The Good Daughter Page 11

  ‘I haven’t seen your mum,’ Adnan replied. She mustn’t have come home from Safet’s yet. ‘And Dido was meeting someone for coffee in St Albans.’

  My boom box was on the stairs by the back door, blasting a Bosnian rock song. ‘Who’s singing?’ I asked.

  ‘Bijelo Dugme.’

  ‘White Button,’ I laughed. ‘Funny name for a band.’

  ‘It’s no funnier than Duboko Ljubiasto, željezna Djevica, Kotrljajućce Kamenje.’

  Deep Purple, Iron Maiden, Rolling Stones.

  ‘Okay. Point taken.’

  The song was a mixture of a folk song, a rock ballad and a classical symphony. I liked it, but could only understand one word in ten.

  ‘What’s it called?’ I asked.

  ‘Pediculis Pubis,’ Adnan answered, tipping the bike upright.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You have to understand the context.’

  ‘You don’t know how to translate it.’

  Adnan laughed.

  ‘What?’ I shouted. I was so sick of being the butt of his private jokes.

  ‘All done.’ Adnan kicked the stand. ‘I’ll translate the song...if you make me a sandwich for lunch.’

  ‘Fine.’ I slammed the screen door behind me. He always seemed to get his way. Adnan opened the door and walked past me. He returned to the backyard with a pen and paper. While I prepared us roast beef sandwiches I heard the song rewinding and fast-forwarding.

  ‘It’s ready,’ I shouted, and sat to eat.

  He came in and slid the notepad towards me.

  Prelijepi stvore You pretty thing

  Pediculis pubis Pediculis Pubis

  Dirlija Joy

  Pediculis Pediculis

  Pediculis pubis Pediculis pubis

  Bilo je toplo, piće It was warm, there were drinks

  Zezanje i smijanje Joking and laughing

  Haljinu susi centralno grijanje She's drying her dress

  Idila Idyllic

  Gola je bila She was naked

  Kao i svaki glupi muski prasac Like every stupid man

  Polako polako rastem ko kvasac I'm growing like yeast

  Takvi smo mi Srbi That's what we Serbs are liken

  Zato me i svrbi That's why I'm itchy

  I ko bi reko Who would've known

  Soba puna parfema The room full of perfume

  A ona kraljica sapuna, ulja i krema She's the queen of soap and creams

  Kakva greska What a mistake

  Kada sam u vojsci fasovo trisu When I was in the army and caught crabs

  Veseli Bosanac Happy Bosnian

  Zagrizo Bit

  Zagrizo na mamac Bit into bait

  I pointed at the paper. ‘These aren’t even Bosnian words.’

  ‘It’s Sarajevo jail slang. Inmates learnt to speak really fast in a simple code,’ he pronounced proudly.

  ‘They’re singing about crabs?’

  Adnan laughed.

  ‘It’s about a sexually transmitted disease!’ I screeched.

  Adnan laughed louder. ‘Come on, it’s still a great song.’

  ‘To you maybe,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll leave you the CD to listen to.’ He passed me his empty plate. ‘That was a beautiful sandwich, Sabiha.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Why did I fall into the trap of serving him?

  He patted his belly. ‘I’m still peckish.’

  ‘Do you want another one?’ He had me over a barrel, what with the bike and then explaining the song. If only he didn’t turn everything into a bargaining match.

  ‘Thanks,’ he smiled, his blue eyes twinkling.

  He ate the second sandwich in four bites. ‘That was absolutely yummy. You know what I want to eat now.’ He paused, looking at the ceiling. ‘I’d love a caramel dipped in dark chocolate.

  I frowned. That sounded so familiar.

  ‘It would make my tummy tingly,’ Adnan continued.

  I gasped. ‘You bastard!’ It sounded familiar because I wrote in my diary that Brian’s eyes were like caramels dipped in dark chocolate, and how being around him made my tummy tingly. ‘You read my diary!’

  ‘Of course not.’ He smiled smugly.

  I hit him. I got in a few slaps across his head and shoulders before he grabbed my hands. ‘Let go, you prick!’ I shouted. ‘I’ll kill you!’ I struggled, managing to slide my hands out of his grip and belt him across the head.

  Mum chose this moment to arrive home.

