The Slap by Christos Tsiolkas Page B

furious that they let men do that to them.’
    Rosie’s face registered shock and disapproval. Anouk too was surprised by Aisha’s vehemence.
    ‘But, Aish,’ Rosie answered, ‘not all Muslim women are forced into the veil. You know that. Surely you support their right to wear whatever they want.’
    Anouk couldn’t keep silent. ‘I’m not having this fucking conversation. Let us not have this conversation.’
    ‘Why?’ Rosie would not back down. She was directing her questions to Aisha. ‘Do you think Shamira is lying to herself when she says the veil gives her strength?’
    ‘Shamira’s strength comes from being with Terry. Shamira’s mother is a drunk, her sister’s a junkie and her father is God knows where. It’s Terry who gives her strength, not a piece of cloth over her head.’ Aisha’s fingers moved towards the cigarette packet but she didn’t take one.
    ‘And Bilal’s faith is what gives him strength.’ Rosie would not back down.
    Anouk knew she was right. She remembered Terry before his conversion, his wit and boyish charm, but also the violence that seemed to lie just beneath his jovial, egalitarian demeanour, the aggro that would surface whenever he got drunk. His open, friendly face was inexorably falling to dissipation and fat, there was always the toxic smell of grog emanating from his body. She had been amazed by the different man who had shaken her hand years later at a dinner at Hector’s and Aish’s house. He had not yet taken on his new Muslim name but he had converted and was studying Arabic and his new faith. His eyes and skin were clear, he had gained weight, filled out. He was calm, as though he had finally found repose. She had never thought him a happy man, but he looked content then. Truth be told, the lacerating awareness of her country’s racial history and her own prejudices had made her assume that he would never be happy, that he would always be aggro. That he would die aggro—aggro and young. She grinned at a blasphemous thought, one that she knew she could never share with Rosie: he had been young and aggro and now he was pious and boring.
    Instead she nodded. ‘It’s true. But can we not talk about religion? I thought God had died just before my ninth birthday but it seems that was not the case. I hate being proved wrong. Let’s talk about something else.’
    Jim was still glancing over at her. She was glad to be a woman, drinking, flirting, having fun.
    Rosie laughed. ‘Done. No God talk. It’s just that she’s been such a help to me. I think we’re going to be friends.’
    ‘Who?’
    Anouk, distracted by the flirtatious game she and Jim were playing, had lost track of the conversation. Was this muddle-headedness also a curse of pregnancy?
    ‘Shamira,’ replied Rosie, stealing a glance at Aisha and then quickly looking away. They’ve talked about this already. Anouk felt a piercing jolt of adolescent jealousy.
    ‘How is she being a help?’
    ‘She’s been such a rock. With this business of Hugo being bashed.’ I will not go there, I will play dumb.
    ‘We’ve charged Hector’s cousin with assault.’ Rosie could not bring herself to look at Anouk.
    ‘Rosie, don’t do this.’
    ‘Gary’s determined.’
    Anouk, in frustration, glared at Aisha. ‘You say something to her.’
    ‘It’s Rosie’s choice,’ Aisha answered firmly.
    ‘Then I’m going to be a witness for Harry and Sandi.’
    Rosie swung around. ‘You saw that bastard bash Hugo.’
    ‘I saw Harry slap Hugo. And I saw that Hugo deserved it.’
    ‘No one deserves to be hit, let alone a child.’
    ‘That’s just a platitude, a new age bullshit platitude. You need to teach a child discipline and sometimes that discipline has to be physical. That’s how we learn what is acceptable and what is not.’
    Rosie was furious. ‘Just shut it, Anouk. You have no right to say what you are saying.’
    Because I’m not a mother? She nearly said it, she had to choke back on the words: I’m