Honor

by Elif Shafak

  The door to the office opens and Officer McLaughlin’s head pops out. ‘Well, who do we have here?’

  He moves aside and lets me in. The office has changed considerably. When Martin was here this was a different place, but then Martin was a different man. We all respected him.

  McLaughlin sits at his desk and opens a file. My file, obviously. ‘I see you were born in 1962,’ he says. ‘You and I are the same age, born in the same month. Can you believe it?’

  Yunus is a Leo, Esma is a Virgo, I’m a Scorpio. And so is Officer McLaughlin.

  ‘They say there are two different types of Scorpios, did you know that?’ he goes on. ‘Those who poison others and those who poison themselves.’

  He stares at me, as if wondering whether I’m going to be the anomaly who falls into both categories.

  ‘Here it says you were repeatedly put in solitary confinement. You got into too many fights. What a shit-stirrer! Let’s see, you broke an inmate’s nose, attacked a probation officer. Oh, you smashed another inmate’s fingers. Four of them –’ He pauses, taking the measure of me. ‘Ouch, that must have hurt.’

  My stomach clenches.

  ‘How did you do that, Alex? Did you put his fingers on a hard surface and break them all at once or did you twist them one by one?’

  I know what he’s doing. He’s reminding me of who I was – and still can be. My life here consists of two phases. At first, I was a pain in everyone’s neck. There is no other way to put it. I was full of rage, resentment, totally lost. Then there was the second stage, which is, more or less, where I am today. Still angry and mad, but more at myself than at those around me.

  ‘I crushed his hand with a concrete block,’ I say.

  ‘Right,’ McLaughlin says, nodding as if he is appreciative. ‘And the officer? What happened there?’

  ‘I had a small beef with him.’

  He asked for it. Pushed me hard to see how much he could get away with. Trying to make me bend over during strip search, calling me names, provoking me. I hid a razor in my toothbrush and slashed half his face. Later on he was sent to another gaol. I hear the scar hasn’t healed.

  ‘It says you’ve had seizures, epileptic fits, migraines, panic attacks, anxiety attacks, psychoses, suicide attempts . . . hmmm –’ He stops: he’s found something of interest. ‘Speech impediment! Now what’s that?’

  ‘I stuttered,’ I answer. ‘For a while.’

  It’s gone, though not fully. When I get nervous I still trip over my tongue, but I’m not going to give him the pleasure of knowing that.

  McLaughlin goes back to reading. ‘Heavily medicated. Trazodone, Zimelidine, Lithium, Paxil, Valium, Xanax . . .’

  Some had no effect at all; others seemed to work for a while, and some had so many side-effects I ended up worse than before. Lithium made me gain weight, Zimelidine caused a nausea so intense that I felt on the verge of vomiting my lungs out, and once Trazodone gave me a painful erection that didn’t disappear for three days. I wonder if all that is in my file or if he’s broken into my medical records, and, if so, whether that is legal.

  Suddenly he sniggers at something he’s read, his shoulders hopping. ‘Oh, you don’t eat meat!’

  I nod.

  Another laugh. ‘Sorry, I can’t help it. It’s just that for a bully like you . . . I mean someone who’s murdered his mother and has a systematic record of violence, it seems odd to worry about a few animals!’

  When I fail to comment, an awkward silence falls over us.

  ‘May I take my postcard now?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, suddenly serious. ‘As soon as you tell me why you made your mate hit you, you can have your bloody postcard back.’

  ‘He was about to lose it big time. His wife asked for a divorce. He needed to hit someone.’

  ‘And you, the Good Samaritan, offered your chest, is that so?’

  He opens a drawer and takes out Esma’s postcard. To my surprise, he doesn’t play around but hands it right to me. Then he says, ‘There are cuckoos who think Houdini died because of the blows to his stomach area. They claim one of the punches ripped his appendix.’

  I don’t say anything. No need to tell him I might be one of those cuckoos. If you hit the appendix repeatedly and with enough force, you might get a result. It’s a matter of finding the right angle. At least it’s worth a try. What do I have to lose? I’m experimenting with death.

