by Elif Shafak
A suitable woman was found in one of the surrounding villages. She was young and robust. She smelled of sheep’s wool and cheese and straw. She had recently given birth. She had so much milk that even if she nursed not just one but a dozen babies her swollen breasts still would not diminish easily. The wet nurse loved the beautiful baby as soon as she saw it. She admired the baby as she nursed her; she smiled as if it was her own beauty rather than the baby’s that she was so proud of. When from time to time she was asked to nurse the ugly baby as well, she begrudged him the little milk that flowed into his mouth. As for Monsieur de Marelle, he was pleased to see the difference between his wife and the peasant woman; with curiosity, he watched these two different women and the way they became close to the two different babies. As he watched, his belief that women were strange creatures grew stronger.
The wet nurse was quite pleased to feel Monsieur de Marelle’s curious gazes. And one day, when the baby was dozing in her arms, she took her chapped nipple out of the baby’s small mouth and offered it to the man. After that, she began to neglect the beautiful baby. Although she continued to nurse her, her primary duty in the mansion now was not to feed the baby, but to feed the father.
One day the wet nurse, following Monsieur de Marelle, found herself in the room where the bookcases were. She’d never stepped foot in this room before.
As she gazed at the crowded shelves, a painting on the wall caught her eye. There was a hole in the golden relief of the frame. At first sight, it was like a half-open mouth; you know, an opening to the unknown just like the Innocent Face’s mouth which bites and tears off the hands of sinners. This frame, this painting… Suddenly the wet nurse screamed. She grew pale and scurried around the room looking about frantically. As she could not see anything else to cover it with, she hurriedly took off her shawl and covered the painting, groping as she tried to avoid looking in that direction. Meanwhile, Monsieur de Marelle must have been flabbergasted since he couldn’t say a word or ask what was going on, but simply watched her frantic movements with wide eyes. But the young woman told him anyway.
‘I’ve heard about this painting. All of the women in the village know about it. They all talk about it. Once, a young man lived here. He worked with the major-domo. He was so beautiful that those who saw him lost their senses. The owner of the mansion was a widow; she fell in love with the young man. But the young man didn’t want her. The woman suffered a great deal. Then one day the young man disappeared. They found his body in the forest; under a yew tree. No one understood how it had happened. The widow ran to the spot as soon as she heard. She carried the body by herself to the riverbank. Then she embraced the body and didn’t leave it. She wept there for days. She chased off everyone who approached. In the end, they had to drag the woman away from the body in order to bury it.’
The wet nurse was breathless from talking so quickly. After gulping down the wine Monsieur de Marelle offered her, she calmed down a bit and began talking more slowly.
‘Before the funeral, the widow hired an artist to paint the young man’s portrait. She also had a frame made. The hole in the frame was just like the mouth of Innocent Face. Then she hung the picture beside her bed. Every day she suffered terribly when she looked at that picture. It had been a sin to desire the young man so much, and she thought the young man had died because of this. Every night she put her hand into the hole to see if she was a sinner or not. In the end, she went completely mad. The picture was also lost. All of the women in the village know this story. The picture is said to be cursed. Because the young man was very beautiful. He could make any woman fall in love with him. He captured the hearts of virgins in particular. Any virgin who saw him lost her senses. That picture must be covered. It mustn’t be looked at.’
After the wet nurse had had a bit more wine, she asked calmly: ‘But how did it get here? I thought it was hidden.’
‘Last year… Madeleine hung it here. Madeleine…’
Monsieur de Marelle could not finish his words. He suddenly had a terrible headache. Abruptly, he rushed out of the room. He strode towards the babies; he picked up the beautiful baby and ran back to the library. He uncovered the picture against the objections of the wet nurse and put the baby and the picture side-by-side. Without any doubt, the beautiful baby’s face was a smaller copy of the young man’s. The moment Monsieur de Marelle saw the resemblance, he hated the beautiful baby. From now on, he no longer wanted to see it. Because every time he looked at it, he would see the face of the man his wife had become infatuated with, and he would remember her betrayal.
