Honor

by Elif Shafak

  After a moment’s hesitation, Yunus gave me a shy smile and handed over his guilt. I filled the basin with soapy water and soaked the sheet. I expected him to go back to his room, but he preferred to wait, peeking in through the half-open door. ‘Sister, are you done?’

  ‘Almost. It’s not easy in the sink, you know,’ I said lackadaisically. ‘Why do you keep wetting your bed?’

  Yunus was silent.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone.’

  To my surprise he didn’t seem relieved. Quite the opposite: his face darkened, his lip quivered. I took a step towards him, smiling at his big, innocent eyes and jutting ears, the boy I had always loved.

  ‘Sorry, little’un. I didn’t mean to offend.’

  ‘I’m not offended. It’s just I’ve a lot on my mind these days.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ he said. ‘It’s a secret.’

  ‘Secrets are tricky. You want to get it off your chest but as soon as you do the word gets around. Like King Midas, uh?’

  ‘Who is that?’

  So I told him the story of the king whose ears were so large that he had to hide them under his hat. His barber, the only person who knew of this, had promised not to tell anyone. Yet the urge to share was so strong, he confided in a reed, the most harmless being he could think of. Then someone made a flute out of the reed, played it in a concert and the secret floated into the air. In a matter of days everyone knew that the king had the ears of a donkey.

  ‘You mean, I shouldn’t tell anyone,’ said Yunus.

  ‘Well, if it’s anything important, I’d say just keep it to yourself. You can’t trust anyone. Not even a reed.’

  I half expected him to laugh but he didn’t. Instead, he dolefully stared at me before turning his back and disappearing down the corridor.

  ‘Good night, canim,’* I murmured, even though I knew he couldn’t hear me.

  As I stood there, my hands still soapy, I felt my chest tighten. A sneaking suspicion rose inside me. While I was dreaming of becoming a boy and contemplating all sorts of other mysteries, things were happening under my nose that I didn’t see. Later on I would recall that moment, realizing it was the point at which ordinary life as I had known it fractured and we all began to slip, one after another, into some other realm, where too much happened too fast. I have since wondered if things would have been different had I acted otherwise that night. Had I let my brother share with me the secret that was eating him up inside, perhaps, just perhaps, I might have woken up earlier and been able to warn my mother before everything took a quick turn for the worst.

  The Slap

  London, June 1978

  On this particular Saturday, Iskender did not go boxing. Nor did he meet Katie. He and his mates had other plans. He left the house shortly after nine in the morning. A warm wind whisked his face, and the world seemed to open before him, making him feel alive, ready for anything. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he maintained a steady pace. He believed the way a man walked said a great deal about him – his drawbacks, his wits, his courage reflected in his gait. Iskender trod with a slight forward thrust, his shoulders straight and his chin raised, as if sizing up the passers-by for a fight.

  The boys were waiting for him in Aladdin’s Cave. The four of them. Slouched over a plastic table towards the back. As he approached them, Iskender nodded in their direction. They returned the gesture. He noticed the respect in their eyes – the kind of respect that his father had never seen from anyone, including his gambling cronies, except perhaps on the days he won.

  ‘Hiya,’ Iskender said to no one in particular. ‘Where’s Arshad?’

  ‘He’s not here yet,’ said Faarid, a short, soft-spoken Moroccan.

  ‘Maybe he bloody wimped out,’ said Aziz with a grin that displayed his gappy teeth. ‘After this week I don’t blame him.’

  It had been a tense summer. Every day there was talk about another incident somewhere. Men were intimidated on the streets, women called names, children spat at. At nights bricks were hurled into the houses of immigrants; the washing on their lines was cut to pieces or dog turds were put through their letterboxes. But the worst had happened six days ago.

  On the eleventh of June, early in the morning, a group of skinheads had gathered at the top of Brick Lane. By midday their numbers had swollen. They kept coming – on foot, by bike, car and van, some from as far as Putney. Then the march began, the chant was taken up, ‘The National Front is a White Man’s front.’ Oddly, the police were nowhere to be seen – even when the protesters started to attack the shops of immigrants, shouting ‘Kill the Black Bastards’, smashing windscreens and windows, harming private property.

