Three Daughters of Eve

by Elif Shafak

  ‘Huh?’ This time Bruno was not alone.

  ‘Does the first drawing – of what God is – embody or exclude the second drawing – of what God is not?’ Azur started pacing. ‘For instance, if God is omnipotent and omnipresent, all-powerful and all-benevolent, does that mean that He – or She – embodies evil too, or does it mean that evil is external to Him – or Her – an outside force that He/She needs to fight? What exactly is the relation between what-God-is and what-God-is-not?’

  Azur continued. ‘You have drawn two pictures. Tell me how they are connected. Write an essay. It can be in any style so long as it is brave, bold, honest and supported by academic research!’

  No one said a word. When they were sketching, they had taken the exercise lightly, not much believing in it. Had they known they would be asked to write an essay on the connection between the two images they would have been more thoughtful. But it was too late.

  ‘Go back to philosophers, mystics, scholars of the past. Stay away from today. Stay away from your own mind.’

  ‘Stay away from our own mind?’ Kevin repeated.

  ‘This, then, is your assignment for next week. Do your best, impress me!’ Azur announced as he grabbed his files, the crayons, the hourglass, in which the last grain of sand had just slid into the bulb below. ‘But I warn you, I’m not easy to impress!’

  The Shadow Play

  Oxford, 2001

  On Friday evening, when most students went to pubs and clubs for some well-earned downtime, Peri stayed in the college library, reading. As the last remaining students left, the silence inside the building thickened, uninterrupted by coughs or whispers, the flicker of pages. To replace studying with pleasure was akin to replacing dieting with banqueting and she lamented, not for the first time, her social inadequacy. But she enjoyed being around books, which gave her a sense of freedom as nothing else could. She tried not to muse about the fact that most of her readings these days related to Professor Azur. Several times over the past weeks she had caught herself daydreaming about how she would say something unexpected in the seminar, something brilliant and bold that would stop him in his tracks and make him see her in a new light.

  Next to her on the table was the folding Polaroid camera she had recently bought. On her runs she sometimes encountered the most astonishing skies – coral-pink sunrises, thunderous sunsets, frost-encrusted meadows – which she wanted to capture on film. It had cost her, but it was worth the money. She had also spent too much on books and planned to get a new personal computer. What the hell, she thought. I’ll just have to work harder.

  She stood up, stretched her legs. She was alone in this section – it felt as if she were alone in the entire building. As she walked among the stacks, she sensed a sudden movement, as quiet as a shadow. Swiftly, she turned around. It was Troy.

  ‘Hi, didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘You’re not following me, right?’ Peri asked.

  ‘No – well, yes. Don’t worry, I won’t bite.’ Troy grinned and nodded at the book in her hand. ‘What’s that you’re reading? … Atheism in Ancient Greece. Is that for Azur?’

  ‘It is,’ Peri said, feeling slightly uncomfortable.

  ‘Told you that man was the devil, but you didn’t take me seriously.’

  ‘Why do you hate him so much?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t know his limits. I know that may sound like a good thing to you, but it’s not. A don should behave like a don. Period.’

  ‘And you don’t think he does?’

  Troy heaved a sigh. ‘Are you kidding? That guy doesn’t teach God. He believes he is God.’

  ‘Wow, that’s harsh.’

  ‘Wait and see,’ said Troy, and instantly took a step back, as if he had revealed more than he had intended. ‘Anyway, need to go. Friends are waiting at the Bear; would you like to join us?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’ve got work to do,’ Peri said, surprised that he asked.

  ‘All right. Have a good weekend. Think about what I said.’

  By the time Peri left the library, the sky had turned deep blue-black, except for the ghostly reflection of the street lights, and it seemed so close she could have reached up and pulled it over her shoulders like an indigo shawl. She kept her head up as she walked, glancing at the gargoyles and grotesques leaning down towards her from the battlements of the quadrangle, as if guarding the secrets of the centuries. In that moment she was struck by the ancient theological disputes of the town, its aching scholastic bones, still stalking its rooms. She zipped her jacket all the way up to her chin; soon she would have to buy a winter coat. She was saving money.