Not all children grow up alike. Some children grow up diluting the dense thickness of time through the existence of those who love them, sip by sip. Some drink the time without mixing it, gulp by gulp. The baby they called the beautiful baby was one of these, and before she emerged from infancy, she had her share of loneliness. First, her twin brother, who left their mother’s womb before her, then her mother, then the wet nurse and finally her father all left her. She was to grow up alone, far away from them.
She spent her time wandering around the countryside or getting lost in the yew forest. She also often went to the riverbank. She loved it there. Something about the river drew her to it. She would sit there for hours, dangling her legs in the water: she would strain to see her reflection in the wildly flowing water. Sometimes she was so absorbed in her reflection rippling on the surface of the water that she didn’t even realise the sun had set or that it was getting dark. She wasn’t afraid to spend the night there; or of the sounds of the night. In any event, no one at home would miss her. Her mother always looked at her face with shame, the wet nurse with doubt, her father with hatred and her twin brother with jealousy. Whoever saw her either made a face or avoided her eyes. Only the river smiled when it saw Annabelle, telling her that there was nothing to be sad about, telling her that her magical beauty was reminiscent of a beautiful jinn. And giving her the good news that she could fly away whenever she wished, fluttering her wings just like a jinn.
To tell the truth, it was not a strange coincidence that Annabelle could live her life without leaving the de Marelle estate, and that she could grow old watching herself in the river.
It was the beginning of autumn. Yellow leaves were leaping into space and falling onto the water one by one as if they were in competition. There was a fragile and hollow haste in nature. During these days, a wandering theatre company stopped to rest near the river. All the actors seemed to be tired of life. They picked out the lice wearily, memorised their parts, washed their laundry, spooned up cabbage soup without exchanging a word. But one of them stopped working and became engrossed in watching the girl not far away who was dangling her legs in the river. This little, ignorant, unlovable, arrogant man was the owner of the troupe. After watching Annabelle for quite some time, he turned to his friends and said: ‘Everybody should see such beauty!’
Sometimes a lot of things happen at once. The owner of the troupe left the de Marelle mansion blissfully happy, even though when he knocked on the door he’d had little hope. His luck was better than he’d expected. First he was astounded by the news that Annabelle was not a maid, but the daughter of the owner of the mansion; then he was amazed that even though she was, nobody objected to her joining the troupe. It happened so easily that the owner of the troupe felt anxious that someone might ruin it all, so he decided that it was auspicious to leave the de Marelle estate as soon as possible and he gathered the troupe together and they hurried off. He still didn’t know what skills Annabelle had. If her voice was as beautiful as her appearance, she could sing during the intervals; perhaps she could join the dancing girls or a new part could be written for her. However it was, he was sure that this jinn faced girl would bring good luck to the troupe that had so much misfortune recently. He’d even found a name for the girl: La Belle Annabelle!
Annabelle’s twin brother, her mother and her father lined up in the courtyard and watched the troupe move off into the distance. When the
carriages turned the corner and disappeared, the three of them sighed with relief. Only the village woman who’d once been her nurse and who hadn’t left the mansion since was concerned about her and called out to them: ‘Where are you taking her?’ The owner of the troupe replied cheerfully without taking his eyes off her full breasts.
‘To the East! To the city of Istanbul.’
Pera — 1885
The men entering Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi’s cherry-coloured tent through the eastward-facing door one by one were here to see the dazzling La Belle Annabelle, the great beauty, the only beautiful jinn of the poisonous yew forest. She was the last to take the stage. Before her there were other beauties.
The opening was performed by the masked woman. The mask she wore was truly marvellous with the lock of hair on its forehead, its almond eyes, arrow eyelashes, inkwell nose, cherry lips, the dimple flowered for its smile and with the candy pink spreading across its cheeks. She stood on the stage without saying a word or doing anything. It was as if she had been told to wait, and she was obeying and waiting without knowing why or for what. Then, at the least expected moment, she dropped the mask on her face. A cry of amazement rose from the audience. The face they saw now was exactly the same as the one they’d seen before. The faint sound of a distant violin was heard. When the violin stopped playing, the beautiful woman whose mask was her face, her face her mask, saluted the audience in a graceful manner. At her sign, the purple-fringed curtains opened slowly.
