If there was one thing that calmed Bashir more than taking photographs, it was driving his dad's car. On the train he was just another skinny teenager, pushing his way through the crowd, a bit scruffy, a bit shifty, a bit of no-good ripe for a ticket inspection by the guards. In his car, with his hands resting on the leather steering wheel, he was a man in charge of his own destiny. And his car's engine roared to reassure him that this was so.

This was a rare Saturday when neither he nor Zahara had to go to work. He was driving over to pick her up, still bleary-eyed and tired, but grateful that he'd been able to scab the car for the entire day. His father had nodded his head wearily this morning, without a word, too tired to make any protests.

Zahara and Bashir both lived in Auburn but he took the long way, via Lakemba, because he enjoyed the drive and because she was never ready to leave the house on time. She worked on Indian time. It was genetic. He'd tell her to be ready by eleven o'clock and half an hour later he'd still be waiting out the front, drumming his hands on the dashboard.

He wouldn't have minded the waiting so much, but she never invited him inside. Her parents didn't like him. It was unspoken but he could hear the disappointment in her mum's voice, whenever she answered the phone. The resigned, "I'll go get her." Then the excruciatingly long wait, where Bashir half-wondered if she had really gone to get Zahara or merely put the receiver down on the table beside the phone.

He'd been invited over for dinner only once, when he'd first started going out with Zahara. He knew the minute he walked in the door that they'd made up their minds about him. Her father didn't even make the effort to smile. It didn't matter that he was Muslim, everything else about him was wrong. Wrong face, wrong name, wrong background. He was a nice boy, yes, but not the right one for their daughter. Now, they just had to wait for her to grow out of this phase and see what was so obvious to them.

Bashir blew air out between his teeth. It just didn't make sense. It. Just. Didn't. Make. Sense. They'd moved here to Australia, after all. If they'd wanted Zahara to marry some Indian boy, then they shouldn't have come. You either decided to break with your past and start a new life, or you stayed in your old life and coddled yourself with old customs. It was just stupid to think that you could live your old life in a new country. His parents had accepted it. They didn't expect him to find a sweet Iraqi girl and have ten children. His father was looking to the future.

- You live your own life, now. We all the same now, every one of us. We choose freedom. We all run away from our past, together, and don't you let anyone tell you different.

So why did Zahara's parents have to their heads so firmly fixed towards the past?

Bashir realised that in his flush of anger at them, he'd stepped on the accelerator and he now eased his foot off it, grinning as the car purred to his touch. He decided to head towards the mosque. Not to go inside and pray, that would have been naff, but because he wanted to visit the magic tree that grew outside it.

It was a simple gumtree, but it was blessed. All the other trees on the street struggled to take root in the soil. You could see them, twisting weakly along the pavement. But this tree grew tall and strong, its thick branches presiding over the sky. If you ever doubted the existence of God, once look at this tree and you'd know there were powers beyond us that couldn't be explained. Bashir liked to stand beside it, and just listen. Listen to the tree growing, the world turning, his problems melting away into insignificance.

As he pulled up to the mosque, he saw Dave, standing beside the tree. Bashir's shoulders slumped, in disappointment. With Dave there, he wouldn't be able to just be with the tree in silence.

Zahara and Dave didn't get on. She was suspicious of his curly hair and open, innocent face. He had big eyes like a baby and he laughed with a high-pitched gurgle that could hardly have come from a man, six-foot-three. Bashir was always defending him to her.

- He's all right, he's my mate.

But she could smell the pot in Dave's pockets, no matter how carefully he'd wrapped it up with peanut butter and aluminium foil. She'd wrinkled up her nose when she saw him, and in return, Dave would grimace, like a baby about to throw a tantrum.

- Your girlfriend, mate, she'd be a killer if she were part of the cops. They could put her on one of those quarantine squads. No need to bring in the dogs, just let Zahara out on them.

Bashir laughed with his friends, and accepted their words, but he'd always purse his lips in a serious way at the end and hold a finger in the air.

- She may have a good nose and be suss about all you guys, but don't call her a bitch, alright?

And they'd wave their hands at him, backpedal, offer cigarettes to make up for the offence. Bashir had never been this serious about a girl before. Dave had teased him when they'd first started going out.

- Ooh, be careful about the Muslims, mate. You have to marry them or their dad'll have your balls.

But it wasn't true. He'd been with Janah, a relationship of sorts that nobody knew about. They'd spend three months furiously texting each other and meeting up for snatched kisses. They didn't let anyone catch them. She didn't meet his friends, and he didn't meet hers. She'd been Muslim but let him take her V. She'd cried when they'd broken up.

- Who's going to want me now?

But he didn't believe her. Two weeks later she was dating someone else from the year below them, a Greek boy who was always sunning himself with his shirt off, even on cloudy days. They'd pash by the school gates before classes started and Bashir would look to the ground, try to shrug off his hurt feelings.