  ‘Alex, I have enough evidence to suggest that you were trying to meet your maker. That is, if you’re a scorpion who has a tendency to poison himself.’

  He’s smarter than I thought. But I’m going to deny it all the same. ‘Why would I want to kill myself? I’ll soon be a free man.’

  That is when Officer McLaughlin leans over his desk, looks me in the eye and utters the only right thing he’s ever said. ‘Alex, you and I both know you’ll never be a free man. Even after you’ve been sprung from here, even when you’re out there on the streets, you’ll still be locked up in your guilt.’

  Then he sits back. ‘Just so that you know, Houdini’s death had nothing to do with the blows he received. His appendix was already kaput.’

  ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘’Cos it’s a wise sailor who makes for port when a storm is coming.’

  ‘What if there is no storm?’ I say, standing on my feet. ‘And you’re making for port for nothing and missing the sunshine?’

  It’s a mistake, I know. I shouldn’t be talking like that. But my ego is awake – if it had ever been asleep at all.

  ‘Sit,’ McLaughlin says.

  I do. We wait in silence. A full minute goes by.

  ‘You may leave now,’ McLaughlin says.

  As I head to the door, I hear him mutter, as if to himself, ‘Why did you people come to England and bring us all your crap?’

  In Britain the dislike of foreigners always catches me off guard. They don’t always call you spic or greasy wop to your face, although there is that from time to time. Racism is not part of daily life, as it is in some other countries I hear about. It is subtle and always polished. It is not about your skin colour or your religion, really. It is about how civilized you are.

  I walk back to my cell, greeting a few of the lads on the way. They are mostly local Englishmen under this roof, but there are also a few Hispanics, Russians, Bulgarians, Arabs, Africans. In every nation there are good eggs and bad eggs. That’s my take. Some of the men have heads scrambled from drugs and fights. Mine might be quite mashed too. There’s a lot of that, drugs. Some lags are only after getting wasted or getting into one another’s pants. The poofs . . . it’s harsh on them. When I first came here I didn’t like any of the gangs and decided to form my own. It wasn’t easy, but I pulled it off. We had strict unwritten rules that everyone obeyed. No tolerance for paedophiles and rapists. No fruits, diddlers, sickos among us. No smackies, no poppers, no snort.

  Suddenly I couldn’t front it any more. I was their leader but I left the gang because I had issues to resolve inside my head. I was heavily sedated, to prevent me from harming myself. On suicide watch twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. For a long time I just sank – even lower than where I had been.

  Then one night, my mother came to me. Her ghost. An apparition. Whatever you call it. I could smell her hair. It was that real. She stayed with me the entire night. Her face. Her eyes. I sobbed like never before. After that, I began to change and I’m a different man today. Maybe not better, but different. And that’s a piece of information Officer McLaughlin will never find in my file.

  *

  When I enter the cell Trippy is sitting on his bunk under several blankets, his face ashen, his eyes closed. He seems totally spaced out. ‘How did it go?’ he asks.

  ‘Brilliant! We didn’t strangle each other.’

  ‘Sweet,’ he says and goes back to his stupor. He
’s been popping more and more pills since he got the news about the impending divorce.

  For a moment I want to tell him to take it easy. But I can see that all he wants is to be left alone. I respect that. I go and lie down on my bunk, brooding.

  There is a Bridge in the Other World, thinner than a strand of hair and more slippery than an eel. When the Day of Judgement arrives, every person will have to cross it alone. You’ll hear the screams of the sinners as their skins are scorched and their bones boiled. If you’re a sinner yourself, you’ll fall into the blistering flames underneath. If you’ve done enough good in life, the animals you’ve sacrificed on Eid will wake from death and lead you safely to the other side. Who taught me this? It must have been Uncle Tariq, but I’m not sure.

  I was seven years old when I stopped eating meat. Each Eid we would ask God’s forgiveness for not being able to sacrifice an animal. The neighbours brought us meat, which was nice. But in our last year in Istanbul, Mum urged Father to buy a ram, and not just any ram, but a big one. We were going to England after all. Dad had found a job in a factory over there. God had opened a new door for us and we duly had to thank Him.

