Three Daughters of Eve

by Elif Shafak

  Peri, for her part, did not share their concerns; she had never feared her father, never feared her husband, and, as for God, though not always on the best of terms, she was determined not to fear Him either. The true source of her uneasiness was of a different nature. It was she herself, her own darkness, that filled her with trepidation.

  ‘Hey, we’re not going to let that psychic have private sessions with all the pretty women!’ said the businessman. Under his breath he added a tasteless joke, to which the male guests responded with guffaws and the female guests with feigned deafness.

  Peri recalled how easily Shirin used to swear in public, waving her hands as if swatting a fly that kept irritating her. She remembered that she, too, swore when she was in Oxford, though only once, giving a mouthful to Professor Azur when she was upset with him. How easy it was to hate a loved one.

  Here in this land, there were two kinds of women: those who used profanity with abandon and did not give a damn about the stigma of indecency (a tiny minority) and those who at no time would do so (the majority). The middle-to-upper-class ladies at the dinner belonged to the second group. They never cursed, except when they spoke English or French or German. It was somehow all right to swear in a foreign language. An obscenity they would not dream of uttering in their mother tongue, they sang out in a European language without a trace of guilt. It was easier – and somehow less offensive – to say the unsayable in someone else’s language, like a masquerade party-goer dropping her guard behind a costume and a mask.

  Men, on the other hand, were free to use expletives and did so generously and not always out of anger. Swearing cut across the class spectrum. It bound the male species together.

  ‘By the way, there’re a couple of truffles we haven’t named yet,’ said the businesswoman. ‘One is with sherry and lemon zest. Tonight, Pericim, you gave me an idea. Let’s call it Oxford!’

  Having said that, the businesswoman stood up, searching the plates. ‘Ah, there it is!’ With her little finger curled daintily, she picked up the chocolate ball and offered it to Peri. ‘Try it.’

  Under everyone’s gaze, Peri popped it into her mouth, the flavours dissolving on her tongue. Beneath the initial sweetness a sharp citrusy tang hit her palate, both tempting and deceiving in a single bite – like the seminars of Professor Azur.

  The Deadly Kiss

  Oxford, 2001

  Peri did not go home over the Easter holiday. She still had to get used to the way the academic year was divided into three terms in England. The long breaks always threw her off. Not only because she couldn’t travel back home as frequently as the rest of the students. Not only because she was neither an extrovert nor an explorer and therefore disinclined to investigate her surroundings. But also because she felt the gulf between herself and the others more acutely during these times. When everyone was writing essays, attending lectures, she could easily go with the flow; but she didn’t know what to do with herself when she was expected to relax and have some fun.

  Nonetheless, that same week she received an unexpected invitation. Mona, who had also stayed around after the term, running from one social activity to another, as was her habit, had two cousins visiting from America. Together they were planning to travel to the Welsh countryside, where they had rented a cottage.

  ‘Why don’t you come with us?’ said Mona. ‘You’ll enjoy it. Lots of fresh air.’

  Filling her suitcase with more books – including two by Professor Azur – than she could possibly read in a week, Peri agreed to join them. She guessed Mona would be mostly preoccupied with her relatives. She would be in company and alone at once. It sounded tolerable.

  She was taken aback the first time she saw road signs in Welsh and English. Until then it had never occurred to her that you could have more than one official language inside the same country. In Turkey she had never come across a public notice in Turkish and Kurdish. Such was her surprise that every time she spotted one she had to stop to photograph it.

  ‘You are crazy,’ said Mona, laughing. ‘The landscape is stunning and you’re photographing road signs?’

  The views were glorious indeed. Sheep with their newborn lambs grazing in fields that were rife with colour; carpets of green dotted with purple heathers, bluebells and cuckoo flowers. Their holiday rental turned out to be a tiny, timber-framed, whitewashed cottage high up on the west side of a valley. In the mornings it was bathed in a splendid sun; in the afternoons, a deep shade of tranquillity. In the distance the River Wye ran like a sinuous silver thread, winding its way between the hillsides.

