by Elif Shafak
London, December 1977
It was Tobiko’s birthday. Less than a year before the Topraks’ lives went into a tailspin, seven-year-old Yunus was in the squatters’ house, deep in the throes of love.
Tobiko had turned twenty. ‘I’m a typical Sagittarius,’ Yunus heard her say – though he had no idea if that was good or bad. Yunus himself was a Leo but that didn’t mean anything to him either. The only thing that mattered was that the age gap between him and Tobiko had grown wider, his prospects of catching up with her now slimmer than ever.
So he sat there with a scowl, munching buttered popcorn out of a plastic bowl. He watched the squatters – bright and full of beans – hand gifts to the birthday girl: silver piercings, safety pins, a spiked collar, braided bracelets, a studded belt, ripped fishnet stockings and a pair of combat boots. There was a patchwork quilt with the words Medicinal Marijuana embroidered on the edge, several necklaces with signs, a poster of Patti Smith, books (The Shining by Stephen King, South of No North by Charles Bukowski), a police helmet (stolen from a police officer who had momentarily left it on a table at a local café), a poster that said Boredom is Revolutionary and a black T-shirt with a picture of a punk band – the Damned.
Yunus stayed away from the fuss, as he wanted to be the last to give Tobiko her present. There were two reasons for that. First, he hoped to be alone with her, even if for a few minutes. But also he was not sure whether she would like the gift he had chosen – a suspicion that had deepened after seeing the hotchpotch of things the others had given her.
Laden with doubts, the boy was still sulking in the corner when the Captain walked in, wearing the tightest jeans Yunus had ever seen, a leather jacket that seemed at least two sizes too small for him and biker’s boots. He did not bring Tobiko a present. Only a wet kiss and a promise: ‘Mine later, babe.’
For a brief moment and with a sinking heart, Yunus considered doing the same thing. He could get up and stride towards Tobiko in a slow, purposeful fashion, in his grey school trousers and the blue sweater, which Mum had knitted for him, and say, in a tone just as deep and mysterious, ‘Mine later, babe.’
What would Tobiko do then? Would she smile at him the way she had at the Captain? Yunus didn’t think so. He closed his eyes as he felt the nervousness bubble up in his stomach. His mother always warned him, ‘Be careful with girls. Boys are simple, girls are not. They will play you like a saz.’* If that was the case, if Tobiko was playing him like an instrument, the tune coming out of Yunus that day was bleak and melancholy, slightly off key.
‘Hey, mate, you want a puff?’
Yunus opened his eyes to see a young man with long, thick dreadlocks lying at his feet. His close-set eyes were glued on an invisible spot in the ceiling, and he was holding a newly lit spliff in his hand. On his arm there was a tattoo: When the Rich Fight, it is the Poor Who Die. The boy couldn’t help thinking to himself that if his mother could see him, she would be appalled. But how do they wash their hair? Pembe would ask, and add uneasily, as a new realization came upon her, They do wash their hair, don’t they?
Now, Yunus had sipped beer before and taken a puff from a discarded dog-end, but he had never come anywhere close to doing drugs. It was a highly controversial topic in the squatters’ house. There were those (Black Panther supporters, radical feminists, Marxists, Trotskyites) who were strictly anti-drugs and looked down upon the people who used them; those (hippies and ex-hippies) who favoured certain drugs – cannabis – but not others; and then there were those (punks, nihilists, situationists) who snubbed weed in favour of pills and chemicals that gave you high energy, high anger. Yet it wasn’t the ongoing disagreement in the house that had kept Yunus from drugs all this time. It was the fear of his mother’s fury.
But now that he had been offered just a puff, the boy didn’t see why he should reject it. Politely, he took the joint and inhaled so deeply that he immediately coughed it all out.
‘Did they teach you this song at school?’ the man-in-dreadlocks yawned before he began to chant, ‘Roll, roll, roll a joint, gently down the line.’
Yunus giggled and puffed.
‘Have a whiff from my spliff, blow your fucking mind.’
Yunus puffed and giggled. Between the two of them they made so much noise that they caught the others’ attention, including Tobiko’s. She walked towards them with a sad and startled look.