  ‘What’s going on?’ She pulled me away from Adnan.

  ‘That prick read my diary.’

  ‘Did you do that, Adnan?’ Mum asked.

  ‘No.’ Adnan put on a hurt face. ‘I’d never do that.’

  ‘He’s lying.’ I reached past Mum to hit him.

  ‘Sabiha, you can’t attack a guest in our house.’ Mum grabbed hold of my shoulders.

  ‘How can you believe him over me?’

  ‘I’d better get going.’ Adnan stood.

  ‘Thank Adnan.’ Mum looked at me expectantly.

  ‘I’m not thanking him.’

  ‘Sabiha,’ Mum gasped.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Adnan said, as he closed the front door.

  ‘Sabiha, I’m disappointed in you. You should behave better than this.’

  ‘He should know better than to go through someone’s personal belongings.’

  ‘Stop lying,’ Mum said wearily.

  I calmed down as her words cut through me. ‘When have I lied?’

  ‘You lied about kissing a boy in front of our house.’

  ‘How many times do I have to say it, he kissed me on the cheek.’

  ‘Suada saw you,’ Mum said. ‘People are talking.’

  ‘So what?’ I said.

  ‘They shouldn’t be talking about us,’ Mum said. ‘I’m doing everything right, but all they remember is what we do wrong.’

  ‘Who cares?’

  ‘I do. Sabiha, be good for me,’ Mum urged.

  ‘I am.’ I was on the verge of tears. ‘I’m doing everything you want—’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Mum cut me off. ‘Safet says—’

  ‘This is all about him, isn’t it?’ I demanded. ‘All you care about is impressing him.’

  ‘That’s not all I care about—’

  ‘Yes it is. Since you met him you act as if I don’t exist.’

  ‘Please, Sabiha,’ Mum sighed. The phone rang. ‘Don’t exaggerate,’ she said over her shoulder as she went to answer it.

  I waited for a moment, but she settled on the sofa, like I wasn’t there. I went to my bedroom and slammed the door. I served Dido like his own personal waitress, I played the good daughter whenever we were in company, I even went to mejtef and gave up my Saturday morning, and I worried about my mother’s well-being. And what did I get in return?

  The second drawer of my desk was open. Adnan hadn’t returned my diary to its right place. At least he hadn’t found Mum’s old love letters from Darko that I had hidden under my bed. But I would definitely have to find a new hiding place for my diary. I cringed as I re-read my entries. I’d written about Brian on nearly every page. I crumpled onto the bed in embarrassment. Adnan would never let me live this down. Grabbing a pen I began a new entry, all about Mum. I’d filled six pages when there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Sabiha?’ Mum opened the door and stuck her head in. ‘Can you please help serve our guests?’

  ‘Are you for real?’ Did she think I’d forgotten about our fight in an hour?

  ‘Please,’ Mum pleaded. ‘I need your help.’

  I wanted to tell her to get stuffed, but her look of desperation got to me. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘But you owe me.’

  She walked ahead of me to the living room. ‘This is my daughter Sabiha.’ She made the introductions in Bosnian. Safet was on the sofa and Dido in the armchair. ‘This is Sanela and her husband Nermin, and Sanela’s mother Enisa.’

  ‘Merhaba,’ I said.

  ‘Sabiha, do you remember me?’ Sanela pull
ed me down for a smacking kiss on the cheeks, her moustache brushing my face. ‘I used to care for you when you were little.’ She put her hand at waist height.

  I telegraphed an SOS with my eyes to Mum.

  ‘Sanela used to live in our street before we moved to Thornbury,’ Mum explained.

  ‘You used to love to eat my hurmashice.’ Sanela squeezed my hands. Do you remember?’ She kissed my hands as if I was a baby again.

  I stared at her like a deer in headlights. There was no graceful way to get out of this one and I should know, I’d been caught so many times. They always begged me to remember them. Once a woman asked me if I remembered her rocking me to sleep when I was six months old. I’d learnt to look at them with a faint smile and wait until they got involved in the conversation and forgot about me.

  ‘Ona je isti otac,’ Nermin said.

  My ears pricked. Sanela’s husband had just said that I looked exactly like my father. Did that mean he knew him?