While the spring breeze was blowing on the ivy swing hanging from the branches of a wild pear tree in the middle of the blood-red poppy field, and the sun was setting on the horizon, a tiny lady star danced kanto, rabbits frolicked and butterflies flew around her. Her name was Hayganoş; her voice was shrill.
My pastry is in the pastry shop
I bake it, I eat it
With cheese or with mincemeat
It’s all the same to me
Since my heart is on fire.
When the kanto ended, the wild pear tree started walking; it stepped aside with Hayganoş swinging on its branches, the blood-red poppy field round it, the rabbits and butterflies following. While Hayganoş was getting drowsy, the three beauties took the stage. The three beautiful sisters, each more beautiful than the other: Lisa, Maria, Rosa. Lisa, Maria, Rosa. All three sisters were so beautiful that whenever they stood side-by-side, they diminished each other’s beauty. Even so, they never separated for a moment, and had never known jealousy. Their hearts were as beautiful as their appearance. Arm in arm, smiles on their faces, flowers flowering in their smiles, they sang songs of how beautiful life was, songs that flowed like a thick liquid. At this point of the show, which went on and on, the teeth of the audience were set on the edge, everybody became bored. Everything was so smooth, so clear, that some of the victims of fate whose lives had gone wrong had to restrain themselves from jumping onto the stage and assaulting the three sisters.
Then, Hoyrat Aruzyak jumped onto the stage. Rather she opened layer by layer just like a seducing skirt instead of jumping upon to the stage. Of all of those who performed in the cherry-coloured tent, she was the most experienced on the stage. She was still just a little child when she first appeared in front of an audience; her hair was curly and golden. As she grew up, she became more beautiful, as she became more beautiful, she became more seductive, and was soon famous throughout the huge city. Stepping on the hearts she’d broken, she moved from one troupe to another, from one embrace to another, adding the sugar of passionate kisses to the sulphurous taste of life. She liked glittering jewellery, bright dresses, ostentation and compliments. Not paying attention to what people said, fulfilling every wish of her flesh, she got whatever she wanted in the world, and more. She knew by heart the secret passages, shortcuts and alleyways of the city of love. However, one day, unexpectedly, the gates of this city were closed to her.
When this event that turned her life upside-down occurred, Hoyrat Aruzyak was on stage. Her role called for her to weep at the edge of the stage while two musketeers drew their swords and fought over her. She was in tears on the edge of the stage while two musketeers drew their swords and were fighting for her. As they had performed the same play for months, there was no chance she would forget her lines. But she did; no one ever understood why. All of a sudden, though there was no such part in the play, Hoyrat Aruzyak jumped up with a shrill cry and jumped between the two musketeers. At the same moment, the hostile swords met on her face. Not only in the play, but also in life, the swords of the two men who hated each other because they were in love with the same woman caused wounds along the length of each side of the face of the woman they had been pursuing. Hoyrat Aruzyak fell to the middle of the stage in pain.
The curtains descended, the audience left but the pain remained. Hoyrat Aruzyak could not hold a mirror any more, she could not look at her face again. There was no need though; she could see how she looked in the eyes of her friends and enemies. She attempted suicide many times, but she was always rescued by the former fans who appeared wherever she went. She didn’t want to live, but couldn’t manage to die. She could not bear that the women who used to smile at her even though they were envious now looked at her face in pain and smiled inside. She was harsh to anyone who showed her compassion. She learned words she hadn’t previously known. As her heart grew harder, her words became sharper. Because she spoke her mind without thinking, no one wanted her near. In any event, she dropped out of sight after a while. It was said that from time to time she was seen near expensive restaurants, knocking at the doors of acquaintances and begging, throwing stones at theatre companies whose stages she had once graced, doing anything imaginable in exchange for a drink. Even though the things she did were spoken about, she was being forgotten even as she was being spoken about, and lurched through their memories like a restless ghost.