‘Don’t do that, darlin’,’ she said, as she snatched the joint out of the boy’s hand and put it between her own lips. ‘Why’re you trying to be like everyone else? You’re different. That’s what makes you special.’
At the playfulness of her gaze, the apprehension in her voice, Yunus swallowed hard. Instead of uttering the laconic words he had planned to say earlier, he blurted out: ‘But I have a present for you.’
‘Is that so?’ Tobiko said, faking surprise. ‘What is it, pet, may I ask?’
Yunus stood up, holding his head high and thrusting out his chest, like a soldier ready to take orders. He handed Tobiko the package he had been keeping all evening – gold box, gold tissue, gold ribbon.
Inside there was a musical snowglobe – pink, purple and perfect. Two figures – a princess and an ogre – stood in front of a charming castle, holding each other. She was wearing a splendid dress, while the hulky monster stood by her side in a shy, awkward manner. When you wound the key, they began to dance to a tinkling tune that sounded as if an ice-cream van was passing near by. As soon as he saw this and learned it was from a tale, ‘Beauty and the Beast’, Yunus recalled that Tobiko was very fond of a David Bowie song with the same title. If she enjoyed that, she might like this too.
In truth Yunus had at first planned to purchase a different snowglobe in which flakes of rice rained on a bride and groom as they kissed in front of a church, but then he doubted whether Tobiko would like it. She was against marriage, against religion, and for all he knew she could also be against throwing rice in the air like that. So he chose the other snowglobe – even though it was more expensive and drained him of his savings.
In his eyes Tobiko was no different from the princess, gorgeous and flawless, whereas he was a bit like the monster. He was the beast in his elegant costume leading her on to the dance floor – the unlikely hero in the story, not yet a man but with the potential to become one someday. The boy carried his childhood like a bad spell, hoping against hope for it to be broken soon.
The glaring naivety of the object caught Tobiko unprepared. Holding the snowglobe in her palms as if it were a baby bird, she glowed with pleasure. ‘Oh, this is fantastic!’
Yunus beamed. He was going to marry her.
‘What is fan-tas-tic?’ the Captain asked from the other side of the room, but Tobiko didn’t answer him.
Yunus’s smile grew wider and wider – so big that it turned into a mantle that canopied the house, hiding the spider webs, the moths circling the candle flames, the termites in the wooden chairs, everything and anything that he wished to make disappear, including all potential rivals.
*
The evening flowed with music from the Clash, the Cockney Rejects and the Sex Pistols, and with a huge chocolate-banana-hashish birthday cake. There were no candles on the cake to blow out, but the brass and pewter lanterns nicked from a shop the same day provided the celebratory air needed.
By now Yunus had had more than a few sips of beer and several slices of the dubious cake. His head wasn’t exactly swimming, but his stomach certainly was. Doing his best not to vomit, he sat back, his gaze panning the walls. There, in the flickering light, he noticed a picture he’d not seen before. A man with hefty shoulders, a protruding nose, salt-and-pepper beard and hair in need of combing. Since it was Tobiko’s birthday, he assumed the man must have something to do with her. ‘Is that your grandfather?’ he asked, pointing at the photograph.
Before Tobiko could make out what he was talking about, let alone answ
er him, the man with the dreadlocks overheard the question and turned to the others, yelling mirthfully, ‘Hey, the boy is asking if Karl Marx is her granddad!’
There followed a ripple of laughter. ‘He’s everyone’s granddad,’ someone remarked gleefully.
‘And our granddad will change the world,’ the Captain said, clearly amused.
Realizing he had said something stupid, Yunus blushed up to his ears. Yet he had to stand up to the Captain. So he asked, ‘Isn’t he a bit too old for that?’
‘He’s old and wise,’ came the answer.
‘And he’s fat too,’ Yunus insisted.
This elicited another collective chuckle, but the Captain turned serious, his eyes suddenly narrowed to slits. ‘Shouldn’t you be a bit more respectful, my friend? That man was on your side. He fought for the rights of people like you.’
