by Elif Shafak
She couldn’t figure out what was going on. Even when she saw him lunge towards Jamila, even when she noticed the knife in his hand, even when he blocked her sister’s way and uttered words that could only have amounted to steeling himself against any doubts, what was taking place in front of her eyes continued to make no sense. But then suddenly the curtain that was clouding her vision lifted, and she saw the full truth, the full danger. She felt the air go out of her. Still clutching the lemons, she flew from the balcony to the living room, through the corridor, out the door, into the street.
Pembe ran. She was eight feet away when she saw her son stab her sister. Iskender swung the knife sloppily and hastily, as though he wanted to get it over with at once and go on his way. The blade drew a half-circle in the air, entering Jamila’s flesh on the right side of her thorax. Behind them a strangled sound came from Pembe. She knew instantly, she knew in her bones, that the knife had gone into her twin’s heart.
Iskender took a step back, paused for an instant, frowning at the knife in his hand. For a moment he seemed confused, as though he didn’t know what he had done, as if he had been a puppet dancing to the pull of strings and was only now waking up. With a jolt he threw the knife aside and sprinted in the opposite direction.
Pembe could hear someone scream. A piercing howl in the wind. It would be another minute before she realized the sound was coming from her. She couldn’t budge, for she had no body. She had no substance. She was only a voice. Her entire being was reduced – or magnified – to a cry that gave way to new ones in spirals, independent of her will, spinning, swirling, melting into an endless echo.
Her eyes wide open, her stomach churning, Pembe stumbled towards her sister. The contents of the bags were scattered on the street. Bread rolls, cheese, green apples, a pot of basil, a pack of cardamom.
Like a sleepwalker, Pembe cuddled her twin. She kissed Jamila’s face – her forehead, her cheekbones, the soft hollow in front of her neck. She checked her pulse, but it was muted and her body felt limp, already losing warmth. All the sparkle was drained from her face, except for her lips, which were now the colour of her wound. Pembe began to shiver, as if life were bleeding out of her too. A pool of blood so dark it was almost black widened and thickened on the ground. She heard hurried footsteps, hushed tones. The siren of an ambulance turning the corner. Slamming car doors, police radios. She staggered away from her twin’s body, the tarmac hard against her slippers.
Half a minute later an elderly woman, a kind-hearted Albanian neighbour, approached the street from the other end, having just noticed the commotion. Puzzled and fearful, she dived towards the body on the ground. She fell on her knees, shrieking, wailing.
‘Oh, poor thing! What happened to you? Pembe, dear!’
Further down the street gooseflesh had broken out all over Pembe’s body. Hearing herself being mourned was uncanny and chilling, but, in an odd way, it helped her to disconnect herself from her surroundings. She neither stopped nor glanced back. Her arms folded over her chest, her head lowered as if walking against a strong wind, she floated through the crowd like the ghost she already felt she was.
*
For the rest of the day Pembe roamed the streets, seeing parts of East London she had never been in before. She knew she couldn’t go back home or to Elias when Iskender was out there somewhere, unrestrained. It was surely only a matter of time before her son realized his mistake and came back to find her. Such was her fear that she wasn’t able to grieve for her sister. She became increasingly apprehensive, as if anxiety were a substance, a liquid that filled her up little by little.
Several times she had to stop and take deep breaths to steady herself. Her feet drew concentric circles around the Crystal Scissors, until she came to a stop opposite the entrance. She had left her work without an explanation. She had put the keys through the letterbox and called it quits. Now, hiding behind a Royal Mail van, she watched the flamboyant profile of Rita through the window. There were two customers inside and someone who must be the new apprentice – a young Asian woman with hair the colour of an aubergine.
Pembe sneaked into the area behind the salon, where they dried the towels, smocks and aprons. If she was lucky she would find something to wear. Her blouse was stained with blood, which she had been hiding by keeping her arms crossed and her shoulders hunched. Funny how those she passed had failed to notice. Or perhaps they simply had preferred not to see. She opened the back gate, crept in and stopped.
