The Party

It was gone eleven when I realised she was there.  The music continued to play and the drink flowed steadily.  I had not taken a drink that night, not that people would notice.  I play my role well.  The old habits of upbringing are hard to shift despite my natural disposition.  Today, I am the model Muslim.  My parents would be so proud.  I stumbled slightly as I returned to the kitchen.  I refilled my glass with orange juice, rubbing a little gin on the outside.  It has a clearer aroma than the vodka that lifts the arms of those dancing in the living room.

            “Salaam, Malik.  You should not be drinking like these people.” She said, as I replaced the cap on the bottle.  I could never fathom if it was some mandatory clause of society or just habitual desperation that drew every Asian I had met to try and befriend me. 

“Atia, hi.” I said.  Her fingers entwined around the chain of her purse she drew it to her waist, a shield for the obligatory cheek kiss. 

“You were dancing with Mari earlier.”

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“Yes, I was.”

“She is a nice girl.”

“Yes, we get on well.”

“She has been drinking a lot tonight.”

“Everyone has been.”

“You should not drink like these people Malik.”  Atia pulled a cigarette packet from her purse and rummaged for a lighter.  I raised mine for her before she lifted her head.

“So how do you know Mari?”

“I met her tonight, Malik.  I am here with Umar, he knows her friends.  He has gone for…  He’s meeting a friend now.”

“Right,” I lit my own cigarette and reached for my orange juice. “Are you and Umar…”  Atia cut in swiftly knocking ash down herself as she replied.

“We are seeing each other.  Our parents are old friends.  His father goes to Mosque with mine.”

“Right.  They must be very pleased.”

“Umar is Muslim, he respects our culture.”  She said.  I rubbed the rim of my glass with my free hand watching condensation run in tear tracks from where my fingers had been.  “Mari seems a nice girl.”

“Oh, we aren’t…  that is, well, we’ve been out once, but we’re not…”  Atia’s eyes never left mine for a moment. 

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“She drinks a lot Malik.”

“We all do.”

“You shouldn’t drink like these people Malik.”  I stubbed my cigarette in an empty plastic cup.  The base curled as the heat spread a hole in the center.  The cold tiles underneath were damp and sticky; the residue of beer and spirits tinged with the grey of ash.

“So what does Umar study?”

“He is reading economics.  His father knows people who can help him find work when he graduates.”

“I wish my parents knew someone in television for me.”

“You could have studied medicine like your father.”  She placed her smoldering butt end on top of a half empty cider can.

“How did you meet him?  Through your parents?”

“No, Malik, I met him in the Indian Society.”

“Oh.  Is Umar not from Cardiff then?”

“Yes, he is.”

“We all are?”

“Yes, Malik, but we choose to embrace our culture.”

“Of course Atia, of course.”  A door opened in another room and a brief cheer overpowered the music. 

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“Umar could have gone to Delhi to study.  His Uncle teaches there.”

“That’s good for him, Mari’s mother teaches Welsh here as it happens.”

“Really, Malik?”

“She’s been helping me.”

“Helping you?”

“I’ve been learning Welsh.”

“You are learning Welsh, Malik?”

“Mari is fluent, so I get to practice with her and her family.”

“You have been spending a lot of time with Mari?”

“She is on my course, she’s really nice.”

“She drinks a lot Malik.”

“We speak Welsh in the pub.”

“You go to pubs with her but you have no time to come to our Indian society?  Honestly Malik, what can your parents think?”  The door to the kitchen opened, Umar led three girls into the room and placed a food bag, filled with green herbs on the counter top.v

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