Three Daughters of Eve

by Elif Shafak

  Shirin nodded. ‘Fine, go to that wedding, but when you come back you need to get out more. It’s okay to have a bit of fun; you’re young, did you forget?’

  ‘I’m not like you,’ Peri said quietly.

  ‘You mean you enjoy misery?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘There are two ways of dealing with melancholy,’ said Shirin. ‘You either sit in the driver’s seat and step on the gas while Mr Depression screams his head off at the back. Or you let him do the driving, and he frightens you instead.’

  ‘What difference does it make?’ asked Peri. ‘If you’re going to run smack into a tree anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, but you get to drive, sister, not that sad old Mr Depression. Isn’t that something?’

  Sensing that she could not win this argument, Peri tried to change the subject in the only way she could think of. ‘By the way, that professor you mentioned, Azur, I looked up his seminar.’

  ‘You did?’ A shade of pink crept up Shirin’s cheeks. ‘Isn’t he charming?’

  ‘I haven’t met him, only read the description in the options list.’

  ‘Oh! Well, what do you think?’

  ‘It looks interesting.’

  Shirin strode towards the door. ‘May I offer some friendly advice? From an Iranian woman to a Turkish sister, chalk it up to the camaraderie of the doomed. If you manage to get into Azur’s seminar, don’t ever use the word “interesting”. He loathes it. He says there is nothing remotely interesting in the word “interesting”.’

  With that Shirin walked out and closed the door behind her, leaving Peri alone with her nightmares.

  The Music Box

  Istanbul, 2016

  The desserts arrived, served on crystal plates: hazelnut-mousse cake with a chocolate-custard centre and an oven-baked quince with buffalo cream on top. The guests broke into a chorus, half of compliments, half of concern.

  ‘Ah, I must have put on two pounds tonight,’ said the PR woman, patting her belly.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll burn it off by the time you get home,’ reassured the businessman’s wife.

  ‘Just keep arguing about politics,’ said the journalist. ‘That’s how we burn calories in this country.’

  When the maid appeared beside her, Peri murmured, ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Certainly, madam,’ said the maid, dropping her voice, a willing accomplice.

  But the hostess, having heard the exchange, intervened from her end of the table: ‘No, darling! I wasn’t cross when you opposed our views, but I’d not be best pleased if you don’t try my cake.’

  Peri conceded, as she had to. She would eat both the quince and the cake. It never ceased to puzzle her why women were so keen on fattening each other up. Something to do with the ‘law of comparative aesthetics’ – when many were on the chubby side, no one actually was. But perhaps she was being cynical. The long-lost voice of Shirin sounded in her head. ‘Believe me, Mouse, not cynical enough.’

  As soon as the hostess, now satisfied, turned her attention to the next guest, Peri grabbed her wine glass. She had been drinking more than usual this evening, though nobody seemed to notice, least of all herself. A crack had appeared in the dam she had erected over the years to block the flow of unwanted emotions into her heart. Now through that tiny slit a trickle of melancholy was seeping in. Meanwhile another part of her, conscious of the danger and destruction that this might cause, was on high alert, frantically trying to seal the opening so that everything could return to normal.

  ‘I thought we had a psychic coming today,’ said the journalist’s girlfriend in a husky smoker’s voice. Everyone knew she was wrought up over the rumours – recently posted on a media website – that the journalist had been spotted having a romantic dinner with his ex-wife and the couple might be getting back together.

  ‘He was supposed to be here an hour ago,’ said the businessman. ‘Apparently the poor fellow got stuck in traffic.’

  ‘Huh, even psychics don’t know which roads to take in Istanbul,’ quipped the American hedge-fund manager.

  ‘You’ll see, my friend, this guy is the best,’ said the businessman half in English, half in Turkish. ‘They say he foresaw the financial crisis.’

  ‘Maybe we should all consult psychics, since political experts are worthless and financial experts are even worse,’ said the PR woman.

  On an impulse, Peri excused herself from the table.

  ‘Oh, no, did we bore you again?’ said the architect over his drink, his eyes glazed. A man of petty grudges, he had not forgiven her for challenging him.