  Peri loved the cottage: the cast-iron stove, the low ceilings, the logs piled outside, flagstone ground floors, even the smell of the sheets that always felt ice cold when you first got into bed. She shared the room with Mona, and the cousins took the next room. Although the nearest village was a mile away, there was so much to do during the day, she had little time to read. She, who had always been a city girl, observed nature with a curious delight, the wonders in little things, and it felt like this was all that mattered – those little things. Always jumping to negative thoughts, she imagined a catastrophe had happened – a nuclear bomb – and they were the only survivors, away from civilization. She knew her mother would be shocked if she saw her daughter staying here, four girls in the middle of nowhere.

  One night from her bed, she watched Mona praying in a corner, her face turned towards Mecca. They had not talked about religion at all, both of them avoiding the topic. Had Shirin been with them, she would surely have brought it up.

  When Mona switched off the light, a sudden silence descended upon the room. Peri tossed and turned. ‘When I was a child, I was stung by a bee on my lip,’ she muttered slowly, as if she were dusting off the memory. ‘My mouth became so swollen it looked like a water balloon. My father said the bee was madly in love … with me. It wanted to kiss me. I always wondered, did it know it would die as soon as it used its stinger? Weird, isn’t it, if it knows it and does it anyway. Self-destruction.’

  Mona rolled on her side. In the moonlight from the window her silhouette resembled a sculpture. ‘Only humans have consciousness. It’s the divine order. That’s why Allah holds us humans responsible for our behaviour.’

  ‘But you see, animals don’t want to die. They have a survival instinct. Then they go and sting. They must know they’re taking their own lives. I mean, you look at nature and you think, wow, how lovely and sweet. In fact, it’s awfully cruel.’

  Mona sighed. ‘You’re not running the world, remember. He is in charge of everything, not you. Have faith.’

  How could Peri possibly trust a system in which bees were destined to die no sooner than they fell in love? And if this were the divine order that people raved about, how could they call it just and holy? She pulled up the quilt to her chin, feeling cold.

  Peri screamed out in her sleep that night and murmured words in Turkish that sounded like the hum of a thousand bees trying to break free.

  The cousins, awakened by the noise, giggled from the next room. Mona, sat up in her bed, astounded. She prayed that whatever demons were harassing her friend would be dispelled far and wide. The next morning they all returned to Oxford. Whenever Mona and Peri talked about their trip to Wales, it would be with a buoyant smile – even though each had sensed, in her own way, that beneath the special moments lay something darker.

  The Empty Page

  Istanbul, Summer 2001

  Her first year at Oxford finally over, Peri spent the holidays in Istanbul. Every now and then, her mother mentioned this or that young man in passing, using the same set of descriptors. For Selma, Peri’s education was less an intellectual awakening or the precursor to a promising career than a brief interlude before her wedding. She had gone to seven shrines just this past month: lighting candles, tying strips of silk and uttering wishes for a forthcoming good marriage for her daughter.

  ‘New neighbours moved in while you were away. Decent family,’ said Selma, as she podded a pil
e of broad beans that she was preparing for dinner. ‘They have a son. Such a clever boy, handsome, honourable …’

  ‘You mean you’ve found me a suitable husband,’ murmured Peri. She twirled a tuft of hair around her finger, pulling awkwardly. She noticed it was much shorter than the rest and had a sudden creepy suspicion that her mother had cut a lock of her hair while she was sleeping. The idea that her hair was now in one of those shrines, buried among Selma’s offerings, made her slightly ill.

  ‘Leave the girl alone, woman,’ said Mensur from his chair. ‘You’re confusing her. She’s got classes to focus on. We’re after a diploma, not a husband.’

  ‘This boy has a diploma,’ protested Selma. ‘He went to university. They can get engaged now and marry after she graduates. What does she have to lose?’