  When she turned a corner, she was surprised to see people holding candles in the dark. A vigil. She approached, her gaze scanning rows of photos and flowers laid on the pavement. One poster said REMEMBER SREBRENICA.

  Peri combed the faces of the dead – boys, fathers, husbands; one of them resembled her brother Umut around the time he had been arrested.

  Among the group holding the vigil Peri spotted Mona, wearing a magenta headscarf she had draped around her head and shoulders. She, too, had seen Peri and stepped forward to talk to her, a candle in her hand.

  Peri pointed at the faces in the photos. ‘It’s so sad.’

  ‘It’s more than sad,’ said Mona. ‘It’s genocide. We must never forget.’ She paused, looking at Peri with a new interest. ‘Why don’t you join us?’

  ‘Uhm, sure,’ Peri said. She grabbed a candle and the photo of the boy who looked like her brother, and took her place on the pavement. The night closed around her like a swollen river.

  ‘Are only Muslim students doing this?’ asked Peri.

  ‘Well, the Muslim Student Council organized it, but others have come to show their support. There are people from Azur’s seminar. Look, Ed’s here.’

  So he was. Peri went to talk to him when Mona, busy with her fellow organizers, left her alone.

  ‘Hi, Ed.’

  ‘Peri, hi. Looks like I’m the only Jew here. Or half-Jew.’

  As if the mention of his religion were a logical segue, Peri said, ‘Do you mind if I ask you why you’re taking the seminar on God?’

  ‘It’s because of Azur. The man changed my life.’

  ‘Really?’ Peri recalled the glance between Ed and the professor.

  ‘Last year he helped me a lot. I was going to break up with my girlfriend.’

  ‘And he told you not to?’

  ‘Not exactly. He told me to try to understand her first,’ said Ed. ‘She and I had been together since secondary school. But she changed. She turned religious – just like that. I couldn’t recognize her any more.’ With her decision to strictly observe the Torah and his commitment to science, the gulf between her priorities and his priorities had become unbridgeable. ‘I went to Azur, don’t know why. I could have gone to a rabbi or something, but Azur felt like the right person.’

  ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘It was weird. He said for forty days, listen to everything she says. One month and ten days. Not that hard, if you love someone. He said do Shabbat together. Whatever she wants to show me, just let her take me into her world. Don’t object, don’t comment.’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘I did. It was ridiculously hard! When I hear gibberish – I’m sorry, but that’s what it is – all that religious talk, my mind rebels. Azur said leave judging to judges. Philosophers do not judge. They understand.’ Ed chuckled. ‘But that’s not all.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘After forty days, Azur calls me and says, well done, now it’s your girlfriend’s turn. For forty days you’ll talk, she’ll listen. She’ll go through a religion detox.’

  ‘Did she do it?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Ed shook his head. ‘We broke up. But I understood what Azur was trying to do. I liked him for that.’

  His enthusiasm irked her, that unbridled trust of a disciple for his master. She said, ‘But we’re not philosophers. We’re undergradua
tes.’

  ‘That’s the thing. All the dons give us space – except Azur. He pushes us hard. He believes that, whatever our call in life, we must all be philosophers.’

  ‘Isn’t that too much to expect from ordinary students?’

  Ed looked at her. ‘You’re not ordinary. No one is.’

  Peri pressed her lips together.

  ‘What’s the matter? You don’t like him?’ Ed asked.

  ‘I do, it’s just …’ Peri swallowed. ‘I wonder if he’s experimenting with us, and I feel uncomfortable with that.’

  ‘Perhaps he is, but who cares?’ Ed said. ‘He changed my life. For the better.’

  It began to rain – a slight drizzle that could at any moment have turned into a downpour. The vigil had to be postponed. They put away the posters, candles and photos. Mona was running left and right, taking care of things.

  Peri extended a hand to Ed. Ignoring her gesture, he pulled her towards him and gave her a warm hug. ‘You take care. And trust Azur, he’s a great guy.’

  Alone in the dark, Peri walked back to her quad, the air rich with the mingled smells of rain and earth. She didn’t mind getting wet. She surveyed the buildings that had witnessed centuries of heated debates; neighbours turned into foes, books destroyed, ideas silenced, thinkers persecuted … all in the name of God.