  Peri looked at him. ‘Just going to make a call to check on the kids.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the businessman. ‘Why don’t you go upstairs to my office? There you’ll have some peace and quiet.’

  Borrowing her husband’s mobile, Peri made her way up to the first floor, listening all the while to the voices from the dinner table.

  The businessman’s office boasted full-length windows that provided a spectacular view of the Bosphorus. With leather-panelled walls, a wooden coffered ceiling, a massive mahogany-and-marble desk, high armchairs the colour of egg yolk, antique objects d’art and fine paintings, the room resembled less a work space than the private lounge of an extravagant mafia boss.

  One corner was decorated with framed photos of the businessman – with politicians, celebrities and oligarchs. Among them Peri noticed the porcelain smile of a Middle Eastern dictator, no longer in power, shaking hands with her host in front of what looked like an elaborate Bedouin tent. Behind it, in another photo, glared the cast-iron face of a late Central Asian autocrat notorious for garlanding his home town with his own image, even naming a month after himself and another after his mother. Peri inhaled deeply, holding an imaginary cloud of smoke in her lungs, unable to breathe out. What was she doing here in this mansion, built with money that flowed in through secrets and shadows? In that moment, she felt like a pebble in a river, tossed about endlessly in the current. If Professor Azur were here, he might have smiled and quoted from his book The Guide to Remaining Perplexed: There’s no wisdom without love. No love without freedom. And no freedom unless we dare to walk away from what we have become.

  Quickly, as if fleeing her own mind, she dialled her home number. Leaning her forehead against the window, she examined the view outside as she waited for her mother, who was minding the children, to pick up the phone. Behind the glass, under a crescent moon too luminous to be real, the city spread outwards – houses tilting to one side as if murmuring secrets to one another; streets with sharp bends winding up steep hills; the last of the tea houses closing their doors and the last of the customers departing … She wondered what the children who stole her handbag were doing. Were they sleeping, and, if so, had they gone to bed hungry? It occurred to Peri that they might be dreaming now and that she could be somewhere in their dreams, a crazy woman holding her high-heeled shoes in her hands, chasing them through the streets.

  Selma answered the phone on the fourth ring. ‘Is the dinner over?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Peri. ‘We’re still here. Are the boys okay?’

  ‘Of course, why wouldn’t they be okay? They had a great time with Grandma. Now they’re sleeping.’

  ‘Have they eaten?’

  ‘You think I’d let them go hungry? I made manti,* they wolfed it down. Poor things, they looked like they had missed it.’

  Peri, who had not inherited Selma’s culinary talents, heard the reprimand in her mother’s voice. She said, ‘Thanks, I’m sure they loved it.’

  ‘You’re welcome. See you in the morning. I might be asleep by the time you come back.’

  ‘Wait!’ Peri paused. ‘Mum, can you do me a favour?’

  There was a shuffling sound and Peri knew her mother had moved the telephone to her left ear so she could hear better. She had visibly aged since her husband passed away. Oddly enough, after all those years of hostility, Selma’s world had fallen apart the day Mensur died, as
though it had been the fight she put up against her husband that kept her fully alive.

  ‘In the bedroom, in the second drawer, there must be a notebook,’ said Peri. ‘Turquoise. Leather.’

  ‘The one your father gave you.’ A bitter tone crept into her voice – even after all these years, Selma resented the bond between her husband and her daughter. Mensur’s death had not altered her feelings. This Peri knew from experience: it was possible to envy the dead and the hold they had over the living.

  ‘Yes, Mother,’ said Peri. ‘It’s locked but there’s a key in the bottom drawer. Under the towels. On the back page there’s a phone number. It says “Shirin”. Can you give it to me?’

  ‘Can’t it wait till morning?’ Selma asked. ‘You know my eyes are not as sharp as they used to be.’

  ‘Please, I need to make a call,’ Peri pleaded. ‘Tonight.’

  ‘All right, wait a bit,’ Selma said with a sigh. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  ‘Oh, Mother …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Afterwards, could you please lock up the notebook again?’

  ‘Step by step,’ Selma said wearily. ‘Don’t confuse me.’

