by Elif Shafak
‘Patronizing,’ Mona offered helpfully.
They walked outside together. ‘You can drop the seminar, you know,’ Mona said. ‘If he gets on your nerves, I mean.’
‘Yes,’ Peri said, sniffing. ‘I probably will. I hate him!’
That night Peri did not sleep well. Her mind, burdened all these years with so many anxieties and fears, was fixated on one thought and one thought only. Much as she tried, she could not stop thinking about Azur. Had she glimpsed an awful side to his character, which he concealed, waiting for a moment to strike, or was all this his way of showing her that he cared for her and her intellectual advancement?
In the morning, she saw Mona and Bruno in a café, sitting at opposite ends of a table, their expressions tense with something akin to mutual animosity. Azur had asked them to collaborate on the next assignment and to spend a night in the library working on it together. Share food, share ideas. He was doing it deliberately: forcing Bruno, who had never hidden his aversion to Muslims, to team up with Mona, who was always sensitive about her faith. What Azur didn’t seem to realize was that his plan to have a rapport develop between them, noble as it might seem, was not working. Both students were distressed.
By now, Peri had no doubt that there was nothing accidental about Azur’s seminars. Everything had been meticulously planned and orchestrated. Each student was a piece on the mental board in a game he played against no one but himself. Her cheeks burned at the mere suspicion that she, too, was only a pawn. She loathed him for that.
A day later, Peri found another note in her pigeonhole.
To Peri,
The girl who reads Emily Dickinson and Omar Khayyám and takes everything so seriously; the girl who cannot leave her country behind and carries it with her everywhere; the girl who quarrels, not so much with others as with herself; the girl who is her own most ruthless critic; the girl who expects an apology from God while needlessly apologizing to fellow humans –
You probably think I’m a dreadful person and you’re considering dropping the seminar. But if you give up now, you’ll never know whether your suspicions are true. Isn’t the search for Truth enough of an incentive to keep going?
Peri, don’t quit. Remember, daring to ‘know thyself’ means daring to ‘destroy thyself’. First, we must pull ourselves apart. Then, with the same pieces, we will assemble a new Self.
What matters is that you believe in what we’re doing.
The note tucked in her pocket, Peri put on her trainers and went out for a run. Breathing deeply, she zipped her sweatshirt to her chin and set off. Her muscles ached; her joints, stiff and sore, cried out. As she moved in the morning air, which carried smells of damp earth and autumn leaves, she unleashed a curse. What an arrogant bastard, who the hell did he think he was! Fuck him!
Yes, for the first time in her life, Peri swore a mouthful, every word a grain of salt on her tongue in the cold, cold wind. Why had she never done this before? Swearing and running was a great combination. Delicious. Empowering.
The Prophecy
Istanbul, 2016
An electrified silence canopied the table while the guests waited for the psychic to appear. Through the open door they could hear their hostess welcome him, her voice tinkling like glass chimes.
‘Where have you been?’
‘The traffic! It’s a nightmare,’ a male voice, high-pitched and nasal, burst out.
‘Don’t we know,’ the businesswoman said. ‘Come, darling, there are people inside who’re dying to meet you.’
Seconds later, the psychic emerged, clad in dark trousers, white shirt and an aqua-gold paisley brocade waistcoat from another era. He had patchy, light stubble that might well have grown on the way to the party. Small and close-set eyes, an angular face punctuated by a narrow and pointed nose, and an afterthought of a chin, all of which gave him the look of a prowling fox.
‘So many guests!’ he exclaimed as he strolled in. ‘I’ll have to camp here if all of you want your future read.’
‘Please do,’ the businesswoman said.
‘Only the ladies,’ said the businessman from his corner. As far as he was concerned, nothing could be quite as tedious as listening to other people’s fortunes. He liked to make his own fortune. He wanted to have a private conversation with the bank CEO while his wife had her stuff and nonsense. ‘Why don’t you ladies move over to the sofas; it’ll be more comfortable,’ he proposed.
