Goggle-Face
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- Joined
- May 31, 2008
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“Is this nice?”
“No, no this isn‘t very nice.”
“How about this?”
“That’s more for a child, actually.”
“This?”
“No.”
This was hopeless; the woman was just too stubborn… but at least it wasn‘t Alya nitpicking at her clothing. The two of them had been sitting in the parlour room for the longest time, the scent of lilium and poppies -- enough to make Faridah choke on the sickening smell the two flowers made when put together --looking at fabrics and clothes for the Middle Eastern woman’s dress. Tatjana was annoyed with Faridah’s tone of voice and overall act over this simple manner.
“How about this one?” Tatjana held up and orange and red fabric, the orange spinning in spirals on the red background, like branches on newly grown trees. “With some more work, I’d be happy to make it less cluttered--”
“To be honest, Tatjana… it’s pretty, but maybe for a curtain or bed sheets. Not a dress for a wedding.” She was very blunt, but hey, at least she was very polite about it. “Please, nothing so obnoxiously bright, I don’t want to exactly be an eye catch…”
“Why don’t you come sit here and choose for yourself?” Her voice goes from airy and kind to cold and flat in an instant, the lady breaking her kind exterior to show an angry and clearly stressed girl, going from being a simply irked woman to an immature child for that moment.
Faridah does not flinch. She blinks a few times, a calm and relaxed stare on her face, gazing at the angry Tatjana. “Very well. Stand up so I can sit there, then.”
They swapped seats, Tatjana dropping down into the seat Faridah once sat in and Faridah sitting in the opposite. The Palestinian girl started to dig through the fabrics, pulling out colours and tones in a somewhat chaotic fashion, the floor and chair around her changing from the dark brown and red tones to a mess of the rainbow.
“What exactly do you have in mind?” The kind façade is now back, her sickeningly sweet smile, matched with obnoxious but meaning-well eyes, all over her face, like a beauty obsess woman covering an ugly mark.
Faridah looks up, and casts her eyes over Tatjana. “I want the colours like the ones you have on now. It’s pretty.”
It’s the only real compliment Tatjana had received in the six weeks of work with the Middle Eastern woman. She feels warm inside; Faridah commented on the mahogany - and - red skirt she had on, with the traditional, colourful belt the younger lady always wore. Tatjana smiled gently.
“It’s a bit too ‘European’ for you, though, don’t you think?”
“What, the style?” Faridah then chuckles -- she has a very pretty-sounding laugh. “That doesn’t matter; it’s the colours that I want. I’ll obviously help you with the actual design.” Reasonable enough.
Tatjana moves over to stand by Faridah, the two of them both shifting through the fabrics for colours that are similar to Tatjana’s skirt. Both of them looked down at the skirt occasionally to take glimpses of the colours for reminders.
Eventually, they found similar colours and pulled them out. The Macedonian woman cuts reasonable lengths off the roles, and the she pulls them to the table they’ll work on.
Faridah can’t really remember the last time she was working in clothing. Well, properly. She had defiantly made many, many things with a needle and thread, every nation has, no matter how rich or poor they were -- hell, Arthur did it for a hobby -- but… for something as important as a wedding for two people… that’s something new. When she was little, very little, when Rayaan was still raising her and her siblings, she feared the idea of having to use needles, she could’ve stabbed herself in a very important area, like her wrists, but then her brother always reminded her, in the most heart-warming way; She was his little brother, an that mean she was going to be great at sewing thing. It was a cute memory, to say the least.
Tatjana had left, and returned with two plates of Börek from the kitchen, placing them down on the table. The flakey bread looked so tempting, but Faridah just had to finish up on something on the dress before she could eat the Macedonian treat. She didn’t need crumbs all over the place.
“You know, I’ve realized something.” Tatjana speaks up.
“What is it?”
“Our brothers are friends.” … friends? Was that the right word? “So… why haven’t we seen each other more often, rather than when we walk by eachother at work?”
Faridah puts down the needle on a bright piece of cloth, so she could see it afterwards. “Neither of us have had much reason to talk to each other. Our brothers might’ve thought we shouldn’t have really gotten to know each other until it was really needed, at least that’s what I thought.”
Tatjana nods. She ponders on her next question while she stabs some of the Börek with her fork. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Sure.” Faridah is back to sewing; why hasn’t Tatjana bothered to bring out the sewing machine?
“Vjecko and Rayaan… your brother acts like he doesn’t want to be around mine.”
“Yes.” The happiness from their previous conversations was leaving at a rapid pace.
“Have they been fighting?”
“Does Vjecko tell you what goes along in his life?”