Swaying from side to side in time to the music playing in the salon, a piece of chewing gum in her mouth, the apprentice was coming to collect the towels off the line. It was too late to go back and there was no place to take cover. Pembe found herself gaping at this stranger, who now was gaping at her.
‘Sorry,’ Pembe said, her cheeks growing hot. She lunged forward, grabbed a smock and scurried away.
‘Hey, what’re you doin’?’ the assistant yelled. ‘Thief! Thief!’
But Pembe was already gone.
Over the next few hours she kept wandering, the setting sun a tepid caress on the back of her neck. She had nowhere to go. If she went to the police, they would interrogate her. Unable to understand the language, she would fail to answer their questions, and perhaps end up being held responsible.
She couldn’t seek refuge in a neighbour’s house either. Who would want to take the risk? Besides, she didn’t know whether Iskender had acted alone or been guided by others. If so, who else was involved? Was Tariq in on this? How about her husband? Had the two brothers convinced Iskender, her sultan, the apple of her eye, to kill his own flesh and blood? Her head was throbbing. She couldn’t trust anyone, except Elias. The thought of him sent a shudder down her spine. This was it. She would not see him again. It was a good thing that Iskender didn’t know where Elias lived or worked, she thought. As long as she stayed away from him, Elias would be fine. It was better that he came to believe her dead.
Guilt, that sneaky serpent that had been feeding inside her chest for months, growing stockier each day, had now emerged in all its ugly grandeur and was gnawing at her soul. She blamed herself and herself only. It was her love affair with Elias that had brought on this calamity. How could she bear to see him again? The truth was that even then, even there, Pembe was trying to excuse Iskender. She longed to see her other two children. What would they do when they found out that their aunt was dead and their mother had gone missing? What would the police tell them and what would they, in turn, say to the police?
When darkness fell, Pembe plodded back to her neighbourhood, though she knew it was dangerous. Hiding herself as best as she could, she arrived in Lavender Grove. In the spot where Jamila had died only hours ago, there was now a silhouette that had been drawn with white chalk. The site was cordoned off and a few people were smoking near by, commenting. Unable to get any closer, she decided to vanish.
That night Pembe found a litter-strewn corner in front of a Barclays bank and curled up there, wincing each time a car went past. She used a public toilet, begged some water and food from a restaurant owner and cried herself to sleep.
‘Wake up! Get up, you slag!’ A homeless man was towering beside her. Tall and beer-bellied, with a swollen face, bushy eyebrows, missing teeth. ‘Bloody hell! What d’you think you’re doin’ in my place?’
Pembe bolted in panic, her lips quivering. ‘I . . . I’m sorry.’ She caught his smell in the air. A mixture of wine, tobacco, mothballs and urine. The man tottered towards her with intent. Pembe dodged him and ran for it.
‘Hey, come back, little birdie! Why’re you so afraid?’
The tramp watched her hurtle down the road until she disappeared around the corner. Sniggering as if sharing a joke with himself, he settled himself in the corner that was still warm, sighed as he took off his boots and began to nurse his feet absent-mindedly.
Esma
London, 1 December 1978
; There was too much food in the kitchen – in cauldrons and stewpots brimful with delicacies, wafting heavy, pungent smells; casseroles, pastries and desserts were on the worktop, on the table, on the chairs, on the floor. I didn’t know who was going to eat it all, now that there was only me and Yunus. But the mourners kept coming, and they brought their food, determined to feed us. In the living room there were women of all ages sitting side by side. Some were old neighbours; some were people I knew only vaguely; and some I was seeing for the first time. With each new group of visitors, Aunt Meral, as the host, stood up, welcomed them, cried with them. Yunus and I were sitting in one corner, both there and not there – like two somnolent fish in an otherwise empty aquarium. Everyone approached us, stared at us, studied us, tapping the glass wall that separated us from them, and then waited for us to react. We saw them and we heard them, but we didn’t feel anything, numb to their words of consolation. Our minds were busy solving a riddle of which only we were aware.