Obediently, the businesswoman ushered the psychic and the women towards the leather sofas. She signalled to a maid, ‘Bring our new guest a –’
‘Hot tea will do,’ said the psychic.
‘What? Nonsense! You must have a drink. I insist.’
‘When I’ve finished my work,’ the psychic said. ‘Right now, my glass must be clear, like my mind.’
Peri, who had overheard this exchange, thought to herself: Tea is not exactly clear. Nor is this man. Meanwhile, the male guests had huddled under an art installation – a wall sculpture of a giant prehistoric fish with rouged lips and a tasselled Ottoman fez. Finally freed from polite company, they could swear to their hearts’ content and not have to worry about which way to blow their cigar smoke. The businessman signalled to the same maid, ‘Evladim,* bring us cognac and almonds.’
Having left the table with everyone else, Peri lingered in the middle of the salon. She felt torn as she always did in such situations. She disliked the gender segregation common in Istanbul social gatherings. In conservative households, such was the extent of the separation that men and women could spend the entire night without exchanging words, clustered in separate parts of the house. Couples would split up on arrival and meet again at the end of the evening before heading out of the door.
Even liberal circles did not exclude the practice. After dinner, women would congregate together as if they needed one another for warmth, for comfort, for assurance. They would chat about an assortment of topics, their moods changing in tandem: vitamins, supplements and gluten-free recipes; children and schools; Pilates, yoga and fitness; public scandals and private gossips … They would discuss celebrities as though they were their friends and their friends as though they were celebrities.
As for Peri, she mostly preferred male conversation over female, despite the fact that the subjects in the former tended to be darker. In the past she would automatically go to join the men and engage in whatever they bantered about: the economy, politics, football … They wouldn’t mind her presence, half seeing her as one of them, although they would never talk about sex with her around. Her behaviour would attract the attention, if not the ire, of other women. She had noticed, to her bewilderment, some wives felt uncomfortable with her sitting next to their husbands. Gradually, she abandoned her small rebellion – yet another sacrifice on the altar of convention.
Right now she wanted neither female nor male company, just to be alone. Gingerly, she slipped out on to the terrace. A chill wind, sweeping up from the sea, made her shudder. She smelled the scent of low tide. Across the Bosphorus, over on the Asian side of the city, the sky had turned the darkest shade of blue. A wispy fog curled off the water, reminiscent of shreds of muslin. Far off, a fishing boat was getting ready to set sail. She thought about the fishermen, austere and taciturn, their voices muffled so as not to scare the fish, their gaze fixed on the waters that gave them their daily bread. A part of her longed to be there, on that boat, in that hopeful stillness.
Just then, as if mocking her wishes, police sirens pierced the air somewhere on the European side of the city. While she stood absorbing the landscape, someone was being beaten, someone shot, someone raped … and, yes – at this moment – someone was falling in love in Istanbul.
In her left palm was her husband’s phone. Tightening her grasp around its metal frame, Peri made up her mind. It had been years since she had spoken to Shirin. Her number might have changed for all she knew. Even if the number were correct, there was no guarantee that Shirin would want to talk to her. But the urge to t
ry, no matter what, was too strong not to yield to it. Now that she had allowed the past to infiltrate the present, she was overwhelmed by feelings of regret.
As she fiddled with the phone, Peri scrolled up and down the contact list. Her thumb paused at a familiar entry: Mensur. Next to it, ‘Baba’. The rituals of marriage – your spouse’s parents automatically became your parents, as if someone else’s past, all those years of love, misunderstanding and frustration, could, in one day and with one signature, be transferred. Her husband had not erased Mensur’s name after his sudden death. Maybe that was the first sign of getting old – allowing dead friends and relatives to continue a virtual existence by not deleting them from your address book. Because one day you, too, would become one such name and one such number.
Peri tapped in the number she had obtained from her mother. She waited, the silence coming from the phone expanding; that second of suspense, when you don’t know whether you’re going to be connected or get an engaged tone; the fleeting doubt preceding all international calls.
