anxious look as she walks through the front door, Farouk behind her.

  ‘Hey, Esma,’ he says softly. ‘It’ll be okay.’

  I nod and give him a grateful smile.

  We all sit down in the family room. Mum and Dad sit beside each other on the couch. I try to interpret their body language, but they’re not giving anything away.

  Dad speaks first. He clears his throat and fixes his gaze on a spot on the coffee table. My mum is picking at the tassels on the cushion.

  ‘We’ve decided to sell this house.’ His voice is composed, if a little choked. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s no choice. I can’t expect Esma to sacrifice her life because of my mistakes. I’ve spoken with the bank and there’ll be enough left after we sell to buy something small.’

  ‘Where will you buy?’ Senem asks.

  ‘It won’t be in this area,’ my mum says bluntly. ‘There’s nothing we can afford here. It will be something small. Probably a flat. Maybe a small town house. We’ll look at the options.’

  Dad clears his throat again. ‘Senem and Farouk, I’m so sorry but we can’t offer you a place to stay while you save.’ Dad looks down at his lap and swallows hard. His guilt is palpable, and I can feel the weight of it around my heart.

  ‘It’s fine, Dad,’ Senem says breezily. ‘Don’t worry about me and Farouk. We’re both working. We’ll get there eventually. Just think of setting yourselves up.’

  ‘I want you girls to know that I’ve forgiven your father,’ Mum says, a slight tremble in her voice. ‘But I want you all to know this too: I haven’t forgiven him for your sake, or for his. Don’t any of you ever again assume you can predict how I’ll react. Of everything that has happened, being kept in the dark has hurt me the most. I’m not a child. Do you hear me?’

  We all nod, and Senem and I start to cry softly.

  Mum’s crying too but she still manages to talk. ‘Yes, I’ve made sacrifices for the sake of my family, but I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do. I will not be thought of as a woman who lives only for her husband and children. I live for myself too. I never want to be protected from the truth in the name of love. That is not love. That is a lack of trust. So. That is the last I will say of it. We have to move on from this.’

  My dad speaks next. He wants to acknowledge how much of a burden he imposed on me, what an amazing woman Mum is for allowing him to rebuild all he’s broken, how he hopes we can all forgive him for what he’s done – and my mum is looking at him with what appears to be a new sense of confidence. It’s as though she’s taken the terrible facts of what Dad has done and used them as a chance to prove her strength and character – not to my dad or to us, but to herself.

  We all misjudged Mum, including me. I’m ashamed of how patronising I was towards her. How little credit I gave her.

  Mum asks Senem and me to keep her company that night. I can’t refuse. I call Aydin and start to apologise, but he won’t let me.

  ‘It doesn’t need any explanation or apology, Esma,’ he says. ‘Be there for her, simple as that.’

  So our dinner plans are cancelled. The good news is that he’s free to come to the Sydney Refugee Centre this week to meet my class and do a screen test for his documentary, as well as start on some digital storytelling training. I can hardly wait.

  Fifty-Three

  The group is nervously waiting for Aydin. They’ve all come to class dressed in their best outfits. Ahmed’s drowning in his aftershave and sits at his desk, tugging at his shirt. The girls share a compact mirror as they fuss over their hair and make-up. I keep catching Sonny looking at his reflection in the window, and Faraj is sitting silently, jiggling his foot up and down. When I ask him what he’s thinking about, he says he’s practising his sentences. I feel so close to them at this moment. Proud and humbled and happy for them.

  When Aydin walks in with his filming equipment, my heart skips a beat. I’m excited for the group, and thrilled to see him, and conscious of not allowing my feelings to be obvious. I feel my face flush, so I busy myself with some random task to deflect any attention.

  I introduce Aydin to the group and then let him talk to them about his documentary. Within a couple of minutes I can tell he’s made a connection with the class. He’s funny and warm and self-deprecating and, most importantly, he’s making it clear that this is about empowering them. I sense the group sit up taller.

  ‘You can talk about whatever you want. It doesn’t have to be about the trauma you’ve gone through, all the suffering you’ve seen. Maybe you’re sick of talking about that. Or maybe you don’t feel you’ve talked about it enough.’ He smiles warmly at them. ‘The point is, nothing’s off lim
its.’

  Aydin’s enthusiasm and energy are infectious, and soon the kids are clamouring for a turn in front of the camera. Some of them talk about life in the camps, and the horrors of their journey to Australia by boat. Sonny, however, is more interested in talking about the need for extra buses and trains in the outer suburbs of Sydney.

  ‘How we expecting to integrating when there not enough buses and trains? If I could drive, I no affording a car anyway. We needing transport to be better. You showing the government my video and maybe they do something, yes?’

  When everybody’s left, and Aydin and I are alone packing up, I start to thank him and he laughs it off. ‘Oh come on, I should be thanking you. They’re amazing.’

  ‘I know,’ I say cheekily. ‘I was just being polite.’

  He takes a step towards me and there’s a sudden intensity between us. I’m sure he can hear my heart hammering away at my rib cage because he quickly steps back and starts to chatter cheerily as he finishes packing up his bags.

  As we leave the building, a familiar figure suddenly appears before us.

  ‘Metin!’ I feel dizzy, as though I’ve been punched in the guts. ‘What are you doing here?’

  It’s as if he doesn’t see Aydin, even though he’s standing right beside me.

  ‘You can’t just break up with me like that,’ he says, a tormented look on his face. ‘Without a proper explanation. I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m—’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Aydin asks, looking at me in confusion. ‘Who is this guy? What’s he talking about?’

  Oh my God, I’m in a soap opera. This can’t be happening. I feel sick. ‘Metin, just go, please.’

  Metin looks anguished. ‘But I thought it was going well.’

  ‘What was going well?’ Aydin asks, crossing his arms.

  There’s nothing I can say to him. And even if there is, I’m not going to say it here. I feel the colour draining from my face.

  I turn to Metin. ‘I told you I don’t want to see you again. You have no right to come here. I never made you any promises. We were just getting to know each other and I decided you weren’t the guy for me. I’m sorry. Now please leave me alone.’