The Good Daughter (3 page)

‘I did what I had to do,' Dido frowned. ‘It was the only way to make a life.'

While those with religious beliefs weren't persecuted in Yugoslavia the way they were in other communist countries, they weren't promoted at work and given the opportunities that communist party members received.

Safet clapped Dido on the shoulder. ‘Come on friends, let's talk of happy things.'

Auntie Zehra covered Uncle Hakija's hand. ‘We came to have a good time, not rehash old arguments.'

Dido and Uncle Hakija engaged in a staring contest. Safet and Safeta finished eating and left to speak to friends at another table.

Mum picked at her
chevapi
. ‘Do you want it?' she asked Uncle Hakija. He broke the stare, smiled and shook his head.

Auntie Zehra narrowed her eyes at them. ‘You were always wasteful, Bahra.' Using a fork she transferred the
chevapi
to her plate. ‘You need to eat more.' She bit into the sausage and chewed it with relish.

Mum scrunched her nose and watched Safet as he worked the room. ‘I need to watch my figure.'

‘If you put meat on your bones you'd be able to keep a man.' Auntie Zehra followed Mum's gaze.

‘Not all men like big women,' Mum replied.

Uncle Hakija reached over and pinched the roll of fat bulging over Auntie Zehra's skirt. ‘You should watch your figure too.'

She slapped his hand. ‘You should keep your eyes off other women's figures,' she hissed.

Uncle Hakija rubbed his hand. ‘I was joking.'

‘He didn't mean anything by it,' Mum said.

‘You're in your thirties yet you're as vain as a teenager.' Auntie Zehra shook her head at Mum.

Auntie Zehra was forty-two years old to Mum's thirty-seven, and she was right. Mum looked like she was twenty-something. She did push-ups and sit-ups every night to keep trim, while Auntie Zehra's weight aged her face and her dowdy clothes made her look like a senior citizen.

Auntie Zehra kept going, pointing at Mum. ‘And you're dressed like a whore.' Mum's only fault was that she looked too good. Her knee-length dress fitted against her curves and her cleavage was just visible.

After over fifty years of living under communist Yugoslavia, there were only a few customs Bosnians practised in their everyday life that identified them as Muslim: the names they gave their children, drinking Turkish coffee, and the fact that male children were circumcised. Since the war they were groping for a new sense of identity after being pigeonholed as Muslim; and while many of them didn't know how to be Muslim, they knew what didn't make the grade and what got gossiped about. Skimpy clothes, drugs, and pairings with non-Muslims were at the top of the list. Mum had already received two strikes.

Mum picked up her glass and took a sip, her hand trembling. She wasn't good at confrontations.

‘That's not—' I started to interrupt my aunt. Adnan pinched me under the table. ‘Ouch!' I exclaimed.

‘Leave them to it,' he whispered.

‘She's my mother,' I whispered back.

‘She's her sister.'

I was about to speak, but he held up his fingers like he would pinch me again.

Uncle Hakija took Auntie Zehra's hand and looked at Mum. ‘I think Bahra looks nice,' he pronounced.

Auntie Zehra's face was crimson and rivulets of sweat trickled from her temple. ‘Keep your eyes to yourself.' She dug her nails into Uncle Hakija's hand.

‘Zehra,' Dido snapped. ‘This isn't the time.'

Mum and Auntie Zehra's bickering went back nearly twenty years, when Uncle Hakija was courting Mum. Everyone expected them to marry, but then my father came home from Australia to find a bride. Mum ended up marrying my Dad and moving to Australia. Auntie Zehra and Uncle Hakija married and stayed behind, and there's never been peace between the two sisters since.

In the strained silence we heard a murmur.

‘She's the crazy one.'

A woman at the table behind us scowled at Mum.

the family reunion

Mum hunched in the seat beside me. Most of the Bosnians off the boat freaked out when they heard that Mum was bipolar. In communist Yugoslavia anyone with a deformity or an affliction was put in a home and separated from the rest of the population. Yet another reason why we avoided the Bosnian community.

‘She may be crazy, but at least she's not dumb,' Auntie Zehra glowered at the woman. The woman turned away. ‘Don't pay any attention to them,' Auntie Zehra told Mum. ‘They're primitives,' she said, her voice loud enough to carry.