‘Peri, are you coming?’
She turned back, the mobile still pressed to her ear. Adnan had popped his head out, leaning over the doorsill, a glass of water in his hand. Even though for most of her marriage Peri had been relieved to see he was not and would never become a drinker, there were times when she wished he would lose control – every now and then, make mistakes he would regret the next day.
‘People are wondering where you are,’ Adnan said.
In that second the phone began to ring, lands and seas away, in England, in a house, she imagined, so different from this one.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ Peri said.
Adnan nodded, a shadow crossing his face. ‘Okay, dear. Don’t be long.’
She watched him turn around and walk towards the crowd, which sounded louder and merrier since she’d left them. She counted: one, two, three … A click. Her heart skipped a beat as she braced herself to hear Shirin’s voice. It was her voice indeed, but a cold, mechanized version of it. Her voicemail message.
‘Hello, you’ve reached Shirin’s phone. Sorry, I’m not here right now. If you have nice things to say, please leave your message, name and number after the tone. Otherwise, speak before the tone and don’t call again!’
Instantly, Peri hung up. She hated leaving messages, their fake friendliness. Straight away, she dialled the number again. This time, she left a message.
‘Hi, Shirin … it’s me, Peri.’ She heard the feebleness in her voice. ‘You might not want to talk to me, I don’t blame you. It’s been years …’ She swallowed, her mouth as dry as chalk. ‘I need to talk to Azur. I must hear from him, if he’s forgiven me –’
A beep. The screen went blank. Peri stood still, processing the implications of the words that had flowed, almost of their own volition, out of her mouth. Strangely, she felt unburdened. Her mind was no longer an orchestra of anxieties and what-ifs and secrets and suppressed desires. She had done it. She had called Shirin. Whatever the outcome, she was ready to face it. She felt the night, not as an external force, but as an internal one – growing inside her chest, burning in her lungs, pushing forth through her veins, raring to manifest itself. There is no feeling of lightness, she thought, like the one that comes after conquering a long-held fear.
The Limousine
Oxford, 2001
In the heart of winter, Shirin walked into Peri’s room, pulling a pink suitcase on wheels. She was going home to see her family for the Christmas holiday. Everyone was going home: students, academics, college staff. Everyone except Peri, who, having run well over her budget for the term, had left it too late to buy a cheap air flight and resigned herself to staying in Oxford for the break.
‘You sure you don’t want to come with me to London?’ Shirin asked for what felt like the tenth time.
‘Sure. I’ll be fine here,’ Peri said.
In truth, she wasn’t exactly going to be ‘here’. At Oxford, students were expected to empty their rooms during the holiday so that the college facilities could be used for conference attendees or tourists. For those who needed to stay, like herself, the college provided alternative places, temporary and smaller.
Shirin took a step closer to Peri, looking intently into her eyes. ‘Look, Mouse, I’m serious. If you change your mind, give me a call. Mum would love to meet you. She’s thrilled when my friends come to stay – she can complain about me for hours. It’s a fucked-up family. We tear each other apart, but we’re kind to outsiders. We’ll be nice to you.’
‘I promise I’ll call if I get too lonely,’ said Peri.
‘Okey dokey. Don’t forget, when I come back, we’re moving out. Time to get our own house.’
Peri had half hoped Shirin had forgotten the idea, but she clearly hadn’t. Countless students in Oxford had made the same journey: starting off in the intimate embrace of college life, where everything was relatively easy with its scouts, dining hall, library and common rooms; gradually finding it suffocating; putting together a small group of potential flatmates and moving out in their second year. Many had to do so anyway because their colleges couldn’t provide enough accommodation for all their students.
Until now, each time Shirin had brought up the subject, Peri had declined, politely and firmly. But Shirin, as always, was relentless, her passion almost contagious. Sharing photographs of the houses an estate agent had shown her, she assured Peri that, for her, it made no difference to pay a bit more every month. In return, Shirin would gain her private space and peace of mind. Since she hated loneliness and could never have taken a flat by herself, if Peri accepted her proposal, Shirin would be indebted to her, not the other way round.
