by Elif Shafak
Sinan was particularly curious about codes and code-breaking. His eyes glowed with delight when he talked about the secret transmissions of the resistance movement in wartime, which he called ‘sabotage broadcasts’. Not that he cared much about the content; it was the power of the radio that fascinated him, the unwavering optimism of a voice in the dark speaking to an empty space, trusting there was someone out there willing to listen.
Unbeknownst to Baba, it was this boy who kept feeding Leila with books, magazines and newspapers – none of which she was able to read in her own house any more. Thus she learned that there had been a big freeze in England, women had gained the right to vote in Iran, and that the war was not going well for the Americans in Vietnam.
‘Those clandestine radio broadcasts you keep telling me about,’ said Leila as the two of them sat under the only tree in the playground. ‘I was thinking, you are like that, aren’t you? Thanks to you, I follow what’s happening in the world.’
His face lit up. ‘I am your sabotage radio!’
The bell rang, announcing it was time to go back to the classroom. As she stood up and dusted herself off, Leila said, ‘Maybe I should call you Sabotage Sinan.’
‘You serious? I’d love that!’
And so it was that the only child of the only woman pharmacist in town earned the nickname of Sabotage. The boy who one day, not long after Leila ran away from home, would follow her all the way from Van to Istanbul, the city where all the discontented and all the dreamers eventually ended up.
Six Minutes
Six minutes after her heart had stopped beating, Leila pulled from her archive the smell of a wood-burning stove. 2 June 1963. Uncle’s oldest son was getting married. His fiancée came from a family that had earned its wealth through trade along the Silk Road, which, as many in the region knew but preferred not to mention when outsiders were around, was not all about silk and spice, but also about poppies. From Anatolia to Pakistan, from Afghanistan to Burma, poppies grew in their millions, swaying in the breeze, their bright colour rebellious against the arid landscape. The milky fluid oozed from the seed pods, drop by magical drop, and while the farmers remained poor, others made a fortune.
No one brought this up at the lavish party thrown in the grandest hotel in Van. The guests revelled until the early hours of the morning. There was so much tobacco smoke that it looked like the whole place was on fire. Baba watched with disapproving eyes anyone who stepped on to the dance floor, but his biggest scowl was reserved for the men and women who had locked arms in the traditional dance, halay, shaking their hips as if they had never heard of modesty. Still he did not make a comment – for his brother’s sake. He was fond of him.
The next day, family members from both sides met at a photographer’s studio. Against a series of changing vinyl backdrops – the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and a flock of flamingos rising towards the sunset – the newly-weds posed for posterity, sweltering in their expensive, new clothes.
Leila studied the happy couple from the side. The bride, a fine-boned, dark-haired young woman, fitted neatly into her pearly gown, a bouquet of white gardenias in her hand and around her waist a red belt, a symbol and declaration of chastity. In her presence Leila felt a gloom so heavy that it was as if she carried a rock in her chest. A thought came to her unbidden: she would never be able to wear a gown like that. She had heard all kinds of stories about brides who, on their wedding nights, had turned out not to be virgins – how their husbands marched them to hospitals for intimate examinations, their footsteps echoing emptily behind them across dark streets, neighbours peering out from behind lace curtains; how they were delivered back to their fathers’ houses, where they were punished in whatever way their families saw fit; how they could never fully become part of society again, humiliated and disgraced, a hollow cast to their youthful features … She picked at a cuticle on her ring finger, pulling it until it bled. That familiar jolt in her gut calmed her down. She did this sometimes. She cut herself on her thighs and upper arms, where no one could see the marks, using the same knife with which she sliced an apple or an orange at home, the skin curling gently under the glint of the blade.
How proud Uncle was that day. He was dressed in a grey suit with a white silk waistcoat and a patterned tie. When it was time for the whole family to have their picture taken, he rested one hand on his son’s shoulder while his other hand clasped Leila’s waist. No one noticed.