  Faarid said, ‘Did you hear what the coppers said afterwards? A spontaneous outbreak, they called it.’

  ‘It sucks,’ said Iskender distractedly.

  The conversation was interrupted by Aladdin, the owner of the place – a lopsided, broad-boned man in his mid fifties, with one leg shorter than the other. Always had a kind word for everyone. He approached the boys with a smile but shook hands only with Iskender. He asked him how school was going and how his mother was doing, and how his uncle’s shop was doing in these hard times. Questions that Iskender answered respectfully but curtly.

  ‘So what are you gonna eat?’ said Aladdin finally. ‘Your friends waited for you to order.’

  Iskender was pleased to hear that. ‘We’ve a guest coming. We’ll order when he’s here.’

  They watched Aladdin limp away. Iskender turned to Aziz, resuming the conversation. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, a boy was beaten up yesterday. A Bengali. They found him bleeding steps away from Arshad’s house. That makes four in a month!’

  Iskender chewed the insides of his mouth, his face crumpling like a mask.

  ‘You know what drives me mad?’ ventured Sonny. ‘These racist buggers say they’re not racists. We are realists. Bollocks! It’s bad enough that they’re racists. They don’t need to be liars on top of that!’

  His name was Salvatore, though everyone called him Sonny. His family had moved to Hackney from a village in Sicily. He spoke English so quickly and with an accent so strong that all too often half the things he said were lost on others.

  ‘So when is this bloke coming? The famous Chinwagger!’

  It was Chico who asked this, his fingers drumming on the menu. His father was Moroccan, his mother Spanish.

  ‘Don’t call him that,’ said Aziz. ‘Respect the man. Call him the Orator.’

  ‘Same difference. You know what they say. The fool talks, the wise man listens! And this bloke always talks. So you do the maths!’

  Iskender sat back with a frown and clasped his hands, a gesture that altered the tone around the table from jovial patter to a more sober exchange. ‘He’ll be here in half an hour. I thought it’d be nice if we met early and had a discussion. Things aren’t rolling right. We’d be fools not to see the writing on the wall.’

  Chico lowered his gaze. The others nodded, solemn and keyed up.

  ‘They wanna kick us out of this bloody country,’ Iskender said. ‘You, me, him . . . Arabs, Turks, Italians, Jamaicans, Lebanese, Pakistanis . . . Are we just gonna sit and joke about it? Like fuckin’ ducks at the funfair. That’s what our parents want us to do. Smile and wait to be shot. But we’re no ducks, are we?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Chico said.

  ‘Look, I’ve heard this bloke speak before. He’s good, really good. Let him come and say what he has to say. If you don’t like him, you don’t like him. That’s the end of it. But at least he’s no duck, we all know that.’

  Just then the door opened and Arshad walked in, his hands thrust in his pockets. When Iskender saw the girl following his friend, his face changed. ‘What the hell is she doin’ here?’

  ‘Hey,
don’t blame me, man. I tried to stop her . . .’ Arshad said.

  Iskender stared daggers at Esma. ‘Go back home.’

  ‘No, I want to listen too,’ she said.

  The boys watched the row with guarded smiles.

  ‘Sis, I’m tired of your pigheadedness,’ Iskender said. ‘I’m not going to argue with you.’

  ‘Well, don’t argue, then.’

  ‘You’re getting on my nerves. This isn’t stuff for girls!’

  ‘Why not? Do you think those skinheads bully only men? You’re damn wrong. They attack women too. And girls. If I’m good enough to be a victim, I’m good enough to fight back.’

  ‘She’s got a point,’ said Aziz.

  Heartened by the support, Esma pleaded, ‘Oh, come on, abi, please.’

  Iskender shook his head, albeit less forcefully this time. ‘All right, but I don’t wanna hear anything from you. Not a peep.’

  ‘Yup. I’ll sit here like a corpse,’ she said, trying not to let the joy show in her face, but then added mirthfully, ‘I’m dying to see what this bloke looks like. I’m sure I’ll recognize him right away.’