  Who was right, Troy or Ed? In one night she had heard two opposing views of the professor; and the trouble was, she had a feeling they could both be right. As in an old Ottoman shadow play, a curtain separated her from the reality, and she found herself grasping at images instead. Azur was the puppeteer behind the screen – present and in control at all times, yet still unknown, always out of reach.

  The Oppressed

  Istanbul, 2016

  The last of Les Bonbons du harem had hardly disappeared from the table when a dog trotted in through the open door, wagging its tail with a vigour that belied its slight frame. A Pomeranian with a shrunken head, soulful eyes and a bushy fur coat the colour of faded autumn leaves.

  ‘Pom-Pom, darling, did you miss me?’ said the businesswoman.

  Sweeping the creature off the floor, she placed it on her lap. From there the animal watched the guests, blinking, its fox-like features set in a passive expression that could at any moment turn into snarling hostility.

  ‘You know when it dawned on me this country had changed?’ the businesswoman asked no one in particular. ‘When I took Pom-Pom to the vet last month.’

  Normally the vet would come on a regular basis, she explained, but a few weeks ago the man had injured his leg and, though he continued to work as before, he’d been unable to make house calls. With Pom-Pom tucked under her arm, she’d headed to the clinic. In the past, dog owners had been an almost identical lot – modern, urban, secularist, Westernized. Since conservative Muslims regarded dogs as makrooh, detestable, they were not keen to share their living space with canines.

  ‘I’ve never understood what those people have against dogs. All that nonsense about angels refusing to enter a house with a dog,’ the businesswoman said. ‘Or a house with paintings.’

  ‘It’s a hadith by al-Bukhari,’ said a newspaper tycoon who had only recently joined the circle. His collarless, crisp white shirt emphasized his dark hair, which had been cut to the same length all over. He wore no moustache, no beard, cleanly shaven. Unlike everyone else at the dinner, he was from the newly emerging, Islamic-bourgeoisie. Despite his eagerness to socialize with the country’s Westernized elite, he wouldn’t dream of bringing his wife, who wore a headscarf, to such dinners. She’d be uncomfortable among them, he reasoned to himself. In reality, it was he who was uncomfortable with her around. Sure, he was pleased with her as a wife – Allah knew what a giving mother she was to their five kids – but outside the house, especially outside their circle, he found her unrefined, unbecoming even; he watched her every move and listened to her every comment with an arched eyebrow. Better if she stayed at home.

  Now he sat back and said, ‘The hadith does not say, by the way, just any picture. It warns against portraits to prevent idolatry.’

  ‘Well, then, we’re screwed,’ said the businessman. With a complacent laugh he opened both arms and gestured towards the artwork on the walls. ‘We have a dog and plenty of portraits. Even nudes. Maybe tonight stones will rain on our heads!’

  Despite the jovial tone, his words visibly disturbed some of the guests, who smiled in discomfort. Sensing the tension, Pom-Pom snarled, his fangs dripping bright with saliva.

  ‘Hushhh, Mama’s here,’ said the businesswoman to the miniature creature, and to her husband in a less affectionate tone, ‘Don’t tempt destiny, something bad might happen.’ She downed her water, as if irritation had dehydrated her. ‘Now where was I? So when I visited the vet, I was surprised to see headscarved women in the waiting room with dogs by their feet! Chihuahuas, shih-tzus, poodles. They were more into canines than you and me! Obviously religious Muslims are changing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say they are changing,’ said the newspaper tycoon. ‘Look, we religious sorts never had the freedoms you enjoyed. We’ve been oppressed for decades by a modernist elite like yourselves – no offence.’

  ‘Even if that were true, those days are gone. Now you’re the ones in full power,’ muttered Peri, her voice wavering, as if she were reluctant to speak her mind but, once again, couldn’t help it.

  The newspaper tycoon objected. ‘I disagree. Once oppressed, always oppressed. You don’t know what it feels like to be oppressed. We have to cling to power, otherwise you might snatch it back from us.’