‘Was he Turkish?’ Yunus asked despite himself.
The squatters laughed so hard, one of them fell off the sofa. Wiping the tears from their eyes, still chuckling, they listened, hungry for more.
‘People like you means the have-nots,’ explained the Captain.
‘What is a have-not?’ Yunus asked.
‘The have-nots are the people who have been denied the right to have, so that the haves can have more than they should have.’
Yunus stood biting his bottom lip, frowning.
‘No other species on earth is as arrogant and cruel and greedy as humans,’ went on the Captain. ‘The entire capitalist economy is built on the systematic exploitation of the have-nots by the haves. You, me, our little friend here, and his family, we are the Commoners! The Salt of the Earth! The Great Unwashed!’
‘My mother is always cleaning the house,’ said Yunus, this being the only objection he could think of to the last comment.
They laughed but it was different this time. There was a gentler edge to their laughter – a mixture of pity and sympathy.
Carried away by his own righteousness, the Captain, however, failed to notice that the mood among his audience had changed. ‘Wake up to the truth, lad!’ he said. ‘People like your parents are being exploited all the time so that others can fill their pockets.’
Stifling a gasp, Yunus leaped to his feet, a bit unsteadily. ‘My parents are not exploited and we are not unwashed. My brother is a boxer.’
It wasn’t only pride that made him talk this way. Yunus had never thought of his family as poor. True, his mother sometimes complained about making ends meet. But at home no one referred to himself as needy, deprived, low-class or, for that matter, as a have-not.
Nobody laughed this time. Outside, the night darkened. Somewhere not that far away, under a faint light from the street lamps, Pembe was waiting in the kitchen by the window, sick with worry about where her younger son was, her body cloaked in thick silence and solitude, like a figurine in a snowglobe.
‘Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you,’ the Captain said and chortled, so that his next words would not be taken as a reproach. ‘I suppose you’re too young.’
Summed up in those last few words was everything Yunus absolutely hated: his age, his incompatibility, the impossibility of love. He eased himself into a chair, depressed.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Tobiko whispered. ‘It’s getting late. You should probably go.’
‘Right, I’d better leave,’ Yunus conceded, his face set in a frown, his stomach feeling funny again.
‘Goodnight, babe.’
Yunus waved them goodbye, not by putting his right hand on his heart, the way his father and uncle had taught him, but by raising his first and second fingers in a V-sign, the way the squatters did. No sooner had he taken a step than the room began to spin. The lights dimmed into a soft, pearly glow and he slipped into some other realm. Without warning and in front of everyone present, the boy puked not on the floor but on the birthday dress of the woman he loved. ‘Oh, no,’ he whined before closing his eyes, acutely aware that now she would never love him.
That night the squatters carried Yunus home. They rang the doorbell and ran away seconds before a devastated Pembe opened the door and found her son happily snoring on the threshold.
A Fluffy Cardigan
London, 18 December 1977
Since the start of the term Katie Evans had had a crush on Iskender, almost despite herself. Alex. Alexander. Whatever. Complete arsehole. Bloody full of himself. Always with his groupies, thinks he’s a gang leader. But he was a bit of a hunk, she had to admit, with his light olive complexion and those smouldering eyes. Finally, she summoned the courage to ask him if he would like to go out with her, to which Iskender replied with a curt, ‘Okay.’ He said on Sunday he had to help his mother in the morning and had boxing practice from eleven to two. He was free to meet her afterwards, if she so wanted.
Hours before the appointment Katie was in her room trying on one garment after another, sulking in front of the mirror. The mohair jumpers in colours so soft – fuchsia, peach, lavender, sea foam – that she had bought with her mother seemed ridiculously tacky. So were the Laura Ashley skirts, the A-line dresses and Mary-Jane shoes. She saw her wardrobe through Iskender’s eyes and was appalled at how prim and girly everything was. After much frustration and fumbling, she settled on a casual look. A pair of jeans, plimsolls and a navy-blue sweatshirt. She combed her hair into a ponytail and applied only a little make-up, hoping that he would take her style as a sign of self-confidence or modesty or, better yet, both.