“Not really, he tells me to get lost… like he does with the rest of his family.”
That was Alya for Faridah… but it made sense, Alya was rude all the time. “Hasn’t Milo told you anything yet?” Tatjana shakes her head, and Faridah is truly shocked. She always assumed Milo had peppered the girl with lies, about how her wicked brother tried to ruin his old friend’s happy life, so she should despise the Croat with a burning passion of one thousand suns. “Well, they did have a fight of some sorts.”
“What was it about?”
“That is none of your business.” Faridah replies somewhat snappishly, happy to be able to use an adult’s greatest back-up plan, even though Tatjana wasn’t that much younger than her.
“I honestly don’t care, I want to know.” For once, Faridah is proud of Tatjana’s stubbornness. If only she had a proper family, not one of racist brothers and lazy cousins, maybe it wouldn’t be as awkward talking to her. Granted, Faridah wasn’t the luckiest woman in the world, cursed with having a dysfunctional life as well, but at least the brother she looked up to wasn’t racist, full of himself, and he defiantly didn’t try to kill his siblings. Milo and Rayaan were very, very different.
“Shortly after your brother left to be on his own, Tatjana, it’s when the two of them started to bicker.” No, this was a lie, they didn’t fight, Vjecko had gone mad, longing for Rayaan to be his own little puppet,, and the constant comfort Rayaan had given him had decided to backfire. “Obviously Vjecko has forgiven hm since then, but… I’m honestly not sure about my brother.”
“What was it about? That’s my real question.”
Faridah had lifted a forkful of Börek to her mouth. She bit into it -- oh, it really was Macedonian. Potatoes and melted cheese would’ve sounded disgusting to the Palestinian, but the flakey, pie-like crust made it work. She swallows, and looked at Tatjana. “You… don’t know? You really don’t?”
She shakes her head, her brunette curls shaking with her. “I mean… I know what Vjecko does now, how he’s reacted to it…” A wave of sadness ran over Tatjana, “And how Rayan has reacted… and also what was happening during it. But Milo refuses to properly tell me what it was over. Was it land? Money? A debt my brother had to pay off or something? I never knew Rayaan to be the loan shark type--”
“No, that wasn’t it at all; it was more personal than that.” She’s quick to respond to that; how insulting, a Lebanese would never harass anyone over money, land or any other form of debt. They weren’t like that in the slightest.
Faridah stares down at her hands, one hand holding the fork. She felt her breathing start to hitch, defiantly from nervousness over such a touchy subject between the Balkans and Middle Eastern countries. Well, not so much touchy; it wasn’t controversial in any way. Just… awkward and uncomfortable. She… she couldn’t bring herself to tell the lively girl the whole story, she honestly couldn’t. Rayaan had told her -- Rayaan trusts her, Rayaan loves her, he doesn’t hate her in the slightest, he doesn’t feed her lies about her siblings, he can’t hold grudges over anything Faridah might’ve done in the past to irk him. Vjecko despises Tatjana, he loathes her whole being, and he doesn’t want anything to do with her and the rest of ‘the god-forsaken curse he must call family’. No wonder she doesn’t know the whole story.
Faridah… Faridah realizes her family isn’t messed up as much right now. Compared to the xenophobia that goes on in the Balkans, and the bitter relations between every other family in the world… She had somewhat of a good family, if only slightly, for she knew that if someone like Alya or Ali was to gain any sense of self control, then world peace was probably going to happen.
“You’re stalling…” Tatjana pipes up, “… wait, I know what to do. I’ll go put our dishes in the kitchen while you think, okay?”
Faridah nods.
Tatjana gathers up their plates and forks, walking out of the parlour, humming a little tune that was clearly being made up on the spot.
The woman stares out the window ahead of her, her right hand feeling around for the needle and thread again. There’s a distant look in her expression, blinking a few times to return to reality.
That… that dumb`ss. Tatjana is the most slow, brain-dead girl Faridah had ever knew. She obviously leeches off Milo, that disgusting, sloppy, rude Serb, for support; there’s no way such a moron has survived this long on her own.
----
Notes:
1. Middle Eastern women pretend to be perfect when guests are over. They will laugh, make jokes, and be very friendly around guests. They will be very kind, offer food, do everything the perfect host would do. But, the moment a guest leaves, insults pour out of their mouth, like, "Oh, have they ever heard of a shower?!"
2. Not Israel. Palestine. Get it right.
3. 'How Milo peppered her with lies about how her wicked brother tried to ruin his old friend's life' = Serbians get along with Macedonians. They are very close. 'Wicked brother' is used as an insult here, as, lessong learned, Serbians don't get along with Croatians at all.