  ‘Yes, she does.’ Mum put her hand on my shoulder and pulled me to her side. ‘Sanela and Nermin were our neighbours when I was married to your father,’ Mum explained.

  ‘Where is Esad?’ Nermin asked.

  ‘He lives in Hobart,’ Mum answered.

  My father had re-married soon after divorcing my mother. I knew he had more kids. I guess they were my siblings, but since I’d never met them and wasn’t likely to, I never thought about it.

  I used to pester Mum with questions about my Dad or pore over the photo album containing the few photos of their wedding and marriage. But whenever I probed Mum she took on that wounded look and changed the subject. In the end I’d stopped asking, figuring that if he didn’t want me in his life, then I didn’t want anything to do with him either.

  ‘Come here Sabiha.’ Mum tugged me to the kitchen.

  ‘Prepare the fildjani,’ she ordered. I went back to the living room for the demitasse coffee cups in the glass cabinet, while she got the djezva, the coffee pot, and spooned coffee into it.

  ‘I don’t want to go to mejtef any more,’ I told her as I helped.

  ‘Tough.’ Mum placed the saucepan of milk on the stove.

  I caught sight of the thick cream floating on top and turned away. ‘But you said that you owed me.’

  ‘No.’ Mum put the kettle on to boil. ‘You said I owed you.’ Mum counted the fildjani. ‘Okay, you know what to do now. When the water boils pour it into the djezva, place the djezva on the stove until the coffee starts frothing and then add three teaspoons of sugar. Then bring the coffee out,’ Mum instructed.

  ‘I’m not your maid,’ I said defiantly.

  Mum stepped closer and grabbed my arm. ‘You are my daughter and you will do what I tell you while you’re under my roof,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She let go of my arm and left.

  I heard her crowing to the guests that I would serve the coffee and my hurt flickered into anger. The only reason she needed my help was to show off. She didn’t care about me or what I wanted.

  I didn’t understand how we’d come to this. Mum and I used to talk to each other like girlfriends. Yet now she was turning into a dictator. The kettle boiled, I poured the water, put the djezva on the stovetop, then stirred the coffee and waited for it to froth.

  My hand stilled. I was doing what she wanted. I was performing like a circus monkey. I lifted the djezva over the sink and started tipping out the coffee. No, it was too simple. I lifted the djezva upright. She’d only make another pot.

  Looking around the kitchen for a tool of revenge my eyes settled on the sugar canister. Right next to it was the salt in an identical canister. The only difference was the name on the lid. Perfect. I spooned three tablespoons of salt into the djezva and put it on the tray.

  Mum would be judged as a mother by how well I performed domestic tasks, especially the making of coffee. Coffee to a Bosnian is like Guinness to an Irishman. Refugees who’d been in Bosnia during the war spoke about grinding rice instead of coffee beans while under siege. It’s more than a social custom, it’s a source of national pride and identity.

  I carried the tray to the living room. I’d thought we were friends, but if Mum wanted to play the role of the traditional mother, that left me with the role of the rebellious daughter. I clunked the tray on the glass-top coffee table.

  Sanela’s mum, Enisa, counted the fildjani, her lips moving and her head bobbing. ‘Won’t she be drinking coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s fifteen.’ Mum poured the first fildjan, stirred it by gently tipping the cup, then poured the coffee back into the pot.

  ‘I was married when I was her age,’ Enisa said.

  I gave Mum a stern look. She handed me a fildjan on a saucer. ‘Pass this to Dido and get yourself a fildjan.’

  I returned with a fildjan, handed it to Mum, then sat on the floor beside her. Now it was a just matter of who’d take the first sip.

  ‘She’s a real beauty,’ Enisa said, her fildjan approaching her mouth. ‘She won’t have any trouble finding a husband.’

  She was talking about me as if I was a heifer on the market. I opened my mouth, but Mum grabbed my hand and squeezed a warning. ‘She’s got a few years yet.’

  I moved my hand away and smiled as Sanela’s mum tipped the fildjan towards her mouth. Drink, you old bat. Drink.

  ‘Piku materinu,’ Dido swore loudly. Everyone froze. He’d used the traditional Bosnian profanity that translated as Your mother’s vagina. ‘There’s salt in the coffee.’

