‘Does your wife wear the hijab?’ Mamut Baba asked.
Adem felt tense, his stomach twisting into knots. Ever since Iskender had told him Pembe was seeing someone, he didn’t want to hear a word about his wife, and was suspicious of anyone who referred to her in passing. ‘Well, I’ve seen more veiled women in this neighbourhood than in Istanbul,’ he offered. ‘In my family, we don’t have the habit.’
Mamut Baba drew himself up, saying, ‘But if some day God grants you another marriage, consider a veiled wife. Their eyes see only their home.’
Breathing in deeply, Adem felt bile rising in his throat. He tried to swallow it, but failed. Was this an awful insinuation or just idle talk? Could people be casting aspersions about Pembe? The silence thickened, swelled.
‘I must go. Thanks for the soup,’ Adem said, rising to his feet.
Before anyone had a chance to stop him, and without a proper goodbye, he left the room. On the way out he passed by the kitchen, where Mamut Baba’s wife and son were having dinner at a small table, the boy enjoying his food while fidgeting with his handheld game, breaking his own record.
*
Arriving in Abu Dhabi in November 1978, Adem became a construction worker. Over time, he would witness, admire and secretly dread the rise of buildings higher than anything he had seen before. In a city with a burning desire to transform and transfigure, he was a man who had only his past and no prospect of change.
The first few weeks were the hardest. Not only because the work was tough, but also because he had to abandon most, if not all, of his expectations. Of the fantasy he had shared with Bilal, the only thing that was real was the sun, hot and harsh on his skin. In the evenings, tired and covered in dust, he would return to the shed he shared with seven fellow workers. Men from different backgrounds, but lacking in similar qualities. On the odd occasion he had a free hour he searched for Roxana in every possible place he could think of – pacing up and down outside shopping malls, restaurants and boutiques.
One night he dreamed of Pembe, her hair loose and flowing. They entered a narrow corridor, walking hand in hand. When they finally reached the end, Adem realized, much to his horror, that Pembe had put on Roxana’s frilly costume and was just about to go on stage, ready to dance in a strip club. He shouted with all his might to stop her, and, when that didn’t help, he pulled her down off the stage. But the woman he held in his arms was Roxana – her face a mask of anger. He woke up to the realization that his shout had awakened the other men.
A few weeks into his new life and with still no trace of Roxana, Adem discovered a place that was to him what an oasis is to one lost in the desert. A makeshift gambling den that some workers had set up to win a quick buck and spice up the monotony. In an airless, dank flat, between forty to fifty men, swearing, shouting, smoking and praying in many languages, crammed together to watch a cock-fight. From time to time they would organize spider-fights and cricket-races, none of which Adem had seen before. But it was behind the wooden screens that the real wagering took place, and where he always headed.
All he had was what was left of the money Mamut Baba had sent via a courier two days after he had walked out of his house. He could have returned the money, but he hadn’t. He didn’t have much pride left and the need to leave London had weighed heavier than anything. Now he put aside his wages for his children and tossed the dice with Mamut Baba’s cash. He played every night. Whereas others went slowly and took it easy, he pushed on. Most of them were amateurs, he could see that. The air was ripe with the anxiety of getting caught by the authorities – the fear of being deported. Many workers felt this tension, but, strangely, not Adem. Bolder than ever, braced by a wild impulse, he would wager, and then wager again. When the Mamut Baba money came to an end, he began to dip into his wages – only dip, initially. Before long, he was betting his entire weekly pay in one night.
He bought himself an imitation Rolex, which he wore all the time. His walk wilted into a purposeless, languid stride. He took painkillers every day to help the throbbing in his chest that always worsened in the evenings. Perhaps like those cocks and spiders, he, too, was in a bloody fight, albeit with himself.
The landscape mesmerized him. He was astounded to discover that the desert was not a barren region, but rather a site of hidden beauties. Sometimes he would go hiking, relishing the feeling of his feet in the warm, liquid sand, carrying sandstones in his pockets. Oddly drawn to these feats of nature, he wondered how it was that they dissolved into dust, as if lacking an inner core. Increasingly, he came to liken himself to sandstones.
Someone told him that all these deserts had once been seas. If water could turn into solid earth, and ebb and flow no more, why couldn’t man transform himself? Because, despite what they said in films, books and magazines, Adem had arrived at the conclusion that wherever you went in this world, one basic rule never changed: winners won all the time and losers kept losing.
Esma
London, November 1978
One placid evening, only weeks before the murder, my mother set the table. Three plates, three forks, three glasses. Lately dinners had become smaller, quieter. Although she had become accustomed to her husband’s absence, it was harder for her to accept Iskender’s frequent disappearances. She was more tired than tense. For the first time, I heard her complain about how difficult it was to make ends meet. She had raised us mostly on her own, but lately I suspected she wished there might be someone who could take care of her.
‘Where’s your brother?’ she asked me, carrying a basket of bread from the kitchen.
‘Which one?’ I grumbled. ‘If it’s the older one, God knows where he is. Yunus, I believe, is busy taking up space in my room.’
‘It’s also his room.’
