by Elif Shafak
Meanwhile, Peri, not having found an empty seat, leaned against the wall. She scrutinized Azur, who was listening to the exchange, his hair drifting across his forehead, his face lit with an enigmatic gleam and his chin resting in his palm. He wouldn’t be able to stay in this position for long. The next question was directed at him.
A young woman in the front row rose to her feet. Shoulders squared off, her black pony-tail catching the light from the ceiling, she stood firmly upright. Even when her back was turned, Peri could see it was Shirin.
‘Professor Azur, as a free spirit, I have a problem with the religion I was born into. I can’t stand the arrogance of so-called “experts” or “thinkers” or the self-serving platitudes of imams and priests and rabbis. Excuse my French, it’s a total fucking charade. When I read you I find a voice that addresses my anger. On sensitive matters you speak with conviction. And you show me how to empathize with others. When you sit down to write, do you have a specific reader in mind?’
Azur tilted his head to one side with a gentle smile of understanding and complicity – a nuance of expression that escaped Peri’s notice. At the edge of her vision, a blue patterned shirt had distracted her. It was the male attendant she had met outside! Fearing he was looking for her, she shrank back against the wall. But the young man, his face glowering with unmistakable hostility, was staring at the stage, his jaw clenched, his eyes glued on one speaker in particular: Azur.
As soon as Shirin sat down, the same boy lurched forward, zigzagging through the audience. He stopped next to Shirin, closely leaning in as he asked for the mic. Peri had no clue about what was passing between them, but she could see Shirin’s back stiffen. Grabbing the mic nonetheless, the boy turned towards the panelists, his booming voice almost a shout. ‘I’ve a question for Professor Azur!’
Azur’s face darkened. His nod, slow and deliberate, suggested he knew the young man. ‘I’m listening, Troy,’ he said.
‘Professor, you wrote in one of your earlier books – I believe it was Smash the Duality – that you’d not engage in debates with atheists or with theists, but here you are doing exactly that, unless I’m addressing a clone. What has changed? Were you wrong back then or are you making a mistake now?’
Azur gave him a smile – different from the one he had offered Shirin – that exuded cold confidence.
‘You are entitled to criticize my words so long as you quote them truthfully. I did not say I’d never debate with atheists and theists. What I said was …’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Does anyone have a copy? I need to see what I said.’
Laughter broke out.
The moderator handed him a book. Promptly, Azur found the page he was looking for. ‘Here it is!’
Clearing his throat – rather theatrically, Peri thought – he began to read: ‘The prevailing question whether God exists elicits one of the most tedious, unproductive and ill-advised disputations in which otherwise intelligent people have been engaged. We have seen, all too often, that neither theists nor atheists are ready to abandon the Hegemony of Certainty. Their seeming disagreement is a circle of refrains. It is not even accurate to call this battle of words a “debate”, since the participants, irrespective of their points of view, are known to be intransigent in their positions. Where there is no possibility of change, there is no ground for a real dialogue.’
Azur craned his head and scanned the audience before he closed the book. ‘You see, participating in an open debate is a bit like falling in love.’ His voice was serene; his gestures emphatic, smooth, plentiful. ‘You are a different person by the time it comes to an end. Therefore, my friends, if you are unwilling to change, do not enter into philosophical arguments. That’s what I said in the past and that’s what I’m saying right now.’
Pockets of applause rose from the audience.
‘I’m afraid we are running out of time. One final question from our listeners,’ announced the moderator.
An old man stood up. ‘May I ask the distinguished scholars if they have a favourite poem on God – whether they believe in Him or not?’
The audience stirred in their seats with anticipation.
The first professor said: ‘My favourite poems tend to change as time passes … but at the moment I’m thinking of a few verses from Lord Byron’s “Prometheus”.’
Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity’s recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain …
‘I’m not at all good at memorizing poems,’ the second professor said. ‘I’ll try T. S. Eliot.’
Many desire to see their names in print,
Many read nothing but the race reports.
Much is your reading, but not the Word of GOD,
Much is your building, but not the House of GOD.
Though it was his turn, Azur remained quiet for what seemed like a second too long. Into the expectant silence he said, ‘Mine will be from the great Persian – Hafez. I might change the words somewhat, since, as you know, every act of translation is a lover’s betrayal.’
He spoke so softly that Peri had to lean forward in order to hear him. She noticed several in the audience doing the same thing.
I have learned so much from God
that I can no longer call myself
A Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim, a Buddhist, a Jew
The Truth has shared so much of itself with me
that I can no longer call myself
a man, a woman, an angel or even a pure soul
As he uttered these verses, Azur lifted his eyes and stared straight ahead over the audience. Although he was looking at no one in particular, and seemed at equal distance from his admirers and critics, in that instant Peri could not help but feel that his words were aimed at her.
The moderator stole a glance at his watch. ‘We have time for one last remark from each speaker,’ he announced. ‘Gentlemen, how would you summarize your views in one sentence?’
The atheist professor said, ‘I’ll repeat a well-known quote and leave it at that: Religion is a fairy tale for those who are afraid of the dark.’