  Mum took a sip from her fildjan, her face puckering in disgust. ‘My apologies.’ She collected all the fildjani. ‘I’ll make another coffee.’ She walked into the kitchen calling my name. ‘What did you do?’ she demanded, loudly, so they could all hear what a disciplinarian she was.

  ‘I put sugar in it.’ I lifted the salt canister.

  ‘That’s salt.’ Mum tapped the lid furiously. ‘This is sugar.’ She pointed to the other canister.

  ‘Well?’ I asked loudly—I could play this game too. ‘They both look the same.’

  Mum grimaced.

  I stormed out of the kitchen and slammed my bedroom door behind me. I threw myself on the bed, muffling my laughter in the pillow. It was perfect. I pictured Mum’s face when she realised there was nothing she could do. On the surface it was a simple mistake anyone could have made.

  After the guests left Mum came by to apologise. I played the hard-done-by daughter and tried to get out of mejtef again. She ‘promised’ she’d think about it. I knew she was just saying that to get me off her case.

  On Monday morning I woke late and smiled when I remembered it was a public holiday: I could eat my cereal in front of the TV. I crawled out of bed and opened the sliding door to the living room. My bleary eyes and sluggish brain took a moment to process what I was seeing.

  The sofa cushions were on the floor and Mum and Safet were sprawled over them, their naked bodies entwined, their faces slack-jawed with surprise as they stared at me. Mum was on top and they were both red-faced and sweaty.

  nightmare on wooley street

  ‘Ohhh!’ a scream emerged from my throat, like I’d walked into a horror set and seen a dead body. ‘Fuck, fuck,’ I whispered as I stumbled to my bedroom, my stomach heaving.

  Mum burst into my room. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ she shouted, breathless.

  I glanced over and saw she’d put on a nightgown, but it was almost transparent and she was still naked underneath. ‘Eooww,’ I groaned and turned away from her. ‘Because it’s a public holiday.’

  ‘Listen.’ She lowered her voice. ‘There’s no need to tell Dido about this.’

  ‘Where is Dido?’ I asked.

  ‘He went to meet Edin at the mosque café.’

  ‘So you thought it was your chance for public sex?’ I grabbed my pillow and held it to my stomach, still reeling from what I’d seen.

  ‘It’s my house.’

  ‘I live here too.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Mum sai
d. ‘Listen, Sabiha, Dido would be embarrassed—’

  Safet stuck his head in the doorway. ‘Why isn’t she at school?’ he demanded.

  ‘Get him out of here!’ I shouted, hiding my face in the pillow. The image of his black, curly chest hair matted against his sweaty, naked torso appeared before my eyes and it made me feel ill.

  Mum went into the hallway, leaving my bedroom door open so I could hear what they were saying. ‘You have to go,’ she said.

  ‘But I haven’t finished.’ I heard smacking noises like they were kissing and my lips curled in disgust. ‘Send her to school so we can finish,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t,’ Mum said. ‘It’s a public holiday.’

  He groaned. ‘Bahra, why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mum said. ‘All the days blur together. I’ll come to your house as soon as I finish talking to Sabiha.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ Safet said. I heard footsteps and the front door slammed.

  ‘Sabiha,’ Mum said softly. ‘Can I come in?’ I didn’t answer. The bed dipped as she sat on it. ‘I didn’t know today was a holiday.’

  I turned to look at her. ‘Why would you?’

  She flinched. ‘I know that you’re angry with me.’ She lifted her arm. I glared at her in case she thought about touching me. She sighed and folded her hands onto her lap. ‘But there’s no point telling Dido.’ She started crying. ‘I try so hard,’ she whimpered. ‘I’ve embarrassed Babo so much over the years. I can’t disappoint him again.’

  Why did she always manage to make me feel sorry for her? She was the one who did the wrong thing, but I was the one who felt guilty. I knew I couldn’t tell Dido. Imagining that conversation made my head swim.

  ‘I won’t tell,’ I muttered between clenched teeth.

  Mum wiped her face with her hands and smiled.

  ‘But,’ I said, before she got her hopes up. ‘I have a request—’ I let my sentence hang in mid-air.

  ‘You’re blackmailing me again?’

  I refused to feel guilty. She pushed me to this. If she’d been reasonable we wouldn’t have entered this war of attrition, but now I had no choice.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.