‘All my friends have their own rooms, Mum. Their families respect their need for privacy.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘You’re not an English girl.’
‘Oh, come on. Our neighbours’ daughters have their own rooms.’
‘We are not our neighbours.’
‘Mum, this is not fair. Iskender has his own room and he’s only a year older than me. Why do you give such privileges to him just because he’s a boy? You do this all the time.’
‘Esma, that’s enough! I’m not having this discussion again. Not now.’
Under my hurtful stare she marched purposefully towards my room, from which a strange noise was coming. I followed her petite form down the corridor, feeling like the ugly duckling behind the swan.
When she opened the door, she found her youngest child, her baby, listening to the loudest, harshest music on earth. ‘What’re you doing?’ my mother asked.
Yunus didn’t look up at her. Or at me. Instead he kept his eyes on the carpet, as if fearful that his face would disclose something.
Curious, my mother retrieved the album from the floor and inspected it. There was a man on a horse, an eerie figure, and another person lying on the ground, being eaten by vultures. In a red frame above it, in capital letters, was written THE CLASH. Underneath there was another line: Give ’Em Enough Rope.
‘What is this?’
‘It’s a band, Mum,’ Yunus said. ‘Music.’
‘I know what music is,’ she retorted. ‘And it’s not this boom-boom-boom.’
Yunus glanced up at me now. I rolled my eyes in sisterly solidarity.
My mother now pointed at the title of the album. ‘What does this mean?’
‘It means if people are too sad and there’s no hope and if you give them some rope, they’ll hang themselves.’
All the blood drained from my mother’s face. ‘Is this how you spend your time? You’re ruining your brain with this poison.’
Yunus whined. ‘It’s just a –’
‘No, it’s terrible. Nobody should give anyone a rope! How can they teach such things?’
‘Mum, please. You??
?ve got it wrong. They’re not teaching –’
‘I don’t want my children to listen to such horrible things,’ she exclaimed.
We had never seen her like this before, so distressed, so agitated. I said, ‘Mother, it’s a punk band. It’s just their style. Nothing bad, believe me.’
Under our pleading eyes she stomped towards the wall and pulled the record player’s plug out of the socket. The album stuttered as if choking and came to a stop.
‘Why did you do that?’ Yunus moaned.
She held his chin, forcing him to look her in the eye. ‘Don’t listen to dark things. Why are you running away from me? Don’t you, too, change, please.’
Yunus grimaced. ‘I’m not changing.’
Her expression softening, my mother hugged Yunus, and they stood in an embrace, warm and tight. She kissed the top of his head, inhaled the baby smell on his cheeks. Then my mother’s eyes slid down to the gap between my brother’s neck and his shirt to the skin below his nape.
‘What’s this splotch you got here?’
Instantly, Yunus straightened up. A trace of panic crossed his face as he tried to figure out what to say. It was too late. Besides, Yunus could never lie.
‘It’s a tattoo, Mum.’
‘A what?’
I’d known about my brother’s tattoo for a while now and butted in to help him. ‘Don’t worry Mum, it’s –’
Ignoring me completely, she dragged him to the bathroom, despite his protests. She pulled off his cardigan, shirt and trousers, leaving him in his pants, and shoved his head under the shower. She scrubbed the back of his neck first with her hands, then with a sponge.
‘Stop, Mum,’ Yunus wailed. ‘That hurts.’
‘You should have thought about that before.’
Behind her, I made another attempt to interject. ‘It’s a tattoo, Mum. It doesn’t wash off.’
She pushed my hand away, seized by a mad impulse, and kept on scrubbing. ‘How long have you had it?’ she asked.
I answered instead of him. ‘Months,’ I said with a bitterness I didn’t know I had in me. ‘You would have noticed it earlier, had you been paying us more attention.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You’re always distracted,’ I exclaimed. ‘Your mind is so full there’s no place there for us. I can’t have a proper conversation with you any more. You’re always telling me don’t do this, don’t do that. Nothing else.’
‘That’s not true, Esma,’ she said doggedly and went back to scrubbing my brother’s back. Minutes later, she accepted defeat. She threw down the sponge, her eyes blazing, and shouted at the boy, ‘But why? Why did you go and stain yourself?’’
‘I didn’t,’ Yunus yelled back in tears, dripping like a little wet mouse. ‘You did! I saw you with a man on the street. You’re the one who’s stained!’
No sooner had he uttered this than Yunus cupped his hands over his mouth. I looked at my brother, horrified, only now realizing this was the secret he’d been carrying. He stared back at me, his regret visible. Timidly, I turned to my mother. The expression I found on her face was one that I had never seen before. Her eyes were glassy, like marbles. She was crying.
A silence fell over the three of us. In that thick, awkward stillness only the water dared to move, softly trickling by.
That night in our room, after Yunus told me the whole story, I tossed and turned in bed, my mind a whirr. It was dark except for a sliver of moonlight streaming in through the window. In a little while I heard him whisper, ‘Sister, are you asleep?’
‘Nope.’
‘Father has gone – do you think Mum will go as well?’
‘No, you silly. She’s not going anywhere, don’t worry.’