  Peri heard a clunk as her mother put the receiver aside. The sound of retreating footsteps, heavy and hurried. She waited, chewing her bottom lip. Far in the distance, under the lights from the Second Bridge, the sea was greenish-blue, the colour of anticipation. She studied her reflection in the window, noting with disapproval her flabby midriff. Still, she had yet to begin to age quickly, as she had feared she might. There were different ways of growing of old, perhaps. Some withered first in body, others in mind, yet others in soul.

  There was a box inside the part of the brain that stored memory – a music box, its enamel paint chipped, its notes that of a haunting melody. Stashed away in it were all the things that the mind neither wanted to forget nor dared to remember. At moments of stress or trauma, or perhaps for no apparent reason, the box snapped open and all its contents scattered about. This was what she felt was happening to her tonight.

  ‘I couldn’t find it,’ Selma said, breathing hard from the exertion.

  ‘Will you please try again? Let me know when you find it.’

  ‘I was watching TV,’ Selma objected, then adopted a more conciliatory tone. ‘Fine, I’ll do my best.’

  Things had improved between them for the very reason that had previously kept them apart: Mensur. Divisive in life, his absence had brought them closer together.

  ‘One more thing,’ Peri rushed to add, ‘my phone’s been stolen. Text Adnan, but don’t say anything about this. Just write “Call home”, and I’ll give you a ring.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Selma. A fleeting pause of suspicion. ‘Isn’t Shirin that dreadful girl back in England?’

  Peri felt her heart give a lurch.

  ‘Why do you want to speak to her?’ Selma pressed. ‘She was no friend of yours.’

  She was my best friend, Peri thought to herself but refrained from saying it. She and Mona and I. The three of us: the Sinner, the Believer, the Confused.

  Instead she said, ‘It’s been a long time, Mother, we’re all grown-ups now. Nothing for you to worry about. I’m sure Shirin has left it all behind.’

  Even as she uttered these words, and forced herself to believe them, Peri knew none of it was likely to be true. Shirin could never leave the past behind. No more than Peri had been able to.

  The Maidenhood Belt

  Oxford, Istanbul, 2000

  One afternoon on the cusp of winter, the wind tasting of sea salt and sulphur, Peri arrived in Istanbul for her brother’s wedding. She had missed her city of birth dearly – however lonely she might have felt when she lived here, she had been lonelier while she was away. As if to prevent herself from harbouring melancholy thoughts, from the moment she put her suitcase down she was inundated by a list of obligations – relatives to visit, gifts to buy, chores to complete.

  It didn’t take Peri long to sense that in her absence a pyramid of tension had been erected in the Nalbantoğlu household, making the air heavy, difficult to breathe. Some of the ill feeling was old – the usual bitter and short-tempered exchanges between her parents. A large part of it, however, was recent, precipitated by the wedding preparations. The bride’s family had insisted on a lavish ceremony, one worthy of their daughter. The salon that had been rented was replaced at the last minute by a bigger venue, which meant inviting more people, ordering more food and, ultimately, spending more money. Still, no one was satisfied. While the two families kept exchanging pleasantries and compliments, underneath the veneer of graciousness, a tide of resentment flowed both ways.

  The morning of the wedding, Peri woke up to succulent smells drifting through the house. When she went into the kitchen, she found her mother wearing an apron with yellow daisies printed all over it, baking three different kinds of börek – spinach, white cheese, minced meat. Scrubbing, waxing, dusting, washing, Selma had been labouring at a superhuman pace and seemed unable to slow down.

  ‘Tell that woman, she’s going to work herself to death,’ said Mensur to his daughter, sitting at the kitchen table, without lifting his eyes from his newspaper – a centre-left daily he had subscribed to for as long as Peri could remember.

  ‘Tell that man, his son is getting married. It happens once in a lifetime,’ riposted Selma.

  Peri sighed. ‘You two are like kids – why aren’t you speaking to each other?’

  At this her father turned the page; her mother rolled out another lump of dough. Sitting on a chair between them, as if to create a buffer zone, Peri asked, ‘So how was the henna night?’

  Selma bit her lower lip, her stare like splintered glass. ‘You missed it. You should have been here.’

  ‘Mum, I told you I wouldn’t be able to make it. I had classes.’

