The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas Page A

man slipped a fifty-dollar note across the counter. She began to protest but he interrupted.
    ‘My shout. I’m Jim.’
    ‘I’m Anouk.’
    His eyebrows rose. ‘Like the actress?’
    It pleased her that he knew this. This was not common for Australian men.
    ‘Yes, like the actress.’
    Jim assisted her back to the table. The noise from the crowd was amplified in the narrow bar and they found they had to shout.
    ‘Your parents French?’
    ‘No. My parents were francophiles.’
    She found herself a little tongue-tied when she reached their table. Jim placed the bottle before the women and introduced himself. He pointed to his friend, who rose, and walked over.
    ‘This is Tony.’
    Tony was also tall, younger than Jim, slimmer with a thick moustache. He was balding. They all shook hands and then there was an uncomfortable moment of silence.
    ‘Do you want to join us?’ Aisha finally asked.
    Jim raised his eyes at Anouk. He slowly shook his head. ‘You ladies look like you’re having a girl’s night out. We’ll do the gentlemanly thing and leave you alone.’ He looked straight at Anouk. ‘Enjoy the night. I just wanted to buy you all drinks. In celebration of gorgeous women.’
    Anouk left it to Rosie and Aisha to thank him. She was making sure she could memorise everything about him. The colour of his hair, his ruddy cheeks, the strong, heavy jaw, the fading sunburn visible under his unbuttoned collar, the thick neck, the smattering of fine blonde hair on his arms and wrists. His eyes, his mouth, his hands.
    Aisha waited till the men had seated themselves again at their table before speaking. She leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I don’t want to giggle but I feel like giggling.’
    ‘Don’t you fucking dare giggle.’ Anouk’s eyes were imploring her friends to behave. ‘What did I miss?’
    The grin departed from Aisha’s face. It struck Anouk that Aisha looked too thin. Her cheekbones seemed too sharply defined beneath her dusky skin; there were dark shadows beneath her eyes.
    Anouk took her friend’s hand beneath the table and held it tight. ‘You alright?’
    Aish nodded and Anouk loosened her grip. Their hands slid apart.
    ‘Rosie was saying that Shamira is the first veiled woman she has ever spoken to.’
    Rosie looked embarrassed. ‘Not quite, Aish. Obviously, I have shared greetings with strangers or across shop counters. But I’ve never had a conversation with a Muslim woman before.’ Rosie dropped her voice. ‘I feel a bit ashamed, but I can’t take my eyes off her headscarf. I want to forget it but I can’t.’
    ‘That’s because it appears strange to you.’
    ‘And it isn’t strange for you?’ Rosie shot back.
    Aisha didn’t respond. God, thought Anouk, let’s not have this conversation.
    ‘Aish simply meant she’s Indian, it’s not strange for her. Or for me.’
    ‘Because you’re Jewish?’ Rosie sounded incredulous.
    Anouk remembered as a child her parents taking her to Sydney for a wedding, and in Bondi, at some stranger’s house, she had first seen women covered. They had not mixed with any Orthodox in Perth. They had scared her, these women; even the young ones had seemed ancient.
    ‘Yes, some Orthodox women cover their heads. I think they’re doormats as well,’ she added emphatically.
    ‘Shamira says it gives her strength. It’s given her confidence.’
    I’m not going to have this conversation, thought Anouk, let us not have this fucking conversation again. She was sickened by the return of questions of religion and God. Increasingly she felt restricted by the morality and the confusion of this new century. She had abandoned God a long time ago when still a child. Her athiesm had seemed normal, expected. Of the world. This new century seemed to stretch out before her with an unrelenting, atavistic resolve. She wished that she had been born twenty years earlier. Born a man, twenty years earlier.
    ‘I hate it when I see women covered. I detest it. It makes me