Oddly, I was not upset at my mother. I was annoyed at her for other things, big and little; but, now that I realized she had another world of her own, or was trying to build one, against all the odds, something in me wanted to protect her. Suddenly, she had become, in my eyes, the snail in the bowl. I said, ‘We need to make sure Iskender doesn’t learn about this.’
Ink on Silk
London, November 1978
It was seven thirty in the evening. The end of a long day. Her hair tied into a careless knot, her back slightly aching, Pembe had been on her feet since early in the morning, but she didn’t feel tired. She had told Rita she would stay behind to do the cleaning, though it wasn’t her job, not really.
‘You’re an angel,’ Rita said, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘What would I do without you?’
She hadn’t told her yet. She couldn’t bring herself to inform her boss that she was leaving. She would not be coming to the Crystal Scissors tomorrow. Or the next day. She would write Rita a note. It was easier that way. She would excuse herself by saying that she was feeling unwell and needed to take some time off. Upon second thoughts, however, she decided to tell her the truth – or at least as much of it as possible. She owed this much to her friend. She would tell Rita that her elder son didn’t want her to work any more.
Iskender was her beloved, a bit angry at times, a bit emotional, but a good lad. He had his reasons. Suddenly there was too much gossip around. Behind her back, beyond closed doors, in corner shops, cafés, kebab shops, launderettes and fishmongers’, people had got wind that all was not as it should be in the Toprak household. Rumours spread faster than ink on a piece of silk. All her life Pembe had cleaned stains off clothes and carpets, but she did not know of any remedy for this kind of stain. I will write to Rita. She will understand and yet she won’t.
Guilt was a bizarre emotion. It started with a single doubt, tiny as a head-louse. It settled on your skin, sucked your blood, laid its eggs everywhere. These days she felt guilty all the time. At work, at home, while cooking, shopping or praying, even in her sleep, guilt infested her soul.
As a child, more than a few times, she had been infected with lice. But the first time was the worst. She had always believed it was her twin who had passed it on to her, though Jamila claimed the opposite to be true. Their mother had kept them both in a hot tub for hours, scrubbing their scalps with a smelly lotion she had got from a healer. In the end, she managed to get rid of all the nits, but almost killed the girls in the process.
It had been more than an hour since everyone had left – the customers, the receptionist and the manicurist who came twice a week. Rita was planning to hire a hairstylist – a posh word. In England people treasured posh words. The labels they gave their food still astounded Pembe. Tangy chicken with zesty, fluffy couscous. She had seen it on the menu of a trendy restaurant where Elias had taken her. The first and only time they had gone out. She had never felt more uncomfortable in her life. She knew he was trying to find a place where they could talk without being seen by anyone. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? Not only because everyone was everywhere, but also because of the ancient law of the universe: whatever you strive to avoid at all costs, you are bound to run into.
Over lunch she had mentioned to Elias that, where she was born, people would laugh if they heard you’d served a special guest couscous. It was a peasant dish. Not that her family were rich, but they knew the difference between a poor dish and a posh one.
In England things were topsy-turvy. The word couscous, though ordinary, was treated with reverence. Yet the word shame, though substantial, was taken quite lightly. When the English were disappointed about something, no matter how ephemeral or inconsequential, they exclaimed, ‘Oh, what a shame!’
Pembe had told Elias all this to make him laugh, but he had stared at her with a sort of wistfulness, like he did from time to time, as if she reminded him of other, deeper, sadder things.
‘So if you invited me over for dinner, you wouldn’t serve me couscous?’ Elias had mischievously asked.
‘Of course not.’
She described the dishes she would set before him
. First, there would be soup, because all food tasted better on a warm stomach. Yoghurt soup with tarragon, mint and bulgar wheat, salad with pomegranate molasses, spicy roasted red-pepper hummus, lentil patties, Sultan’s Delight* and, for a final touch, home-made baklava.
‘I’d love to cook with you in the same kitchen, in our kitchen,’ he had said.
It was one of those rare moments when they talked about their future together, allowing themselves to believe they had one.
*
A beauty salon might be a place to get a haircut and a blow dry, but, more than that, it was a place of words. The reason why some women went there so often was not because they had to change their hairstyle every other week. Many longed for a chat – words that resembled a meandering stream, content to simply flow. Now and again the customers needed someone who would listen to them and indulge them – treat them, in fact, like the princesses they had once read about in storybooks.
Not that Pembe was a great talker. But she was a remarkable listener. Having learned from growing up in a large family always to put other people first, she found listening came easily to her. Her customers blathered on about their expectations and frustrations. She knew the names of their husbands, children, pets and even annoying neighbours. When they made jokes she laughed at the right places. When they lambasted politicians, she grimaced with them. When they talked about a heartbreaking experience, her eyes watered as well. She did all of this with her limited vocabulary. Sometimes she missed some of the words, but never the essence.
The evening sun was long gone, and the street was already changing. The shops on both sides of the road had closed, the sounds of their steel shutters piercing the air. The shop that sold Indian saris, the Lebanese café, the halal meat butcher, the hippie place that smelled of incense and that other stuff, the local supermarket that had just started to sell rotisserie chickens . . . The people who worked or shopped in them were now on their way home.