  That assumption, however, turned out to be wrong. When the Orator walked into the now half-full café, no one in the gang but Iskender identified him. The others had expected a sturdy, impressive person of an indeterminate age, wearing half-traditional, half-exotic garments, his hair flowing in every direction, his eyes sparkling like emeralds. So when a gaunt man in his mid twenties with ordinary features and faded jeans entered, they didn’t give him a second glance, until he approached and greeted them.

  ‘Oh, please have a seat,’ said Iskender. He briefly introduced everyone, leaving Esma out.

  Food was ordered. Hummus, babaganoush, kebabs, falafel . . . Iskender filled the guest’s plate, which turned out to be pointless, for the man ate like a bird. His poor appetite slowed everyone down – even Sonny, who was always hungry, had to stop eating.

  Then, while they were having their tea, the Orator began to preach. His voice was thin but it rose in waves, pausing every few minutes and picking up again, as if he were reading from an invisible pamphlet. He talked about the stages of late capitalism, and how close humanity had come to the Judgement Day. We are all looking down the cliff. We’ll see the fall of this regime. The youth today were being doped so that they wouldn’t question the system. Politicians everywhere were manipulating half of the drug traffic in the world. All ideologies were inventions to keep the young people in a constant daze. The fake ‘isms’ were the new drugs, sleeping pills for the masses.

  ‘My aunt is a feminist,’ said Sonny, slightly nervous from not having eaten enough. ‘Her hair is shorter than mine and she always wears trousers.’

  ‘Feminism to us is like a snowman in the Sahara,’ commented the Orator. ‘There is no need for it. And do you know why?’

  ‘Because it makes women ugly. They don’t even shave their legs any more, disgusting,’ said Sonny.

  The boys suppressed a chuckle while Esma rolled her eyes. Iskender was the only one staring at the Orator. Their eyes met with a mutual understanding, a shared sense of being above boyish reactions.

  ‘I’d say, our friend here is right because feminism does make women look unnatural,’ the Orator said. ‘But that’s a result, not a reason. Whereas I am asking why is it irrelevant for people like us?’

  ‘Because it’s their problem,’ Iskender answered. ‘It’s a Western thing.’

  Carrying a trayful of tea, Aladdin overheard the last words, his eyebrows arching suspiciously. For a second Iskender had a hunch Aladdin knew about this Orator and didn’t like him. Blokes like that are sowing bad seeds in the community. What’s he doing here, putting things into the lads’ heads? As if he had sensed Aladdin’s dislike, the Orator fell silent and did not speak a word until the drinks were served and they were again left alone.

  ‘Exactly. Feminism is their answer to their problems,’ the Orator continued, a glint of appreciation in his eyes. ‘But it’s a lame solution. Can you dry up a lake with a sponge? That’s how effective feminists are. If Westerners have no family values and no respect for women, a bunch of activists screaming their heads off on the streets isn’t going to change anything.’

  Esma gave a snort. Out of the corner of his eye Iskender sent her a cold, menacing glance. ‘Sorry,’ she silently mouthed.

  ‘Behave,’ Iskender mouthed back.

  If the Orator had noticed their peaceful exchange, he pretended not to. ‘In the West people are confused. They confuse happiness with freedom and freedom with promiscuity. Whereas we respect our mothers, sisters and wives. We don’t force them to dress up like Barbie dolls. It’s a whole industry. Cosmetics, fashion, shoe designers. Have you ever heard of anorexia nervosa?’

  The boys shook their heads.

  ‘It’s an obsession with body image. Women who suffer from it are on a diet all the time. They make themselves vomit after they eat. Every year dozens of women in Europe and the States are hospitalized because of this illness. Some die. Their hearts fail. But they still think they are fat.

  ‘Brothers, don’t forget that in the meantime, babies in Asia, Africa and the Middle East are dying of hunger. They cannot find a piece of bread to nibble. Never seen a sweet in their lives. While the women in the West puke up chocolate-brandy cakes in posh restaurants, people in the Third World are starving.