Then he'd met Zahara, and he suddenly wanted to change his whole life for her. Underneath all her bluster, he could see how fragile she was, and he wanted to take care of her. He'd asked her to marry him, but she'd been evasive.

- Let's wait a few years, at least until uni.

She wouldn't agree to be his, and he was sure it was her parents' fault. He could imagine what poison her mum was feeding her. You could do much better than this. He's not the right one for you. His hands clenched the car keys. His Zee would never find someone who cared about her like he did. He was going to marry her, no matter what her parents thought. They'd planned their future together.

He came up to Dave and they grasped hands in a brotherly way.

- How's it going?

- Good.

- Whatcha doing here? You converting?

Dave laughed his disconcerting baby-giggle, and scratched his head.

- Nope, I'm just here to visit the tree.

- Oh hey, me too.

They stood beside the gum tree, a little bashful with each other. While the splendour of the tree filled them both with a sense of awe and reverence, they weren't sure how to really share this. Being caught spending time with a tree outside a mosque was decidedly uncool. Dave kicked at the base of its trunk, just in case Bsahir thought he was soft.

- What'cha up to today?

- Dunno. Cruising with Zahara.

- Ah, the married man.

Dave baited him with a sharp glint in his eye.

- Did you get the cash?

- Yep. Thanks for holding the stuff.

- No probs.

- Should I give it to you here?

- Not in front of the mosque. Do you want lightning bolts to strike us down?

- Later, then.

- Yeah, later.

Dave had the right face for dealing. Bashir himself would never have dared. Even without being in the business he noticed police cars slow down as they drove past. They were just waiting for the chance to stop and search him. Dave's English name served him well though. He could do a good imitation of a North shore tongue as well, if he was ever questioned about hanging around shady spots.

- I'm in with a bad crowd, officer, but just watching, you know, just trying to build up a little cred for myself so they don't bash me, that's all.

His crooning made you want to pat his shoulder, fill his mouth with chocolate and send him on his way.

But he must have gotten into some trouble last weekend because he'd come to Bashir with a sports bag full of alcohol and at the bottom of it, a small waterproof pouch.

- Hold it for me for a few days and I'll give you a hundred dollars.

It was easy cash, Bashir couldn't say no. He didn't open the pouch -- he didn't want to know what was in it. It was better for their friendship to allow each other a little privacy sometimes.

- Thanks for doing the favour.

- No probs. Were the cops onto you?

- Nah, they don't have anything. Just wanted to make sure.

They stared in silence for a moment at the tree, and Bashir felt the irritation rising in him. He could admire its branches but he wanted space to be able to think. When he was by himself, the tree could make him feel like a tiny speck, as though it would let him see from God's vantage-point and he was just a little piece of dust in the great, incomprehensible arc of the world. Instead, tension was creeping up the back of his neck. He wondered what Dave was doing here.

- You're not Muslim, are you?

- Nah, my family's Unitarian church.

- What are you doing here?

Dave shrugged.

- It's closer.

With an unsaid signal they started to walk away. They stopped by Dave's car and he took out his wallet.

- Hey brother, thanks again for your help. If you ever want to get more involved, just drop word.

- Mate, I value my freedom.

- So do I.

Dave handed over two yellow bills. They felt warm in Bashir's hands.

- You know what pisses me off? If we were both called into a court, they'd sentence me, wouldn't they?

- In a jiffy.

- Even if I hadn't done a thing. They'd put me in gaol because I fit the type, this particular criminal type they've got an image of.

- Hey, we're both running the same risks. It's not as if they'd just let me off with a warning if they found out.

- You know what I heard? Down in Victoria the police decided they should be more politically correct. They said -- hey, we've got fourteen types of 'ethnic' here, let's make it four. That will be less racist, won't it? You know what they were?

- What?

- Aboriginal, Caucasian, Asian and Other.

- Other!

- So that's what I am now, huh? Not black, not white, not yellow, just other. All those other people, they're just different, so we might as well lump them all together. Yeah, they don't look like us, that means they must all look like each other.

Dave burst out laughing.

- Calm down man, you're getting a bit excited.

- I get tired, sometimes, of being thought of as a dirty Arab.

- Hey, that's what you are.

He reached out and grasped Bashir's hand, still laughing.

- You keep calm, brother, or they'll fine you for breaking the peace, or inciting unrest, or whatever other bullshit laws they've thought up for you to break. I'll call you to see where you're at tonight.

- Will do.

Bashir continued to walk along the street, his mind still racing. He saw Dave get into the car and start it up. He started to feel better. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe he'd be able to still get back to the tree. It wouldn't have told its secrets to Dave. It would have kept them locked up for him. He glanced at his watch. It was okay, there was still time. Zahara would only just be starting to put her makeup on.