  Father kept complaining about how expensive and unnecessary all this was. Still, one morning I woke up to a bleating coming from the garden, and there was a ram, grazing on thin grass. It was an impressive animal, with scarlet ribbons tied to its horns. They let me feed it and give it water. Mum and I applied henna on its post, which left scarlet patches. I spent the next two days by its side. It was my first and only pet.

  Uncle Tariq said, ‘Don’t get too fond of that ram.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  He frowned. ‘Didn’t they tell you? It’ll be slaughtered soon.’

  Crying, I ran to Father. He seemed in a jolly mood and promised not to touch the animal. ‘I have only one son,’ Father said. ‘I’ll let you have the ram.’

  God, I was over the moon. I felt proud to be a boy, not a weedy girl like Esma. The next day they sent me on errands and when I came back there was the ram’s bloated body hanging from the tree.

  I couldn’t tell what hurt more: the death of my pet or my father’s lie. Learning that Mum had been an accomplice? Or that I wasn’t as favoured as I had thought? Mum put a smear of ram’s blood on my forehead, kissed me, said I looked like a sultan and went to cook the meat. A pungent, sticky smell covered the house. In the evening, when they put the dish in front of me, I refused to eat it.

  ‘Do you know how much that ram cost me?’ Father asked. ‘Do you have any idea, you ungrateful brat!’

  At the time, I didn’t what came over me but I do now. The anger. The adrenalin. The sensation of falling and rising at the same time. It hits you like a wave. Next thing you know you’re standing on a crest and you can dare anyone, even your own father. I pushed the plate aside, more harshly than I had intended. The food spilled all over the table. Father blinked, not believing his eyes. Was I challenging his authority in front of my mother and sister? He went berserk. I had never seen him so enraged.

  ‘Iskender, eat!’ he shouted. ‘I don’t beat my children!’

  Then I shrugged. That was the last straw. He pushed my head towards the puddle of meat. It was so unexpected that my chin hit the bottom of the plate and bounced back like a rubber ball. But my nose was still swimming in broth, heavy, oily. Mixed with my tears and my snot. I heard a slurp. It was coming from me. And that taste I have never forgotten. The taste of my weakness. Father kept pushing, his fingers tight around my neck. I chewed and chewed, lifting my head for air between gulps.

  Finally he let me go. When I looked up, I saw he was ashamed of his reaction. He wasn’t an abusive man, not in that way. I don’t know what took possession of him that day. I don’t think he knows either.

  Mum ran to me, wiping my face. ‘My lion, my sultan. Are you all right?’

  I ignored my mother’s hand on my forehead and glared at my father. Now there was resentment in his eyes but also a flash of misery. What were we doing to ourselves? Why were we always taking it out on each other?

  Then and there I understood it was no good shaking in your shoes. If I displayed weakness, he would step on me. The whole bloody world would step on me. But if I were strong, really strong, no one could. Since then I have never been weak. At fault, yes. Entirely wrong. But not weak. Never. And since then I have not eaten meat.

  Iskender Toprak

  The Moustache

  London, 1 January 1978

  Five forty in the morning, and Adem was already awake. Lately he had begun to set the alarm clock at ungodly hours so that he could have some time to himself before Roxana woke. He liked to watch her while she was sleeping. Her face looked different then, less strained, no longer angry at him for who he was and what he couldn’t become. Now, stripped of its peach-coloured lipstick, her mouth was smaller, without a hint of coldness; her hair spread out on the pillow like spun wool pointing in all directions, clutching around his heart.

  Being in love with Roxana was like watching a boat pass by in the distance. Adem sat on the shore stock still, shielding his eyes from the sun. Under his gaze the ship kept moving. Not too fast, never in a hurry, an almost imperceptible farewell. He knew their days together were numbered. She was slipping away from him inch by inch, and the only thing he could do was to wait until she became a dot on the horizon. When she discovered that he had no money left, she would be done with him. He was aware of all this because she had made it clear from the start. A woman has needs, she was fond of saying. Roxana was always astoundingly, agonizingly forthright.