The woman stiffened, but she didn't look at us again. Mum smiled at Auntie Zehra, who nodded and kept eating her
chevapi
. Mum fiddled with her dress, tugging the neckline to cover her cleavage.

‘Merisa, give Bahra your jacket,' Auntie Zehra said.

Merisa was sitting on the other side of Mum. She took off her jacket and handed it to Mum.

‘You have to stop dressing like an Aussie.' Auntie Zehra reached across the table and squeezed Mum's hand.

‘I know.' Mum smiled as she put the jacket on.

‘See,' Adnan whispered in my ear. ‘I told you.'

‘Up yours,' I whispered back.

Adnan left the table and I groaned with relief, leaning back in my chair, arms crossed. It was still weird that these people had a claim on Mum. For so many years we'd been our own independent unit. Unlike so many mothers and daughters, we were friends. But now everything was changing. I was relegated to the sidelines. I checked my mobile—no reply from Kathleen.

Merisa stood. ‘Where are you going?' Auntie Zehra asked.

‘To the toilet,' Merisa replied.

‘I'll come too,' I said, following her from the table.

Inside the bathroom Merisa went to the mirror while I went to the toilet cubicle. As I washed my hands Merisa reapplied her make-up. I eyed her lipstick covetously. ‘Can I have some?'

‘I don't think this is your colour.' She used her finger to fix her lip line. I dried my hands with a paper towel and directed a piercing stare at her reflection. Merisa sighed and handed me the tube. ‘Don't break it.' She was such a tight-arse. I smeared my lips. ‘Not like that!' She blotted my lips with a tissue. ‘If it's obvious Dido will go crazy.'

Adnan was waiting for us outside the bathroom. He and Merisa walked away from the entrance to the gym.

‘Where are you going?' I asked.

‘To get some fresh air.' Merisa's tone was sharp. I knew I wasn't welcome, but I didn't care.

They hurried outside. I followed and heard snatches of conversation as we turned the corner. So this was where everyone under the age of twenty disappeared.

Merisa pulled out a pack of cigarettes from her handbag and popped one in her mouth. ‘Anyone got a light?' she asked in Bosnian. A young man flicked his lighter and put the flame to her cigarette. ‘Thanks.' She exhaled smoke to the side.

He offered his hand. ‘Mooki, short for Muharem.'

‘Merisa.' She smiled as they shook hands.

Adnan moved to another group. I edged closer to Merisa and she introduced me. I said hello, not knowing whether to offer my hand or not. Most Bosnians seemed to be into the handshake thing, but it felt weird to me.

‘Australian?' Mooki asked. Merisa nodded.

Another young man put his arm around Mooki's shoulders. ‘What have we got here?'

Mooki introduced his brother, Ferid.

I watched them like I was at a tennis match, my head bobbing from side to side as they talked. I knew Merisa was keen on Mooki by the way she tilted her head and laughed. I thought Merisa was pretty when I first saw her, but once I knew her better her bitchiness erased my first impression.

Adnan appeared at my side. ‘Got a smoke?' he asked Merisa. She passed one to him without taking her eyes off Mooki. ‘Having a good time cuz?' He put his arm around me and squeezed me against him.

‘Let go,' I muttered, pulling away.

He laughed and pinched my cheek, before sauntering off.

I turned and saw Dina watching me. Dina and I now went to the same school and even had classes together. Our grandfathers used to be neighbours in Bosnia and since Dido had moved to St Albans they'd reconnected. Her grandfather, Edin, was my grandfather's chess-playing buddy, and she was named after him. Her real name was Edina.

Last week, when I started at St Albans High, Mum talked to Dina's mum, Suada, and asked Dina to show me around. Grudgingly, she and her best friend Gemma let me hang with them if I happened to find them, but they didn't make it easy and were always moving around the school grounds.

Dina sidled up to me. ‘Is Adnan your boyfriend?' she asked, her eyes following him as he rough-housed with his friends. Adnan went to our high school, but he was in Year 12.

‘No,' I protested. ‘He's my cousin.'

‘Your cousin?' Dina said, incredulous.

‘Our mums are sisters.'

She looked relieved. ‘Wow, you're Adnan's cousin.' She said it as if I was related to royalty. There was no accounting for taste.