“No, no this isn‘t very nice.”
“How about this?”
“That’s more for a child, actually.”
“This?”
“No.”
This was hopeless; the woman was just too stubborn… but at least it wasn‘t Alya nitpicking at her clothing. The two of them had been sitting in the parlour room for the longest time, the scent of lilium and poppies -- enough to make Faridah choke on the sickening smell the two flowers made when put together --looking at fabrics and clothes for the Middle Eastern woman’s dress. Tatjana was annoyed with Faridah’s tone of voice and overall act over this simple manner.
“How about this one?” Tatjana held up and orange and red fabric, the orange spinning in spirals on the red background, like branches on newly grown trees. “With some more work, I’d be happy to make it less cluttered--”
“To be honest, Tatjana… it’s pretty, but maybe for a curtain or bed sheets. Not a dress for a wedding.” She was very blunt, but hey, at least she was very polite about it. “Please, nothing so obnoxiously bright, I don’t want to exactly be an eye catch…”
“Why don’t you come sit here and choose for yourself?” Her voice goes from airy and kind to cold and flat in an instant, the lady breaking her kind exterior to show an angry and clearly stressed girl, going from being a simply irked woman to an immature child for that moment.
Faridah does not flinch. She blinks a few times, a calm and relaxed stare on her face, gazing at the angry Tatjana. “Very well. Stand up so I can sit there, then.”
They swapped seats, Tatjana dropping down into the seat Faridah once sat in and Faridah sitting in the opposite. The Palestinian girl started to dig through the fabrics, pulling out colours and tones in a somewhat chaotic fashion, the floor and chair around her changing from the dark brown and red tones to a mess of the rainbow.
“What exactly do you have in mind?” The kind façade is now back, her sickeningly sweet smile, matched with obnoxious but meaning-well eyes, all over her face, like a beauty obsess woman covering an ugly mark.
Faridah looks up, and casts her eyes over Tatjana. “I want the colours like the ones you have on now. It’s pretty.”
It’s the only real compliment Tatjana had received in the six weeks of work with the Middle Eastern woman. She feels warm inside; Faridah commented on the mahogany - and - red skirt she had on, with the traditional, colourful belt the younger lady always wore. Tatjana smiled gently.
“It’s a bit too ‘European’ for you, though, don’t you think?”
“What, the style?” Faridah then chuckles -- she has a very pretty-sounding laugh. “That doesn’t matter; it’s the colours that I want. I’ll obviously help you with the actual design.” Reasonable enough.
Tatjana moves over to stand by Faridah, the two of them both shifting through the fabrics for colours that are similar to Tatjana’s skirt. Both of them looked down at the skirt occasionally to take glimpses of the colours for reminders.
Eventually, they found similar colours and pulled them out. The Macedonian woman cuts reasonable lengths off the roles, and the she pulls them to the table they’ll work on.
Faridah can’t really remember the last time she was working in clothing. Well, properly. She had defiantly made many, many things with a needle and thread, every nation has, no matter how rich or poor they were -- hell, Arthur did it for a hobby -- but… for something as important as a wedding for two people… that’s something new. When she was little, very little, when Rayaan was still raising her and her siblings, she feared the idea of having to use needles, she could’ve stabbed herself in a very important area, like her wrists, but then her brother always reminded her, in the most heart-warming way; She was his little brother, an that mean she was going to be great at sewing thing. It was a cute memory, to say the least.
Tatjana had left, and returned with two plates of Börek from the kitchen, placing them down on the table. The flakey bread looked so tempting, but Faridah just had to finish up on something on the dress before she could eat the Macedonian treat. She didn’t need crumbs all over the place.
“You know, I’ve realized something.” Tatjana speaks up.
“What is it?”
“Our brothers are friends.” … friends? Was that the right word? “So… why haven’t we seen each other more often, rather than when we walk by eachother at work?”
Faridah puts down the needle on a bright piece of cloth, so she could see it afterwards. “Neither of us have had much reason to talk to each other. Our brothers might’ve thought we shouldn’t have really gotten to know each other until it was really needed, at least that’s what I thought.”
Tatjana nods. She ponders on her next question while she stabs some of the Börek with her fork. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Sure.” Faridah is back to sewing; why hasn’t Tatjana bothered to bring out the sewing machine?
“Vjecko and Rayaan… your brother acts like he doesn’t want to be around mine.”
“Yes.” The happiness from their previous conversations was leaving at a rapid pace.
“Have they been fighting?”
“Does Vjecko tell you what goes along in his life?”
“Not really, he tells me to get lost… like he does with the rest of his family.”