‘I’ll think about it,’ Peri said uneasily.
‘There’s nothing to think about. College life is for freshers. The only ones who stay here are those who are too timid to make the move … and the nerds.’
‘Or those who lack the money.’
‘Money?’ Shirin said with the kind of disdain she reserved for obnoxious people or unavoidable nuisances, such as burst sewers and uncollected rubbish. ‘That should be the least of your concerns. Leave that to me.’
From time to time Shirin had intimated, though never openly said, that her family was well off. Certainly her life had had its share of hardships, but shortage of money was not among them. Peri assumed that the leaky, dilapidated house in London that she went on about was nothing of the sort. Shirin was willing to cover the entire rent. All Peri needed to do was put her books and clothes into a few boxes and follow her on this new adventure.
‘Okay, darling, need to go.’ Shirin kissed Peri on both cheeks, engulfing her in a cloud of scent. ‘Happy New Year! Can’t wait for 2002! I’ve a feeling this will be the best time of our lives.’
Peri grabbed the bottle of water on her desk and walked her friend to the front lodge.
The head porter stood to attention by the entrance. An ex-army officer, he seemed to know all the students by name. ‘You have a great holiday, Shirin, see you next year,’ he said cheerily. ‘And you, Peri.’
Peri thought she detected an extra note of warmth in his voice as he greeted her. He felt badly for her, probably. The only student not going home.
There was a black limousine with a driver waiting outside. As she watched Shirin walk away on her high heels, tottering slightly with her suitcase in tow, Peri felt rent by opposing emotions. To share the same house with Shirin risked exacerbating the intimidation she felt from her friend’s forceful personality. Besides, did she really want to be in Shirin’s – anyone’s – debt? And yet, wouldn’t it be fantastic to have their own place?
As the car pulled away, Peri tossed the water into its wake, following an old Turkish tradition, Go like water, come back like water, my friend.
The Snowflake
Oxford, 2001
The festive season approached in a frenzy. Peri, who was accustomed to more sedate New Year celebrations in Istanbul, was first astonish
ed, then amused to observe the elaborate preparations – streets adorned with arched, glittering displays of light, shops cascading with consumer goods, carol singers carrying lanterns that gleamed like fireflies in the dark.
Oxford without students seemed to lose its soul; to be a lone student at Christmas was doubly alienating, even for Peri, who was normally quite happy on her own. Every day she ate by herself at a Chinese restaurant with just three tables. The food was good, but oddly inconsistent. Maybe the cook was bipolar, she mused, with his mood swings reflected in the dishes. Some days she felt sick afterwards.
She went back to her part-time job at Two Kinds of Intelligence. The owners said that for years they had tried various window-display ideas to attract clientele for the holiday season – a snowman propped up in an armchair reading a book, strings of alphabets dangling from the ceiling. This time they wanted something different.
‘How about a Christmas Tree of Forbidden Books?’ Peri said. Similar to the Tree of Knowledge that had borne forbidden fruit, their tree would carry books banned somewhere in the world.
They liked it well enough to hand over the task to her. Absorbed, Peri set up a silvery tree in the centre of the shop window. On its branches she hung Alice in Wonderland, 1984, Catch-22, Brave New World, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, Lolita, The Naked Lunch, Animal Farm … The list of banned titles from Turkey alone was so long that several boughs had to be devoted to them and it was still not enough. Kafka, Bertolt Brecht, Stefan Zweig and Jack London met Omar Khayyám, Nazim Hikmet and Fatima Mernissi. All over the branches she scattered the phosphorescent cards she had prepared: ‘Banned’, ‘Censured’, ‘Burned’.
As she continued, her mind wandered, back to another Christmas time – she must have been ten or eleven – when Mensur had brought home a plastic Christmas tree. No other house in the neighbourhood had such a tree, though many shops and supermarkets displayed their own.