by Elif Shafak
Peri dug the heel of her shoe into the gravel. ‘What about her?’
‘Come on, as if you don’t know.’ He stared at her. ‘Do I have to spell it out?’
‘Spell what out?’
Troy’s eyes glittered. ‘That Azur is having an affair with Shirin.’
A troubled silence fell between them, though not for too long. ‘But she’s an old student of his …’ Peri said, her words trailing away.
‘She was sleeping with him while she took his seminar. I bet they marked her essays in bed together.’
Peri looked away. In that moment she saw what she had failed to see all this time: whatever hatred Troy harboured for Azur was compounded by his jealousy. This boy was in love with Shirin.
‘Sometimes she goes to his college rooms. They lock the door. It takes them twenty minutes to half an hour, depending on the day. I’ve timed it, I’ve waited outside.’
‘Stop it.’ Peri’s face grew hot.
‘I know you visit him too. I’ve seen you.’
‘To discuss my …’ Peri paused before adding, ‘My work.’
‘Liar, you don’t have a seminar with him this term!’
‘I … I had something important to tell him,’ said Peri.
There was no way she could explain that she had been there a few times to talk about the baby in the mist. Azur had asked her dozens of detailed questions about how it began and how differently her parents had reacted. The fear of the jinn, the visit to the exorcist, the things she scribbled in her God-diary … She had told him everything, turning her childhood memories into a bridge that she hoped in the end would enable her to reach his heart. When Azur had had enough, however, he pulled down the bridge and put a stop to the invitations to come to his rooms.
‘Don’t you see?’ Troy said. ‘The man is an egomaniacal predator. He’s looking for young minds and young bodies to feed on.’
‘I need to go,’ Peri said, her voice a whisper.
Overcome by a terrible migraine, she stopped by a chemist’s on the way home. Since she arrived in Oxford she had tried all the over-the-counter painkillers. Now she walked the familiar aisles, slowing down by the shelves full of contraceptives in varieties she’d never seen in Istanbul. Glittering packets, voluptuous colours, grotesque designs, sizzling words. It crossed her mind that if only her father and mother had used one of these products she would never have been born. Nor would he. It would have been a delicious nothingness. No suffering, no guilt, no nothing.
It had taken her many years to discover the truth that her parents had carefully hidden from her while she was growing up. True, Selma had had a surprise pregnancy at a late age, but she had given birth to two, not one. A girl and a boy. Peri and Poyraz – for the girl, the name of a fairy spun with golden thread, and for the boy, the name of the wildest north-east wind.
When they were four years old, one hot and drowsy afternoon, Selma briefly left the toddlers alone on the sofa to go to the kitchen. She was making plum jam – one of her specialities. They had bought the fruit in abundance from the local bazaar, and now some were in a bowl on the coffee table, the rest on the kitchen worktop waiting to be boiled, sweetened and preserved. The world was washed in purple.
Soon, bored, Peri managed to crawl down from the sofa on to the carpet. She reached for the plums in the bowl, grabbed one, inspected it curiously, bit into it. Too sour. She changed her mind. She gave it to her brother, who accepted the gift with glee. It took only a few seconds, no more. By the time Selma returned from the kitchen, her baby son had stopped fighting for breath, his face akin to the colour of the fruit that had blocked his airway. Peri had witnessed it all, uncomprehending, unmoving.
‘Why didn’t you call me?’ Selma shouted at her daughter in front of relatives and neighbours who had gathered at the house after the funeral. ‘What got into you? You watched your brother die and did not make a sound. Evil child!’
The distance between them would never be overcome. Peri knew, deep inside, her mother would always blame her for her twin brother’s death. How difficult can it be for a four-year-old to shout for help? If she had called me, I could have saved him.
Numbness. That was what Peri sought most of all. If only she could manage not to feel or remember anything. But no matter how hard she tried, the past kept coming back, and, alongside it, the pain. The memory of that afternoon accompanied her through the attendant ghost of her twin brother. And so did the guilt and the shame and the self-hatred, which lodged inside her chest, as though it were not a feeling but a hard, physical substance.