  ‘It’s no coincidence that the two major industries in the West are the machine of war and the machine of beauty. With the machine of war they attack, imprison, torture and kill. But the machine of beauty is no less evil. All those glittery dresses, fashion magazines, androgynous men and butch women. Everything is blurred. The machine of beauty is controlling your minds.’

  A sense of awe canopied the table. Stifling a gasp, Esma examined her fingernails. She wished Iskender could make light of the situation. Pat the man on the back, tell him to take it easy, make them all laugh. He could if he wanted to. He had it in him. That kind of boldness, that kind of lightness, she thought. And yet, when she raised her head, the expression she found on her brother’s face was nothing like what she had hoped for. ‘Alex, can we please get some more tea?’ Esma asked. ‘All this talk is making me thirsty.’

  The Orator checked his watch. ‘Time for me to leave. It was nice to meet you.’ As he stood up, he turned to Iskender. ‘Why does she call you Alex?’

  ‘Don’t mind her. She’s my sister . . . Everybody calls me that. You know, it’s short for . . .’

  ‘Alex is not short for Iskender,’ the Orator inveighed. ‘Think about it again, brother. Are we going to have to change our names so that the Brits can pronounce them more easily? What else will we have to give up? It should be the other way round. Make everyone learn your full name and say it with respect.’

  With that he left, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

  Iskender jumped to his feet, nervous. ‘I’ll walk Esma home and come back.’

  ‘Hey, I don’t want to leave yet.’

  But he had already reached the door. ‘Chop, chop. Now!’

  Esma complied, grumbling. As soon as they were outside on the street, she exclaimed: ‘Bloody hell, I didn’t like that bloke. Mr Uppity on his high horse.’

  ‘You might not like him but he’s a fighter.’

  ‘He’s harsh.’

  ‘When the reality is harsh you too need to be.’

  ‘Come on, he’s just a macho tosser. He didn’t even look at my face.’

  ‘That’s because he respected you, you twat! Would you prefer men ogling your legs? Is that what you want?’

  ‘Oh, what’s wrong with you?’ she said, throwing her hands up. ‘Relax! All this nonsense is going to your head.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, Esma.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m so scared!’

  ‘You heard me. You’re not coming to o
ur meetings any more. I can’t keep an eye on you all the time.’

  ‘Who says you have to keep an eye on me?’ she snapped. ‘I can take care of myself, thank you very much. It’s all Mum’s fault. She raised you like this. Malamin, berhamin.* And now you think you’re the Sultan of Hackney!’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Esma didn’t notice the change in his tone, the clenching of his fists, until it was too late. She was too carried away by her own voice. ‘We were a team, you and me. It was fun. We used to laugh. Nothing’s fun now. Look at you – look how seriously you’re taking yourself.’

  Iskender grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her against a wall. ‘People are being beaten up on the streets. An old man was knocked unconscious by stones just last week. What fun are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, so you’re the big hero. Save us, please.’

  The slap. It came suddenly, as if from out of nowhere. Esma held her cheek, too shocked to move.

  ‘You stay away from this,’ he said, without looking at her. ‘I warn you.’

  She watched him strut back to the café, hurrying. Once she thought she knew her elder brother like the back of her hand, but no longer. He had always protected her from others. Yet now, for the first time, Esma felt as if she had to protect herself from him.

  A Big, Brown Trout

  London, July 1978

  When Yunus ran into Tobiko after weeks of desperate searching, he was overcome with a mixture of relief and dread. Relief at having found her, when he had almost given up hope, but also a harrowing fear of losing her again. He clung to her like a clam to its shell.

  She had changed somewhat, gained a bit of weight. Her hair, dark and shiny like a black pebble in rain, was still long, but the ends were now dyed an incandescent green. She had replaced the silver piercing on her bottom lip with a sparkling stud. On each earlobe she wore half-a-dozen crimson hearts, as tiny and bright as droplets of blood. Yunus counted them, noticing, once again, how small her ears were and how very pretty.

  Tight-lipped, Tobiko refused to explain where she had been all this time or why she had failed to leave a note. Here and there. Needed a change of air, pet. Yunus was annoyed to learn where she was staying: in a three-bedroom maisonette with the Captain and his mother. A few others from the squat were also there.