You could call Adnan handsome. He was over six feet tall. He had bright blue eyes and brown hair, with a slight cleft in his chin. As his cousin, I was immune to his charm since I was always the butt of his jokes.

‘Why didn't you tell me you were related?' Dina said, pouting.

‘What's the big deal?' I asked.

Dina shrugged and gave me a smug smile.

Adnan appeared at my side again. ‘Where is she?'

I looked around. Merisa had disappeared.

‘Mum's coming,' he grunted.

Auntie zeroed in on Adnan.

‘Merisa's gone back to the gym,' Adnan said.

Auntie walked on. I didn't have a good feeling. Her face was red and a vein was popping in her forehead, like when she and Uncle Hakija were arguing. Adnan and I followed. Even though I tried to give my feet the signal to turn back to the gym, I couldn't help myself. I wanted to see Merisa cop it.

Ten minutes later we found them. Merisa was leaning with her back against a building while Mooki had one hand above her head, his body nearly on top of hers. She turned her head to exhale smoke and saw Auntie Zehra. Merisa stamped the cigarette under her foot. Mooki straightened and offered his hand to Auntie Zehra. After shaking hands, Auntie waited for us to start walking towards the gym before following.

‘You should have been more careful,' Adnan said to Merisa.

‘What's the big deal?' I asked. ‘Merisa's an adult.'

When we were away from the crowd Auntie caught up to us. ‘What were you doing with those boys?' she demanded, her voice tense as she kept from shouting. She had Merisa's arm in an iron grip.

‘Nothing, Mum.' Merisa was clearly in pain, but she didn't pull away.

I'd been looking forward to Merisa getting in trouble but, seeing Auntie's scarcely suppressed rage, I wanted to get away.

‘Zehra! Babo wants you to come inside,' Mum said as she approached. When Auntie ignored her, Mum tried to pull her away from Merisa. ‘Now isn't the time, Zehra.' Mum pushed herself between Merisa and Auntie, but as Merisa moved away Auntie went for Mum.

‘Don't tell me how to discipline my child. How do you think I felt hearing about all the men you slept with?' Auntie Zehra's face was ugly as she leaned into Mum. ‘Not even married men are safe from you.'

Mum put her hand on Auntie Zehra's arm. ‘Zehra, there's nothing between Hakija—'

‘I know there isn't.' Auntie Zehra threw her hand off. ‘I'm keeping an eagle eye on you both because I know what you're capable of.'

Auntie looked around, remembering we were in public. She stormed off. Merisa followed, rubbing her arm, and Adnan took up the rear.

I checked my mobile, in order to avoid looking at Mum, and frowned at the blank screen. Usually Kathleen would have replied instantly. She carried her mobile everywhere. We would have spent the whole night sending each other messages. At least I would have had something more amusing to get me through this hellish night.

Back at our table Dido was talking to a man in a black robe. Bosnians might wear Western clothes, but the
hodja
, the Muslim priest, wears a robe. Imagine an orthodox priest, except the
hodja's
hat is white, and minus the cross, of course.

‘Here are my grandchildren,' Dido announced.

He introduced Adnan and Merisa. The
hodja
shook hands with Adnan, but Merisa didn't put her hand out. Women were supposed to follow the Muslim custom of not touching a male who wasn't a blood relative, which was really weird because they shook hands and kissed everyone except the
hodja
.

‘This is my Australian grand-daughter.' Dido was being such a suck-up.

‘Sabiha,' I snapped. ‘My name is Sabiha.'

Mum came to my side and put her hand on my back. I bit the insides of my cheeks.

‘I'm reminding parents that
mejtef
is held at the Deer Park mosque on Saturday mornings,' the
hodja
said. ‘So many children are woefully ignorant about their heritage and we need to correct this.'

I'd never been to
mejtef,
the Bosnian religious school. Mum hadn't followed any of that religious stuff, until now.

‘Some
vlasi
know more about Islam than Bosnian children,' Dido spat out.
Vlah
was the worst insult a Muslim could give another Muslim. It denoted all non-believers.

‘The parents are to blame. They accepted communism as their salvation and neglected their children's religious education,' the
hodja
said. ‘Now they expect their children to become perfect Muslims overnight.'

Dido stared at the ground. Mum told me that during Dido's communist phase he'd once caught my grandmother teaching Mum and Auntie Zehra how to pray and beat them for embracing superstition.