That same evening Peri found Shirin alone in the kitchen, slicing tomatoes for a salad. Shirin was watching her weight, which fluctuated like her mood. Mona had gone out to dinner with relatives visiting from out of town, and would be coming home late.
‘I need to ask you something,’ said Peri.
‘Sure, shoot.’
‘Was this Azur’s plan? Our sharing the same house, I mean. Our friendship, right from the beginning – was it his idea?’
Shirin arched an eyebrow. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘Please don’t lie … any more,’ said Peri. ‘This is an experiment for him, right? Azur’s social laboratory.’
‘Wow, what a conspiracy.’ Shirin tossed the tomatoes into a bowl of lettuce and added some olives. ‘What’s your problem with the professor?’
‘He seems to enjoy interfering in his students’ lives.’
‘Huh,’ said Shirin. ‘How else can he teach? How do you think scholars trained their pupils throughout history? Masters and apprentices. Philosophers and their protégés. Years of hard work and discipline. But we’ve forgotten all that. Universities are now so dependent on money, those students who can afford tuition are treated like bloody royalty.’
‘He’s not our master and we’re not his apprentices.’
‘Well, I am,’ said Shirin, as she grabbed a set of tongs and began to mix her salad. ‘I count myself his devoted disciple.’
Peri fell quiet, unsure how to respond.
‘Our respect for Azur is the only thing Mona and I have in common. What’s wrong with you? I thought you liked the professor.’
Peri felt her cheeks redden; she hated herself for being so transparent. ‘I fear he expects too much from us and we won’t be able to meet his demands.’
‘Oh, so you’re worried about disappointing him,’ Shirin said with a knowing smile as she grabbed the bowl and headed to her room. ‘Then, don’t!’
‘Wait,’ said Peri.
Her mouth felt dry. She feared the consequences if she revealed the question that had been gnawing at her, and yet she had to ask. ‘Are you having an affair with him?’
Shirin, halfway up the stairs, stopped. Placing one hand on the balustrade, she stared down at her friend, her eyes balls of fire.
‘If you’re asking because you’re paranoid, it’s your problem, not mine. If you’re asking because you’re jealous, again, it’s your problem, not mine.’
‘I’m neither paranoid nor jealous,’ Peri said, unable to keep her voice down.
‘Really?’ Shirin laughed. ‘In Iran there’s a proverb Mamani taught me. She who makes a mouse of herself will be eaten by cats.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘I say, stay out of my business, Mouse, or I’ll eat you alive.’
At that Shirin stomped up to her room, leaving Peri in the kitchen, feeling small and insignificant.
How she loathed Azur. His arrogance. His recklessness. His indifference towards her while he flirted with Shirin and God knows who else. She felt giddy as a wheel of hatred whirled inside her soul, spinning uncontrollably. She’d had such high expectations of him. He who with his knowledge and vision would show her the way out of the quandary that had tormented her since childhood. He had done nothing of the sort.
But, mostly, she detested herself: her tormented mind, which produced not happy thoughts but anxieties and nightmares; her unbecoming body, which she
endured as a daily burden, unable to delight in its pleasures; her mawkish features, which she had wished, so many times, to swap with someone else – her twin brother, for instance. And why had he died and she survived? Was it another of God’s terrible mistakes?
She was sure she could be like neither Shirin – bold, confident – nor Mona – faithful, resilient. She was tired of herself, hurt by the past, scared of the future. Dark in spirit, confused by nature, timid like a newborn tiger, yet incapable of honouring the wildness she carried inside … No one could know how exhausting it was to be Peri. If only she could sleep and wake up as someone else. Or, better yet, not wake up at all.
That night the baby in the mist came again. The purple stain on his face seemed to have grown. He cried purple tears on her bedsheets. A dark, rich colour spread all around, reminiscent of ripened plums. The baby kept talking in his garbled language, urging her to do something long overdue. This time she understood what he was telling her and she agreed. Perhaps she would meet that ill-fated hedgehog again. What had become of the animal, its body, its soul? She would learn, first-hand, what happened to those who were refused entry to God’s paradise.