‘Esma, it’s all my fault,’ said Yunus, his voice brittle.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I left Auntie alone . . .’
I held his hand, hugged him. ‘It was Iskender who did this, not you, canim.’
‘But if it was Aunt Jamila in the ambulance, where is Mum?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering myself.’
In less than an hour we would learn the answer. Around midday the door opened again, and a new guest walked in, clad in bright green from head to toe, including a feathery hat. The mourners gawked at her sparkling accessories, painted nails, strange ways, speechless.
I, however, was delighted to see her. ‘Oh, Rita . . .’ I said, as I ran to her in tears.
The two of us sat together at the kitchen table away from prying eyes.
‘My mother isn’t dead,’ I whispered.
She nodded.
‘Is she with you?’
Another nod.
Rita said that early in the morning, when she had gone to open the salon, she found her old co-worker sleeping on the doorstep. She asked her what had happened but got little from her. She took her into the room at the back, served her tea and biscuits, pulled the shutters down, gave the apprentice the day off and declared the place closed. She then helped my mother to wash her face and clean herself.
‘Can you keep her safe for a few days?’ I asked. ‘Until we figure this out.’
Rita shook her head. Her boyfriend would never allow her to bring my mother home, and, even if he did, she wasn’t sure he could be trusted with such a secret.
‘There’s one more thing,’ Rita said. She handed me a piece of paper with Elias’s name and address. ‘You have to tell him that your mum is dead. Pembe thinks it’s better this way.’
There was no other exchange. I walked her to the door. Playing her role to the hilt, Rita gave me a tearful hug before she left, ‘I’m sorry, love. Your ma was so dear to me.’
*
After sunset Yunus and I entered the Crystal Scissors through the back door, holding hands. For as long as I live I’ll never forget the moment we ran into her arms, sobbing and laughing all at once. She looked so shaken, her face sunken, dark rings around her eyes.
Yunus’s head rested on Mum’s bosom, as he moaned, ‘It’s all my fault. I left Aunt Jamila alone. I was talking to my friends, I let her walk back on her own.’
Mum kissed him. Then she kissed me, whispering, ‘Did you talk to him?’
I briefly told her about my visit to Elias. She listened, slumped and drained, as if in some half-dream.
‘They’re saying awful things about you,’ Yunus interjected. ‘We don’t talk to them any more.’
That’s how my mother learned that the entire neighbourhood was abuzz with gossip. Some people accused her of bringing disgrace to the family and provoking her son into choosing such a dark path.
I stared daggers at my brother. ‘There’s going to be a funeral in a day. Aunt Meral is organizing everything.’
It was then that Yunus grabbed my mother’s arm and patted it with authority. ‘Don’t worry. I know where to take you. There is one place in London where you’ll be totally safe and no one will hand you over to the police.’
And that’s how my mother, Pembe Kader Toprak, thirty-three years old, and deceased according to official records, began to live in a dilapidated squat in Hackney, occupied by a group of punk rockers.
The Cleaning
London, 5 December 1978
Pembe sat propped up in bed, her face a mask of exhaustion. Wrapping her arms around her bent knees, she locked her fingers together. There was a tightening in her chest, a mounting ache, as if something were pressing against her ribs. Breathing was an effort. Swallowing hurt.
She listened to the sounds in the old Victorian house, which was now drenched in darkness, and smelled the faint acrid tang in the air. Dust, sweat, musty furniture, damp laundry, grubby sheets, empty bottles, full ashtrays. Being in a room where several people slept on the floor side by side brought back memories of her childhood. She recalled how she and her seven sisters would slumber the night away, spooning round one another, seeking each other’s warmth. No matter how many blankets there were, she would wake up in the middle of the night chilly and uncovered. Pulling the nearest blanket over her head, she would wrap herself as best as she could, thus leaving another sister exposed.