Katie arrived at the café five minutes early, having checked her outfit in every shop window along the way. Forty minutes later Iskender still hadn’t shown up. Too proud to accept defeat just yet, she called the waiter and asked for another Coke. Initially, she had wanted to order a milkshake – strawberry and banana, her favourite. But upon second thought she had changed her mind, thinking it could be girlish.
Katie’s second Coke was almost gone, as was her patience, when the door was thrust open and Iskender marched in, chewing gum and shouldering a gym bag, his hair still wet from the shower. She could see he had taken his time, combing his hair just so, in no rush for their meeting.
‘How’re you doin’, love?’ he said.
And that word, that simple, silly word love, propelled her fury out the window. A flush of colour crept into her cheeks.
‘Been waiting long?’
‘That’s all right.’
His dark eyes took her in, inspecting her hair, her lips, the baggy top that hid the shape of her breasts. Why had she not dressed up more, he wondered.
‘How did the boxing go?’
‘Blindin’,’ Iskender said. ‘My coach is fab. Tough as nails. He’s an ex-Para, fought in Northern Ireland. This guy has seen some pretty horrific stuff.’
‘Did he ever use a gun?’
Iskender scoffed. ‘Did he ever use a gun? He must have killed at least ten. Suffered wounds in beatings and blasts. This bloke learned boxing the hard way.’
Katie paled ever so slightly. Suddenly she was glad she wasn’t wearing one of her fluffy jumpers.
‘So, what’re you havin’?’ Iskender asked, pointing to her empty glass.
‘I’ve had two Cokes. Wanna join me?’
‘Nah, I hate Coke,’ Iskender said. ‘It makes me feel bloated. There’s something dodgy about that secret bubbly formula. I like milkshakes better.’
Not a single muscle on Katie’s face moved as she watched Iskender call the waiter and order two drinks – another Coke for her, and a milkshake for him, banana and strawberry. They nattered on about school and the kids who never washed, the teachers they couldn’t stand. She was starting to enjoy herself when his face fell, suddenly grim. ‘Katie, what’re you doing here with me?’
Her gaze flickered for a moment before settling on him again. Could she confess to him that she had spent the night before cuddling her tape recorder in bed, listening, over and o
ver, to the Bee Gees sing ‘How Deep is Your Love’?
‘Well, we’re just . . . chatting –’
‘Look, don’t get me wrong. I think you’re gorgeous, really, but we don’t match, you and I. We both know that. I mean . . . I’m not the right bloke for you. My world is different.’
She chewed her bottom lip, on the verge of crying, as if something precious were being stolen from her. And because he rejected her so openly, because he thought they were incompatible, because he was so unreachable, winning his heart suddenly became the most important goal in her life. ‘But you don’t know me at all,’ she said, treading a line between affection and confrontation.
‘Oi, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Iskender said, not looking sorry at all. It was a lovely surprise to see stuck-up Katie Evans so insecure and fragile, and, he now suspected, sweet on him. ‘Tell you what? We got off to a bit of a bad start. Why don’t we try again?’ He leaned forward and held her hand. ‘Hello, how do you do? My name is Iskender. You can call me Alex.’
Her lips slightly parted as she said, ‘Nice to meet you.’
Before they left the place Iskender excused himself to visit the toilet. Halfway down the staircase he ran into a young scrawny man with a shaved head, beady blue eyes and spots all over his face. The man, who worked as an assistant at a local bakery, studied Iskender for a fleeting moment, a subtle spark behind his tight smile.
When Iskender entered the toilet there was a black man at the urinals, and he sashayed to a stall, whistling a cheery tune. He closed the door and paused, startled by what he saw. There, on the surface of the door, was a two-foot-high swastika and next to it a number of racist slogans and obscenities. Underneath, it said White Power. Some of the words had been scratched on the surface with a metal object, while the rest had been hastily sprayed. Iskender checked the painting. Whoever had done this, it hadn’t been too long since he was around.
He quickly left the stall and nodded at the man, who was now washing his hands, looking intimidated. As he clambered back to Katie, he so wished he had been there a minute ago, while the perpetrator was still around.