‘Sometimes…suddenly, out of the blue, we’re wounded. But all wounds heal. In time, a scab forms and covers it. It hides itself. Because no wound wants to be seen.’
Hoyrat Aruzyak was sitting on the pavement. She was apathetic. She did not raise her head to look at the person talking to her. She hated those who gave her advice even though it was none of their concern, the ones who said how beautiful life was in spite of everything.
‘At least your pupils weren’t damaged. Because if your pupils are damaged, you can never see the world through the same eyes. You begin to see the bad side of everything. You’ll even be able to see dirt that’s remained hidden. Others will sense that you don’t see what they see, and also that you don’t love them any more. This makes them uneasy. They can no longer look at you through the same eyes. For this reason, no one wants to see you near them. In fact the picture is the same picture, what has changed is your eyes. If you can remove yourself from the picture, everything will be as it was before, and everyone will be relieved. In my opinion the best thing to do in cases like this is to leave. To leave and to keep going. Out of stubbornness!’
Hoyrat Aruzyak looked in amazement at the face of the man who was talking away at her. It was his face rather than his words that held her attention; or, to be precise, his eyes…his eyes which were like two thin slits, and which seemed as if at any moment they could deny anything he had said as if he believed it with all his heart. His eyes expressed no feeling whatsoever; neither mercy nor bitterness, neither anger nor hope. Because he never sowed any seeds, he never sought to reap any benefits. But at the same time he didn’t seem false. He wasn’t playing a game. Even Hoyrat Aruzyak thought that of all the people she’d ever met, she’d never seen anyone so far from being false. The eyes of the man standing in front of her were at least as real as those rare scenes in a play that make the audience forget they are in a theatre.
This is how Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi entered Hoyrat Aruzyak’s life. In the following days, he never gave her a moment’s peace, and talked to her without pause. He also brought her acrid-smelling ointments and pastes made of mysterious ingr
edients. It didn’t seem as if these would cover up the wounds, but at least they weren’t as raw looking as when they’d been left untreated.
Then Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi began bringing her the make-up that was used by the actresses in the tent. He covered the wounds with face powder and lively colours. For the first time in ages, Hoyrat Aruzyak had the courage to look at herself in a mirror again. She looked. She looked, and, like anyone who is seized by a desperate hope just at the point when they’ve become accustomed to being cowed, she cursed, first herself, then the person who had given her this hope. Nothing had changed. Both of the wounds were there just as ugly as ever. Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi picked the mirror up and passed it to her stubbornly.
‘Your ugliness is beautiful enough to thrill us. Aruzyak, you are as beautiful as the night of the apocalypse. Take the stage! And play us a life that does not end in death.’
For a moment, Hoyrat Aruzyak was left looking at the inexpressive eyes of the man who was not at all like any man she’d ever met. She didn’t understand a word he said, but there was a tart taste in her mouth. As soon as she was alone, she unpacked the dresses she hadn’t touched for so long and tried them on one by one. And the next day, dragging her many trousseau boxes behind her, she honoured the cherry-coloured tent on top of the hill with her presence as if she were a princess visiting a palace in a neighbouring country. The first night she appeared on the stage, she was dumbstruck. The eyes of the audience shone like stars on a moonless night. A warmth she thought she’d forgotten long ago spread through her slowly. She hadn’t the patience to wait; she drank in the pleasure of winning approval. She was so merry that night!
From that day on, she waited her turn with a dignified smile and when the time came, she opened layer by layer just like a seductive skirt. The audience was thrilled. Hoyrat Aruzyak presented a night of the apocalypse on which life was killed and death was resurrected, on which men, women and children, indeed the entire population of the ruined city were massacred while its riches were being plundered, and while a baby lizard scurried about scattering seeds of hope that were as tender as its skin.