On the way back from the studio, the Akarsus stopped at a bakery with a nice patio and tables in the shade. The tantalizing aroma of börek, fresh out of the oven, wafted through the window.
Uncle placed the order for everyone: a samovar of tea for the grown-ups, icy lemonades for the youngsters. Now that his son was married to the daughter of a rich family, Uncle took every opportunity to display his own wealth. Just the other week he had given a telephone to his brother’s family so that they could all be in touch more often.
‘Bring us something to nibble on too,’ Uncle said to the waiter.
A few minutes later, the man appeared with their drinks and a generous plate of cinnamon rolls. If Tarkan were here, Leila thought, he would instantly grab one, his honest eyes bright with joy, his happiness pure, unmasked. Why wasn’t he included in these family celebrations? Tarkan never travelled anywhere, not even to a fake Eiffel Tower; save for the doctor’s visit made when he was just a small child, he had not so much as glimpsed the world beyond the garden fence. When neighbours came for a visit, he was kept in a room away from prying eyes. Because Tarkan stayed at home all the time, so did Auntie. They were not close any more, Leila and Auntie; each passing year seemed to pull them further apart.
Uncle poured the tea, held his glass towards the light. After taking one sip he shook his head. He signalled to the waiter, leaned forward and spoke very slowly, as though each word were an effort. ‘Look at this colour, see? Not nearly dark enough. What did you put in it, eh? Banana leaves? It tastes like dishwater.’
Apologizing hastily, the waiter took the samovar away, spilling a few drops on the tablecloth.
‘Clumsy, isn’t he?’ said Uncle. ‘Doesn’t know his right hand from his left.’ He turned towards Leila, his voice suddenly conciliatory. ‘So how’s school? What’s your favourite subject?’
‘None,’ Leila said with a shrug. She kept her gaze on the tea stains.
Baba knitted his brows. ‘Is this how you talk to your elders? You have no manners.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Uncle. ‘She’s young.’
‘Young? Her mother was married and working her fingers raw at her age.’
Mother straightened her back.
‘It’s a new generation,’ said Uncle.
‘Well, my sheikh says there are forty signs that Judgement Day is near. One is that young people get out of control. That’s exactly what’s happening nowadays, isn’t it? All those boys with mop-top hair. What will they have next – long hair, like a girl’s? I always tell my daughter, be careful. There is so much moral decay in this world.’
‘What are the other signs?’ asked Uncle’s wife.
‘I can’t remember all of them off the top of my head. There are thirty-nine more, obviously. For one thing, we’ll see massive landslides. Oceans will surge. Oh, there will be more women in the world than men. I’ll give you a book where it’s all explained.’
Leila noticed, out of the corner of her eye, Uncle watching her intently. She turned her head aside, a little too sharply, and that was when she saw a family approaching. A happy family, they seemed to be. A woman with a smile as wide as the Euphrates River, a man with kind eyes, and two girls with satin bows in their hair. They were looking for a table, and settled on the one next to theirs. Leila noticed how the mother caressed the cheek of the younger girl, whispering something that made her chuckle. The older girl, meanwhile, was inspecting the menu with her father. They chose their pastries together, asking each other what they would like to have. Everyone’s opinion se
emed to be of value. They were close and inseparable, like stones mortared together. Watching them, Leila felt a pang so sudden and sharp that she had to lower her gaze, fearing her envy would show on her face.
By now the waiter had appeared with a new samovar and a clean set of glasses.
Uncle grabbed a glass, took a sip and curled up his lips in distaste. ‘You have some nerve to call this tea. It’s not even hot enough,’ he blustered, savouring his new-found power over this decorous, meek man.
Shrinking like a nail under the hammer of Uncle’s ire, the waiter apologized profusely and rushed back. After what felt like a long time, he appeared with a third samovar, so hot this time that it released endless curls of steam into the air.
Leila observed the man’s bloodless face; he seemed so tired as he filled the glasses. Tired but also annoyingly passive. And that was when Leila recognized in his behaviour a familiar sense of helplessness, an unconditional surrender to Uncle’s power and authority that she, more than anyone, was guilty of. With a sudden impulse, she stood up and grabbed a glass. ‘I’d like some tea!’