Now Pembe looked past the sleeping youths at the bleak nothingness beyond the window, feeling a kind of listlessness she had never experienced before. An hour passed by. Maybe more. She had no way of knowing. After a while her eyes caught the first glow of light on the horizon. Shafts of crimson, sharp as arrows. Dawn was breaking above the London skyline. A bitter dread rose in her throat. Soon they would all be awake. Eating, joking, smoking. Though they had agreed to shelter her, and though they did their best not to disturb her, the punks couldn’t help asking questions, unable to grasp what was going on.
Most squatters loved to sleep in late, but, given the current uncertainty with the council, they were being extra vigilant, fully aware that the halcyon days of lie-ins were a thing of the past. Thus around eight a.m. everyone was awake, groping for yesterday’s clothes, lighting the first cigarette of the day, elbowing one another out of the way at the one chipped sink. Even Iggy Pop, who slept with home-made earplugs, was up and about.
In the kitchen Tobiko was watching Pembe make pancakes for an army. She struggled to find something to say but only came up with, ‘Wow, this smells good.’
Pembe gave her a faint smile. Her hands kept working, fast and focused, her mind miles away. A few minutes later she handed Tobiko a large plate topped with pancakes. ‘Go . . . eat . . .’ she said.
Tobiko hesitated. ‘How about you?’
‘I eat later.’
‘You know we love your son,’ Tobiko said out of the blue. ‘He’s like our mascot. And uh-hmm . . . I don’t quite know what the problem is, but Yunus mentioned it was a bit hush-hush and you had to hide for a while. Whatever it is, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you want.’
Pembe felt a rush of compassion for Tobiko so profound that her eyes welled up. She hugged the young woman, who wasn’t expecting this, but who instantly hugged her back. The moment was broken by Iggy Pop, shouting at the top of his lungs the agora. ‘Oi, we’re starving in here. People want food!’
Smiling, Tobiko took the plate and scurried inside.
Alone in the kitchen, Pembe grabbed a tattered broom and began to sweep the floor. If she didn’t do what she always did, she feared she would lose her mind. Thus, in the ensuing hours, she scrubbed, swept, dusted, mopped and polished the entire squat under the bewildered eyes of the residents. Such was her frenzy all day long that no one dared to make fun or to tell her to stop. And it must have been contagious, for a few people offered to help, using mops and makeshift brooms to join in with her madne
ss. Soon, however, they gave up, tired and bored.
Come the evening she was still working, and the punks were still tiptoeing around behind her, watching this woman from another culture, another language, another story, constantly cry and clean, cry and clean.
***
Shrewsbury Prison, 1992
Just three months before my release an old woman in intensive care at a local hospital opens her eyes. She complains of thirst, and a pain in her back. But other than that she seems perfectly fine. When she is ready to talk they ask her about the man who stole her handbag and assaulted her with a broken bottle one chilly day. She describes him. Her memory is in mint condition. And the description in no way matches Zeeshan. Still not convinced, they show her a mugshot of my cellmate. She says itisn’t him. They take Zeeshan and make her look at him through a two-way mirror. She says it isn’t him. The court decides to have the case reopened.
‘You must be over the moon,’ I say. ‘You’ll be a free man soon.’
‘Zeeshan free man already,’ he says. ‘No need to go to moon.’
‘You’ll be much missed, man.’
He looks crestfallen, swallows hard. ‘I go out and think about you,’ he says. ‘You were my best student.’
‘And you, a bad liar.’
He chuckles, his shoulders hopping. ‘Don’t forget to do your homework.’
‘What homework?’
Then he tells me.
The morning Zeeshan is set to leave we meditate together for the last time. Unlike other days, I don’t take the mick. I don’t protest. I sit cross-legged on the hard floor, looking at him. And, for the first time, I manage to keep my mind still, even if only for a short while.
The same evening, with Zeeshan gone, I lie on my bunk, thinking. It sits heavily with me, his absence. Last time I felt like this Trippy was dead. But I try to finish what he asked me to do. My homework. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. My assignment is to write a letter to my mother and hand it to her when I’m out of here.