  ‘Well, just so you know, everyone asked about you. Behind my back, they have been gossiping The son is not here, the daughter is not here … What a family!’

  ‘Umut is not coming?’ asked Peri.

  ‘He said he was. He promised. I made his favourite dishes. I told everyone he was coming. But at the last minute he calls and says, “Mum, I have important things to do.” What important things? He thinks I’m a fool? I don’t understand that boy.’

  But Peri did. Since he had been released from prison, Umut preferred a quiet life in a southern town, making knick-knacks for tourists in a cabin he called home, his smile no less brittle than the seashells that now provided his livelihood. They had visited him a few times in the past. He was always polite and reserved, as though talking to strangers. The woman he lived with – a divorcee with two children – said he was fine, but sometimes his mood darkened unexpectedly: he became peevish, irritable, unable to get out of bed, unable to wash his face; she said sometimes he snapped so badly she had to keep an eye on him day and night, not because she feared he might hurt her or her children, but because he might hurt himself; she kept the razors out of sight, as those cuts, they did not heal easily; neither did she dwell on this, nor did the Nalbantoğlus probe further for fear it was too much for them to handle.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’d have come earlier if I could,’ said Peri. She had no intention of quarrelling with her mother. ‘How was it, tell me.’

  ‘Oh, the usual thing, nothing fancy,’ Selma said. ‘In return, they expect us to shower them in diamonds.’

  Like a meticulous accountant, Selma had been keeping a record of how much money the Nalbantoğlus had forked out versus the other family; how many people the groom would be inviting versus the bride’s guest list; and so on. It was as though a grocer’s scale had materialized in the midst of their lives: whatever weight one family placed in one pan had to be counterbalanced by the other side. If this were a tug-of-war of sorts, it was done with the utmost propriety. Peri was amazed to observe how one minute her mother would compare and complain, and the next minute merrily chatter with the bride’s mother on the phone,
joking and giggling like a schoolgirl.

  Regardless of the expenditure, there were qualities about the bride that pleased Selma endlessly – her family being quite religious, for one.

  ‘In fairness, they brought a brilliant hodja to henna night,’ Selma said. ‘Voice like a nightingale! Everyone wept. The bride’s family are more pious than our seven-generation ancestry. They descend from hajis and sheikhs.’ She enunciated the last words with emphasis, making sure they reached her husband’s unenlightened ears.

  ‘Splendid!’ Mensur retorted from his corner. ‘That means there are just as many heretics in their bloodline. Peri, explain to your mother. There’s a basic concept in dialectics. The negation of the negation. Every doctrine creates its opposition. Where there are many saints, there are bound to be many sinners!’

  Selma’s brow furrowed. ‘Peri, tell him he’s talking nonsense.’

  ‘Dad, Mum, enough …’ Peri said. ‘We’re lucky that my brother found a partner who makes him happy. That’s all that matters.’

  She had met the bride a couple of times. A young woman with dimpled cheeks, hazel eyes that widened at the slightest surprise and a fondness for golden bangles; she appeared rather shy. She wore a headscarf, tying it in a style that Peri learned was called the Dubai way. The Istanbul way suited round faces, the Dubai way oval faces and the Gulf way square faces. Peri was astonished to discover a whole line of Islamic fashion that was either newly emerging or had hitherto escaped her attention. With ‘haute couture hijab’, ‘burqini swimwear’ and ‘halal trousers’, this was a fashion trend – and a huge industry.

  Unlike many secularists she knew, including her father, Peri was not in a state of constant opposition to covered women – hence her easy friendship with Mona. She preferred to consider not what was on top of people’s heads but what was inside of them. And that is where her quandary lay. Despite her acceptance of the bride’s outlook, deep within Peri looked down on her. She had never revealed this to her parents, and found it almost as hard to admit to herself. The girl was not well read; the last time she picked up a book was probably in school. They could not maintain a conversation unless it involved subjects that Peri had no interest in – popular TV series, low-carb diets. To be fair, the bride was no more uninformed than her husband-to-be, whom Peri also secretly belittled. She couldn’t remember ever having had a proper conversation with Hakan.