That was Alya for Faridah… but it made sense, Alya was rude all the time. “Hasn’t Milo told you anything yet?” Tatjana shakes her head, and Faridah is truly shocked. She always assumed Milo had peppered the girl with lies, about how her wicked brother tried to ruin his old friend’s happy life, so she should despise the Croat with a burning passion of one thousand suns. “Well, they did have a fight of some sorts.”
“What was it about?”
“That is none of your business.” Faridah replies somewhat snappishly, happy to be able to use an adult’s greatest back-up plan, even though Tatjana wasn’t that much younger than her.
“I honestly don’t care, I want to know.” For once, Faridah is proud of Tatjana’s stubbornness. If only she had a proper family, not one of racist brothers and lazy cousins, maybe it wouldn’t be as awkward talking to her. Granted, Faridah wasn’t the luckiest woman in the world, cursed with having a dysfunctional life as well, but at least the brother she looked up to wasn’t racist, full of himself, and he defiantly didn’t try to kill his siblings. Milo and Rayaan were very, very different.
“Shortly after your brother left to be on his own, Tatjana, it’s when the two of them started to bicker.” No, this was a lie, they didn’t fight, Vjecko had gone mad, longing for Rayaan to be his own little puppet,, and the constant comfort Rayaan had given him had decided to backfire. “Obviously Vjecko has forgiven hm since then, but… I’m honestly not sure about my brother.”
“What was it about? That’s my real question.”
Faridah had lifted a forkful of Börek to her mouth. She bit into it -- oh, it really was Macedonian. Potatoes and melted cheese would’ve sounded disgusting to the Palestinian, but the flakey, pie-like crust made it work. She swallows, and looked at Tatjana. “You… don’t know? You really don’t?”
She shakes her head, her brunette curls shaking with her. “I mean… I know what Vjecko does now, how he’s reacted to it…” A wave of sadness ran over Tatjana, “And how Rayan has reacted… and also what was happening during it. But Milo refuses to properly tell me what it was over. Was it land? Money? A debt my brother had to pay off or something? I never knew Rayaan to be the loan shark type--”
“No, that wasn’t it at all; it was more personal than that.” She’s quick to respond to that; how insulting, a Lebanese would never harass anyone over money, land or any other form of debt. They weren’t like that in the slightest.
Faridah stares down at her hands, one hand holding the fork. She felt her breathing start to hitch, defiantly from nervousness over such a touchy subject between the Balkans and Middle Eastern countries. Well, not so much touchy; it wasn’t controversial in any way. Just… awkward and uncomfortable. She… she couldn’t bring herself to tell the lively girl the whole story, she honestly couldn’t. Rayaan had told her -- Rayaan trusts her, Rayaan loves her, he doesn’t hate her in the slightest, he doesn’t feed her lies about her siblings, he can’t hold grudges over anything Faridah might’ve done in the past to irk him. Vjecko despises Tatjana, he loathes her whole being, and he doesn’t want anything to do with her and the rest of ‘the god-forsaken curse he must call family’. No wonder she doesn’t know the whole story.
Faridah… Faridah realizes her family isn’t messed up as much right now. Compared to the xenophobia that goes on in the Balkans, and the bitter relations between every other family in the world… She had somewhat of a good family, if only slightly, for she knew that if someone like Alya or Ali was to gain any sense of self control, then world peace was probably going to happen.
“You’re stalling…” Tatjana pipes up, “… wait, I know what to do. I’ll go put our dishes in the kitchen while you think, okay?”
Faridah nods.
Tatjana gathers up their plates and forks, walking out of the parlour, humming a little tune that was clearly being made up on the spot.
The woman stares out the window ahead of her, her right hand feeling around for the needle and thread again. There’s a distant look in her expression, blinking a few times to return to reality.
That… that dumb`ss. Tatjana is the most slow, brain-dead girl Faridah had ever knew. She obviously leeches off Milo, that disgusting, sloppy, rude Serb, for support; there’s no way such a moron has survived this long on her own.
----
Notes:
1. Middle Eastern women pretend to be perfect when guests are over. They will laugh, make jokes, and be very friendly around guests. They will be very kind, offer food, do everything the perfect host would do. But, the moment a guest leaves, insults pour out of their mouth, like, "Oh, have they ever heard of a shower?!"
2. Not Israel. Palestine. Get it right.
3. 'How Milo peppered her with lies about how her wicked brother tried to ruin his old friend's life' = Serbians get along with Macedonians. They are very close. 'Wicked brother' is used as an insult here, as, lessong learned, Serbians don't get along with Croatians at all.
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