  ‘Oh, give me a break!’ cried the journalist’s girlfriend, who had a notoriously low threshold for alcohol. She pointed her finger at the tycoon. ‘You’re not oppressed! Your wife is not oppressed! I am oppressed!’ She tapped her chest. ‘Me with my blonde hair and my mini-skirt and my makeup and my womanhood and my glass of wine … I’m the one who’s trapped in this despotic culture.’

  The journalist’s eyes widened in alarm. Worried that his girlfriend might draw the ire of the tycoon, and cost him his job, he tried to kick her under the table, his foot swinging through the air in vain.

  ‘Well, we’re all oppressed,’ said the hostess in a lame attempt to reduce the tension.

  ‘It’s simple,’ said the plastic surgeon. ‘As people make more money, they crave a better lifestyle. I’ve many patients who are wearing headscarves. When it comes to sagging breasts and turkey necks, religious Muslim women are not that different from the rest.’

  The businessman nodded heartily. ‘That only proves my theory: capitalism is the only cure to our problems. The antidote to those jihadi freaks is the free market. If only capitalism could run its course without intervention, it’d win over even the most resolute minds.’

  With that he opened a polished burr-walnut humidor, an image of Fidel Castro inlaid on its lid, and passed it to the journalist with a wink. ‘Limited edition from the Beirut Duty Free. Take one. Take two.’

  The male guests, glancing sheepishly at their hostess, each fumbled in the box and took a cigar.

  ‘Don’t worry about my wife,’ said the businessman. ‘There’s freedom in this house. Laissez-faire!’

  Everyone laughed. Pom-Pom, disturbed by the noise, yapped angrily.

  Seizing the opportunity, Peri lit a cigarette. She noticed that the maid she had seen at the entrance was now tiptoeing around and setting down ashtrays. She wondered what this woman thought about them all. It was probably better not to know.

  ‘Our darling Peri is very thoughtful tonight,’ said the businesswoman.

  ‘It was a long day,’ Peri said, deflecting the comment.

  Her husband leaned forward as if to share a secret. It was his habit to drink his coffee black and strong, and with a piece of sugar in his mouth. Now, as the sugar cube dissolved on his tongue, Adnan said, ‘Sometimes I’ve a feeling Peri likes people in fiction more than those in real life. Instead of tweeting her friends, she’d rather pin
up her favourite poems on strings suspended across our bedroom.’

  Peri smiled. It was yet another ritual she had learned from Professor Azur.

  ‘I envy you,’ said the interior designer. ‘I can never find the time to read.’

  ‘Oh, I love poetry,’ said the PR woman. ‘I feel like abandoning everything and moving to a fishing village. Istanbul corrupts our souls!’

  ‘Come to Miami, we bought a house by the ocean,’ said the businessman.

  His wife arched her brows. ‘The nerve of this man! No artistic sensibility. We say poetry, he says Miami.’

  ‘What did I do this time?’ protested the businessman.

  No one criticized him. He was too rich to be criticized to his face.

  Just then the doorbell rang, once, twice, thrice – a mixture of frustration, apology and impatience.

  ‘Oh, finally.’ The businesswoman leaped to her feet. ‘The psychic is here!’

  ‘Hooray!’ came a collective cry.

  Pom-Pom ran towards the door, yapping and barking furiously.

  In the commotion that followed, Peri picked up a beeping sound nearby. She reached for her husband’s phone, checked the screen. There was a detailed message from her mother, even though she had told her only to write ‘call me’. ‘Found the number, missed my TV show.’ Underneath was the requested information: ‘Shirin: 01865 …’ The digits danced in front of Peri’s eyes, a combination of numbers to open a safe that had been locked for too long.

  The Dream Interpreter

  Oxford, 2001

  Professor Azur arrived in the classroom, his arms full of books. He was followed by someone else – a porter, it turned out – pushing a wheelbarrow heaped with a pottery stove, rolls of black paper, a CD player and several pillows, such as those found on airplanes. The two men walked to the middle of the room and unloaded everything.

  Like a play, Peri thought to herself. He’s an actor on stage; we, the audience.