  ‘Only my freedom and my youth and my mind,’ said Peri.

  ‘You talk just like your father,’ Selma said, and went back to her beans, as if she’d proved her point.

  The subject was closed – but not for long.

  End of summer, on a balmy day in Istanbul, Peri went out shopping. A raincoat, a new pair of running shoes, a backpack … she had to purchase them before she left for Oxford. When she got off the bus, near Taksim Square, she spotted a crowd of people. They were standing on the pavement, in front of a tea house frequented by students, staring through the open windows at the TV blaring away inside. Shadows danced on their contours, brushed by an apricot light where the sun caught their profiles.

  A broad-shouldered man had placed his hands on his forehead, his brows drawn together. A girl with a pony-tail looked startled, her body rigid. Their expressions irked Peri. She inched her way through the group, curiously.

  That was when she saw what was on TV: a plane slamming into a skyscraper against a blue so bright it almost hurt her eyes. The scene was being played over and over, as if in slow motion, though each time it seemed less real. Billows of smoke rose from the building. Sheets of paper drifted aimlessly in the wind. As though catapulted from a sling, an object hurtled downward, then another … Peri gasped, only now realizing these were no mere objects, but humans plunging to their deaths.

  ‘Americans …’ the man beside her muttered. ‘That’s what you get when you meddle in other people’s affairs.’

  ‘Well, they thought they ruled the world, didn’t they?’ said a woman, and shook her head, sending her hoop earrings swaying. ‘Now they know they are mortal – like the rest of us.’

  Peri’s eyes met the pony-tailed girl’s. For a second it seemed only the two of them were feeling the sorrow, the shock, the terror. But the girl quickly averted her gaze, offering little camaraderie. Disturbed by the talk around her, Peri strode away, her head bursting with questions. Wherever she turned, she found people looking for conspiracy theories to feed on, like foraging bees buzzing about for nectar.

  I must call Shirin, she thought to herself. In need of hearing her friend’s confident voice, she rang her from a pay phone. Thankfully, she answered immediately.

  ‘Hey, Peri. Fucked-up world, eh! May we live in interesting times.’

  ‘It’s just horrible,’ said Peri. ‘I don’t know what to make of this.’

  ‘Innocents slaughtered,’ cut in Shirin almost shouting. ‘Why, because some depraved bastards believe they’ll go to paradise if they kill in the name of God. It’ll get worse, you’ll see. Now all Muslims will be vilified. More innocents will have to suffer from all sides.’

  Peri noticed a wad of chewing gum had been stuck under the phone box – a small act of malice, but malice nonetheless. ‘Awful! Atrocious. And so scary. How could this happen?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure that’s what everyone will be arguing about. For months, years even. Journalists, experts, academics. But really there’s nothing to discuss. Religion fuels intolerance and that leads to hatred and that leads to violence. End of story.’

  ‘But isn’t that unfair?’ Peri said. ‘There are many religious people who would never hurt anyone. It wasn’t religion that did this. It was pure evil.’

  ‘You know what, Mouse, I’m not going to argue with you. This time, I’m as confused as you are. I need to talk to Azur or I’ll go mad.’

  Peri felt a jolt inside of her. ‘You’re going to see him? But the term hasn’t started yet.’

  ‘Who cares? I’m going up to Oxford tomorrow. I know he’s there. Change your ticket, come with me.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Peri. She didn’t feel the need to point out that even if she could get a last-minute ticket, she couldn’t afford it.

  At home, Peri found her mother and her father as bewildered as she was, watching the same scenes on TV that were being run repeatedly.

  ‘Fanatics are taking control of the world,’ said Mensur.

  He had started drinking earlier than usual, and by the look of him he had already downed quite a few. For the first time he seemed hesitant about his daughter going to Oxford. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have sent you abroad; nowhere is safe any more. I never thought I would say this, but maybe the West has now become more dangerous than the East.’