The Passage
Istanbul, 2016
When Peri stepped on to the terrace to phone back Shirin, she noticed there were two figures huddled in the corner, half in shadow, though impossible not to recognize – the businessman and the bank CEO. Shoulders hunched, heads bowed, eyes fixed on the ground, they seemed to be discussing a matter of some gravity.
‘So what are you gonna do?’ asked the CEO.
‘Haven’t decided,’ said the businessman, spitting out a plume of cigar smoke. ‘But I swear to God, I’m gonna make those sons-of-bitches pay. They’ll find out who they’re fucking around with.’
‘Make sure you have nothing in writing,’ said the CEO.
The two men hadn’t seen Peri standing by the door. Discreetly, she slipped away, her head dizzy with what she had just heard. The framed photos she had seen in the office that exhibited his ties with corrupt leaders and Third World dictators; the rumours about his embezzlement of public funds; his ties with mafia bosses – it was all of a piece. Their host’s business deals were dubious, and she suspected several guests at the dinner – including perhaps her husband – knew it. But they were not going to let a shady reputation get in the way of a good evening with a rich and powerful man. At what point did one become an accomplice to a crime – when one actively took part in its workings or when one passively feigned ignorance?
There was a small passage between the kitchen and the drawing room, with a mirror running along one wall. Here Peri stood, in this narrow place, clutching the phone as if worried someone might snatch it away. Each time a maid went in or out through the swinging door, she peeked into the kitchen – the chef was chopping garlic, the knife in his hand tapping out a fandango on a wooden board. The man looked tired, irritated. After all the food he had prepared, he had just been asked to cook a tripe soup – as a cure for the after-effects of drinking, in the best Istanbul tradition.
Peri saw the chef mutter something under his breath to his assistant, who threw back his head in laughter. They had eavesdropped on everything uttered at the table, she was almost certain, making fun of them all. The door closed, separating her from the vivid world in the kitchen. Now alone in the passageway, a familiar feeling of dread crept over her. Daring to do something that had been postponed for far too long was like diving into a freezing cold sea. If you hesitated a single second, you would lose your nerve. Quickly, she dialled Shirin’s number. It was answered on the first ring.
‘Hi. Shirin … It’s Peri.’
A sharp intake of breath. ‘Yes, I know.’
Her voice had not changed a bit – the same brisk, resonant, assured tone.
‘It’s been a while,’ said Peri.
‘I couldn’t believe it when I heard your message,’ said Shirin. Then, more subdued, ‘Funny, I had rehearsed this moment. Planned what I was going to say if you ever called again but now …’
‘What was it you were going to say?’ Peri asked, moving the phone from one ear to the other.
‘Trust me, you wouldn’t want to know,’ Shirin said. ‘Why haven’t you called before?’
‘I was worried you’d still be angry.’
‘I was,’ Shirin said. ‘I still don’t get it, I don’t get you. Crazy what you did to yourself … and to him. You didn’t even tell him you were sorry.’
‘We had a deal,’ Peri said. The words, like every other inch of her, felt brittle, breaking. ‘He made me promise never to apologize to him, no matter what.’
‘Bullshit.’
Peri swallowed a sigh. ‘I was young.’
‘You were jealous!’
Peri nodded to herself. ‘Yes … I was.’
The kitchen door opened; a maid bustled out with a large tray full of steaming bowls. A strong odour of garlic and vinegar hit Peri’s nostrils.
‘Where are you?’ asked Shirin.
‘At a party in a seaside mansion. Fish tanks, designer bags, fat cigars, truffles … You would hate it.’
Shirin laughed.
‘I’ve had such a weird day,’ said Peri. Now that she had started talking, the words flowed effortlessly. ‘I got mugged. I could have killed the thug.’ She did not mention he had attempted to rape her. Had Shirin experienced something similar, she would have shared it, unashamed. How different they had been; how different they still were. ‘He found a photo of us I keep in my wallet.’