Before anyone could say a word, she took a sip, scalding her tongue and the roof of her mouth so badly her eyes watered. Still she managed to swallow the liquid and gave the waiter a lopsided grin. ‘Perfect!’
The man nervously glanced at Uncle, then back at Leila. He mumbled a quick ‘thank you’ and disappeared.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ Uncle said, more startled than upset.
Mother tried to soften the mood. ‘Well, she was just –’
Baba interjected, ‘Don’t defend her. She’s behaving like a crazy person.’
Leila felt her heart constrict. Here, in front of her eyes, was the reality she had quietly sensed all this time but told herself did not exist. Baba had sided with Uncle, not with her. It would always be like this, she now understood. Baba’s first instinct would always be to help out his brother. She pursed her bottom lip, scabby from picking. Only later, much later, would she come to think of this moment in time, small and ordinary though it may have been, as a harbinger of what was to come. Never in her life had she felt as lonely as she did now.
Ever since Baba had stopped tailoring clothes for Westernized customers, money had been tight. The previous winter, they had been able to afford to heat only a few rooms in so large a house; but the kitchen was always warm. They spent a lot of time there all year round: Mother winnowed rice, soaked beans, and prepared meals on the wood-burning stove, while Auntie kept a close eye on Tarkan, who, if left unsupervised, ripped his clothes, suffered painful falls and swallowed things that almost choked him.
‘You’d better get it straight, Leyla,’ Baba said as Leila sat at the kitchen table with her books that August. ‘When we die and we are alone in our graves, two angels will visit us: one blue, one black. They are called Munkar and Nakir, the Denied and the Denier. They will ask us to recite surahs from the Qur’an – down to the letter. If you fail three times, you’ll be bound for hell.’
He pointed towards the cupboards, as if hell were between the jars of pickled cucumbers that lined the shelves.
Exams made Leila nervous. At school she had failed most of them. As she listened to Baba, she could not help wondering: how would the black and blue angels test her knowledge of religion when the moment arrived? Would the test be oral or written, interview-style or multiple choice? Would wrong answers lose her marks? Would she learn the results right away or would she have to wait until all the scores were in – and if that were the case, how long would the process take, and would a supreme authority make the announcement, the High Council of Just Deserts and Eternal Damnation?
‘What about people in Canada or Korea or France?’ Leila asked.
‘What about them?’
‘Well, you know … they are not Muslim, generally. What happens to them after they die? I mean, the angels can’t ask them to recite our prayers.’
Baba said, ‘Why not? Everyone gets the same questions.’
‘But those people in other countries can’t recite the Qur’an, can they?’
‘Exactly. Anyone who is not a proper Muslim will fail the angels’ exam. Straight to hell. That’s why we must spread Allah’s message to as many people as possible. That’s how we’ll save their souls.’
For a moment, they stood still listening to the spit and crackle of the wood burning in the stove, and it felt like it was telling them something urgent in its own language.
‘Baba …’ Leila sat up. ‘What’s the most dreadful thing about hell?’
She expected him to say it was the pits full of scorpions and snakes or the boiling waters that smelled of sulphur or the biting frost of Zamhareer. He could have said it was being forced to drink molten lead or feed off the Zaqqum Tree, whose branches bore heads of demons instead of luscious fruits. But after a slight pause, Baba replied, ‘It’s God’s voice … This voice that never stops shouting, threatening, day in, day out. He tells sinners they were given a chance but they have let Him down, and now they must pay the price.’
Leila’s mind was racing even as she grew still. ‘God won’t forgive?’
Baba shook his head. ‘No – and even if He decides to forgive one day, it’ll be long after every sinner has suffered the worst torments.’
Leila looked out of the window. The sky was turning a mottled grey. A lone goose was flying towards the lake, strangely soundless.