  ‘East, West, what difference does it make? No one can escape their kismet …’ said Selma. ‘If Allah has written it on your forehead with His invisible ink, it doesn’t matter whether you are here or in China. Death will come and find you.’

  At this Mensur grabbed the ballpoint pen he used for crossword puzzles and wrote in a squiggly line on his forehead the number 100.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Selma.

  ‘Changing my Fate! I’m going to live 100 years.’

  Peri did not stay around to hear what her mother said in return. She had no patience for her parents’ quarrels. Seized by an acute sense of loneliness, she went to her room and took out her God-diary. As much as she tried to compose something sensible, she could not write. Not today. She had so many questions about religion and faith and God – the kind of God that allowed atrocities to happen and still expected obedience. She stared at the page, swallowed by its emptiness. She wondered what Azur would tell Shirin when the two of them met in his office. How she wished she could secretly sneak into that room, like the siskin, and eavesdrop. She, too, had things to ask the professor. Perhaps Shirin was right to insist; Peri needed a seminar on God – not so much to discover new truths about a supreme being as to make sense of the simmering uncertainties within herself.

  Then she did something she would never tell anyone: She prayed for all the people killed in the Twin Towers. She prayed for their families and loved ones. And before she concluded her prayer, she added a small request to God to be admitted into Azur’s seminar, so that she could learn more about Him and hopefully make some sense of the chaos both inside and outside her mind.

  The Circle

  Oxford, 2001

  The first week of the new term, early one afternoon, the sky placid as a village pond, Peri got ready for the first session of ‘Entering the Mind of God/God of the Mind’. Only a few days earlier she had discovered an envelope in her pigeonhole at the Porter’s Lodge from no other than Professor Azur. The note inside ran across the card in a slightly declining diagonal, evidently written in haste:

  Dear Ms Nalbantoğlu,

  If you are still interested in my seminar, it begins next Thursday at 2 p.m. sharp! Bring amber if you need it – but not apologies.

  The octopus awaits.

  A. Z. Azur

  Since getting the note, between tutorials and her part-time job at the bookshop, she’d had no chance to reflect on what she might be in for. Now, as she headed towards the seminar room with a notebook held tight to her chest, she was surprised at how anxious she felt.

  On walking into the room, Peri mentally counted ten students: five boys, five girls. Among them to her amazement was Mona, who greeted her with equal surprise.

  Peri scanned the other students, taking in their awkward smiles, and the way they sat at polite distances from one another, relieved to see she wasn’t the only one who
looked nervous. Some of the students were immersed in their thoughts, while others were chatting in hushed voices or reading the seminar description – probably for the umpteenth time; and one boy, his head resting on his writing pad, seemed asleep.

  Peri perched herself on a chair by the window and gazed out at a spreading oak tree, its decaying leaves shimmering ruby and gold. She wondered if there was time to visit the ladies’ but the dread of returning after the seminar had started kept her rooted to her seat. Outside the day had turned overcast, and even though it was still early in the afternoon, it felt like dusk.

  Exactly on the hour the door opened and Professor Azur strode in, carrying a stack of files, a large box of crayons and what looked like an hourglass. He was wearing a navy corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches. Although his crisp white shirt was immaculately ironed, his tie was undone, as if he had been too bored to knot it, and his hair was a ruffled mess. He either had been trudging into a stiff wind or had repeatedly run his fingers through it.

  Quick as a whip, he dropped everything on to the desk and placed the hourglass on a lectern, instantly turning it over – particles of sand trickled from the upper bulb into the lower one, like tiny pilgrims on a holy journey. He stood in front of the white board, tall and slender, and said, with a briskness that upended the lethargy in the classroom:

  ‘Hello, everyone! Shalom Aleichem! Salamun Alaykum! Peace be with you! Namaste! Jai Jinendra! Sat Nam! Sat Sri Akaal! I utter my greetings in no particular order of preference or precedence, in case you were wondering.’

  ‘Aloha,’ someone called back.