‘You carry around a photo of us?’ Shirin asked. ‘Which one?’
‘Remember, in front of the Bod, wintertime?’ Peri didn’t wait for Shirin to comment. ‘You, Mona and me … Professor Azur. All these years I convinced myself I had left Oxford behind, but I’ve been fooling myself.’
‘I never understood how you lost interest in academia. You were such a stellar student.’
‘One changes,’ said Peri. ‘I’m a mother, a wife …’ She paused. ‘A housewife, a charity trustee! I throw parties for my husband’s boss – exactly the kind of woman I always dreaded becoming. A modern version of my mother. And you know what? I like it – most of the time.’
Shirin asked, ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘More than I should.’
A quiet laugh like the faint rustling of leaves. If Shirin said something else, Peri didn’t catch it, for just then the psychic marched past her arm in arm with the hostess, having looked over the entire house in the hunt for the evil eye. He turned aside and glanced at Peri with a slight a twitch of his lips, as if he knew who she was talking to.
‘How are your twins?’ asked Shirin.
‘How do you know I have twins?’
‘Heard it.’ Her source wasn’t hard for Peri to guess; each had separately been in touch with Mona throughout the years.
‘They’re growing up. My daughter’s waged a Cold War against me. So far, she’s winning.’
Shirin gave a sigh of sympathy. She was being nice – far nicer than Peri expected.
‘How are things at home?’ Peri asked. She, too, had heard things. She knew Shirin and her long-term partner – a human rights lawyer – had lost count of how many times they had broken up and got back together.
‘Fine … actually, I’m pregnant. I’m due in May.’
So that was it. The hormones. Shirin was about to become a mother. She was in a phase when forgiveness came more naturally than rancour. It was hard to hold old grudges when you were preparing to welcome a new life.
‘Congratulations, that’s wonderful news,’ Peri said. ‘I’m so happy for you. Boy or girl?’
‘Boy.’
‘Do you have a name in mind?’ Peri asked and immediately sensed the answer.
‘I think you already know what I’ll call him,’ Shirin said. The briefest silence. A trace of enmity crept into the silence, like smoke from an old samovar. ‘I’ve hated you for so long, I’ve run out of hatred.’
‘W
hat about Azur? How does he feel about me?’
It had been almost fourteen years since she had last talked to him. At times Peri could not be sure whether the professor’s presence in her life had been as strong as she recalled, so completely had he faded into the past.
‘Find out for yourself. He should be at home right now. Do you have a pen?’
Taken aback, Peri glanced around. ‘Just a sec.’
She pushed open the kitchen door, phone held to her ear, and made a writing gesture with her bandaged hand. The chef gave her a fountain pen from his breast pocket and a page from a notepad stuck on the fridge.
‘Thank you,’ Peri mouthed at him.
Shirin repeated the number, less because she needed to than because it gave her something to say. She added, ‘Call him.’
Just then the sound of the downstairs doorbell echoed through the seaside mansion. A maid dashed out of the kitchen to find out who it was. She seemed to be concealing some food in her hand. Peri wondered if the staff had been able to taste any of the fabulous dishes they had served; if they had had any dinner at all.
A sudden bang was heard – an open door slammed back against a wall, followed by a succession of noises: a shriek, muffled; footsteps, hurried and heavy.
‘I miss you,’ Peri heard herself say.
‘Mouse, I miss you too.’
From the passageway Peri saw, on the opposite side of the drawing room, two men burst in, their faces covered with black scarves, shotguns in their hands. One of them shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Everybody stand up!’
‘What’s going on?’ yelled the businesswoman.
‘Shut up! Do as we say, now!’
‘You can’t talk to me like that …!’ A muffled, choking sound came from the businesswoman. Her husband was presumably still on the terrace.
‘One more stupid word, I swear to God, and you’ll regret it!’
The metallic click of a trigger. It was the second time in her life Peri was seeing a gun at such close quarters. Unlike the one her brother Umut had been caught with, the raiders’ guns were big and dark green.