  She had seen him lose at roulette, but she still believed he had money up his sleeve: savings in the bank, a loan that would be paid back or property in London. Surely he must have something. He has been in this country for so long. She expected Adem to reveal his hidden treasure any day now. Her expectations hadn’t come out of thin air: he had done everything in his power to give her that impression.

  The truth was, however, that a few days ago Adem had lost his job in the factory. His sloppiness had finally taken its toll. Now his only source of income was the money he had borrowed from friends; his only asset, the house where his family lived. He had been given a mortgage six years ago, and had so far paid off only a quarter of it.

  Sighing, Roxana turned in her sleep. Her face twisted, her nostrils slightly flared. ‘No,’ she said, and mumbled something incomprehensible. Then again, she repeated, ‘No, no.’

  Adem held his breath, trying to hear more. He wondered what she was dreaming about. Her body was here in bed with him but her soul was far away with another man. If so, was it someone she loved? He didn’t know which would be worse: that she had never been in love and was incapable of opening her heart or that she had loved once and would never dedicate herself to anyone in the same way again.

  Quietly, he got up from the bed. The blanket slid aside, revealing Roxana’s bare thighs. She could sleep naked, winter or summer, utterly comfortable in her skin. He could never do that. Each time, he would take off his pyjamas before sex and instantly put them back on afterwards.

  ‘Take your socks off in bed. You’re like an old man!’ Roxana complained.

  He obeyed, though he didn’t like it because he was always cold. The heating in the flat was poor. Old pipes in need of repair, leaking in places. But he dared not complain about it. Another thing Roxana didn’t like was his moustache. ‘Englishmen don’t have them,’ she often said. ‘When’re you gonna cut it? It makes you look like Stalin.’

  Shuffling his feet in the dark, Adem went to the kitchen and turned on the light. The mess surprised him, even though he thought he had got used to it by now. Roxana hated housework and often reprimanded him for not giving her a hand. You can’t make me serve you. I’m not your wife, am I?

  She liked to say such things – insinuations as sharp as broken glass. Her bitterness was an inseparable part of her, a
lmost vindictive. It wasn’t really the harshness of her comments that he minded so much as the generalities she projected on to him. Every time Roxana lectured him, Adem had the impression that she was addressing all the men she had known. That hurt. Being part of a rogues’ gallery, having no distinctive character in her eyes, made him feel like the temporary lover that he was. He wanted to be unique, her one and only. It didn’t matter that there had been others before him. Well, it did matter, but at least if he could be assured that he was special it would lessen the discomfort. Roxana would laugh at such a thought. I never said I was in love with you, did I? Whenever he came close to talking about his feelings, something he had never done before, neither with his wife nor his children, she would wave her hand, as though to disperse some cigarette smoke that was bothering her.

  Adem opened the cupboard, trying not to look at the sink, where a stack of dirty plates and mugs caked in mould swam in murky water. Managing to find a clean pot, he started to make Turkish coffee.

  On the back burner on low heat, the coffee started to simmer, its slow boil strangely soothing. The kitchen was suffused with a pungent smell. Soon he sat at the table with a cup in his hand and drank it down in a few gulps. Still, he didn’t feel fully awake. Still, he carried the night in him.

  The day before he had gone to his younger son’s school and waited outside, hiding in the shadows. Like a criminal, he thought to himself. When Yunus walked out with his friends, he had not called his name, his throat too tight. Similarly, a few times he had hung around a café called Aladdin’s Cave in the hope of running into Iskender. Once he had spotted him in the distance, holding hands with a lean, blonde girl. He knew Iskender had an English girlfriend, but seeing them together, light and full of zest, had made him feel old, revealing the vigour he no longer possessed. In the months he hadn’t been to the house his son had grown up so much! He was a young man, quite handsome. Much as he wanted to, he could not go and speak to him. People were looking. That was the hardest part. Meeting the eyes of friends and neighbours, making small talk all the while pretending not to notice what was on their minds. A shameful man who abandoned his family for a dancer.