‘What if …’ Leila breathed in a lungful of air and let it out slowly. ‘Let’s say, what happens if you have done something wrong, and you know it’s wrong, but you really didn’t mean to do it?’
‘That won’t help. God will still punish you, but if it’s just once, He might be more merciful.’
Leila picked at a hangnail, a tiny bead of blood pooling on her thumb. ‘And if it’s more than once?’
Baba shook his head, his brow furrowed. ‘Then it’s eternal damnation, there is no excuse. No getting away from hell. I might sound harsh to you now, but one day you’ll thank me. It’s my duty to teach you right from wrong. You need to learn all this while you are still young and sinless. Tomorrow it might be too late. As the twig is bent, so grows the tree.’
Leila closed her eyes, a hardness beginning to form in her chest. She was young, but she did not consider herself sinless. She had done something terrible, and not just once, not twice, but many times. Uncle continued to touch her. Every time the families got together, Uncle found a way to get close to her, but what had happened a couple of months ago – when Baba was having an operation to remove kidney stones and Mother had to stay in the hospital with him for about a week – was so unspeakable that even remembering it now made Leila feel sick again. Auntie had been staying with Tarkan in her room, and had not heard a thing. That whole week, Uncle had visited her every night. It hadn’t bled after that first time, but it had always hurt. When she tried to keep him away, Uncle reminded her that it was she who had started this affair back in the holiday house that smelled of sliced watermelon.
I used to think to myself, Why, she’s a sweet innocent girl, but it turns out you like to play games with men’s minds … Remember how you behaved on the bus that day, giggling all the time to get my attention? Why were you wearing those tiny shorts? Why did you allow me to come to your bed at night? You could have told me to leave and I would have done so, but you didn’t. You could have slept in your parents’ room, but you didn’t. Every night you waited for me. Did you ever ask yourself why? Well, I know why. And you know why.
She had filth in her, of this she was convinced. Filth that wouldn’t wash away, like a crease in her palm. And now here was Baba telling her that Allah, who knew everything and saw everything, would not forgive her.
Shame and self-reproach had been Leila’s constant companions for too long, twin shadows that followed her everywhere she went. Yet this was the first time she felt an anger she had never experienced before. Her mind was aflame, every muscle in her body taut with a burning rage she didn
’t know how to contain. She did not want to have anything to do with this God who invented copious ways of judging and punishing human beings but did so little to protect them when they needed Him.
She stood up, scraping her chair back noisily on the tiled floor.
‘Where are you going?’ Baba’s eyes widened.
‘I need to check on Tarkan.’
‘We aren’t done here yet. We are studying.’
Leila shrugged. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t want to study any more. I’m bored.’
Baba flinched. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said I’m borrred.’ She stretched the word like chewing gum in her mouth. ‘God, God, God! I’ve had enough of this crap.’
Baba lunged towards her, his right hand raised. Then, just as suddenly, he drew back, trembling, disappointment in his eyes. His face broke into fresh lines, cracking like dry clay. He knew, and she knew, that he had almost slapped her.
Baba never hit Leila. Neither before nor after. Though a man of several shortcomings, he never displayed physical aggression or uncontrolled wrath. So for bringing this impulse out in him, for rousing something so dark, so alien to his character, he would always hold her responsible.
She, too, blamed herself and would continue to do so for years to come. Back then she was used to that – everything she did and thought tended towards an all-pervasive guilt.
The memory of that afternoon would remain so deeply seared on her mind that even now, years later, inside a metal rubbish bin on the outskirts of Istanbul, as her brain continued to shut down, she still remembered the smell of the wood-burning stove with an intense, penetrating sadness.
Seven Minutes
As Leila’s brain fought on, she remembered the taste of soil – dry, chalky, bitter.
In an old issue of Hayat magazine that she secretly borrowed from Sabotage Sinan, she had seen a blonde woman clad in a black swimsuit and black stilettos, happily swirling a plastic ring. A caption underneath the picture read, ‘In Denver, American model Fay Shott spins a hula hoop around her slender waist.’