‘In that case, atheism is a fairy tale for those who are afraid of the light,’ countered the pious professor in his soft Irish burr.
All heads turned to Azur. ‘Actually, I quite like fairy tales,’ he said, full of mischief. ‘My colleagues here are equally misguided. One wishes to deny faith, the other doubt. They seem not to understand that I, as a simple human being, need both faith and doubt. Uncertainty, gentlemen, is a blessing. We do not crush it. We celebrate it. That’s the way of the Third Path.’
‘On that note I’d like to thank our distinguished guests and bring our discussion to a close,’ the moderator jumped in, worried that Azur’s remarks might spark a fresh outburst. He commented that today’s event was a perfect example of a sincere, uncensored and open debate in the best British and Oxford tradition.
‘Let’s have a warm round of applause for all our speakers! And don’t forget, they’ll now be signing their books.’
The audience broke into a prolonged applause. Then, those keen on wanting signed copies rushed towards a stall piled high with the professors’ books, while others made their way towards the stage, hoping for a personal word with one of the speakers; some stayed seated, whispering among themselves. The rest of the audience shuffled steadily towards the exit.
In the meantime, the three speakers moved to the table set aside for them. A yellow rose had been placed in front of each by the organizers of the event.
Peri inched forward with the crowd, eavesdropping on conversations to her left and right. Just before she was swept out of the hall, she stopped and turned back as though she wished to gather every detail within the reach of her gaze. She watched the moderator thrust his notes into his briefcase. She watched t
he two older professors chat with their readers. And she watched an untidy queue of admirers form in front of Azur – until he disappeared little by little amidst the stream of bodies.
The Optimizer
Istanbul, Oxford, 2001
The first term ended in a blur. Peri, home for the Christmas holidays, persuaded herself that her father’s health had not worsened and that her mother’s preoccupation with hygiene had not turned into an obsession. The entire house smelled of bleaching powder and lemon cologne. Draped over every radiator were drying clothes, washed so often that their patterns and colours had all but faded, tiny pools of water gathering underneath like tears shed for things gone by.
On New Year’s Eve they were in front of the TV, father and daughter, munching roasted chestnuts as they watched a belly dancer – Mensur’s traditional way of celebrating the arrival of a new year. Selma, as always, had gone to her room early, not to sleep but to pray. With both Umut and Hakan gone, it was only the two of them, father and daughter – just like in the past. They did not speak much, as if between them silence had a language of its own. It was the rituals, their rituals, Peri had missed most – taking long walks by the sea, cooking menemen, playing backgammon on the card table next to the cactus in the window.
A week later Peri returned to Oxford. Two consecutive trips to Istanbul having drained her budget, she was determined to get a part-time job. There was also one more thing on her mind: to find out more about Professor Azur.
The spring term began with fresh hopes and fresh decisions. Peri made an appointment to see her tutor for academic advice. A man with wire-rimmed glasses and a permanently distracted air, as if he were trying to solve a quadratic equation in his head, Dr Raymond was short in stature and firm-jawed. He encouraged every student he worked with to find the perfect schedule to optimize his or her intellectual resources. In return, the undergraduates had a nickname for him: Sir Optimizer.
Dr Raymond and Peri spoke at length about which courses she should take in her second year. Not that there was much flexibility. The programme was more or less fixed, with only a few minor adjustments allowed.
‘There’s a seminar I was hoping to take. Everyone says it’s great,’ Peri said briskly. ‘Well, not exactly everyone, but a friend of mine does.’
‘And which seminar might that be?’ Dr Raymond asked, taking off his glasses.
Over the years he had seen, time and again, students misdirect one another. What worked for one person brought misery to someone else. Besides, young people had a tendency to change their minds as often as they changed their top-five songs. The course they went into raptures about at the beginning of the term they lambasted at the end. In his twenty-three years as a fellow of the college, he had arrived at the conclusion that it was best not to give students too many options. Choice and confusion were conjoined twins.
Unaware of the thoughts crossing her tutor’s mind, Peri carried on, ‘A series of seminars on God. The professor’s name is Azur. Do you know him?’
Dr Raymond’s mouth, fixed in an amiable smile, twisted downwards almost imperceptibly. Only the slightest twitch of an eyebrow gave away his discomfort. ‘Oh, I know of him – who doesn’t?’
Peri’s mind raced as she attempted to deconstruct the intonation of this apparently simple remark. She had come to learn that the English had an indirect way of expressing their opinions. Unlike the Turks, they did not communicate resentment through resentment or anger through double anger. No, there were layers to their conversation; the deepest discomfort could be conveyed with a reticent smile. They complimented when, in truth, they wished to denounce; they clothed their criticisms in cryptic praise. If I gave a bad performance on stage, Peri thought to herself, in Turkey, they’d pelt me with twigs of prickly holly; in England, I imagine it’d be with roses – confident that I’d get the message from the thorns. Totally different styles.
In the meantime, Dr Raymond paused, mulling over how best to approach a delicate issue. When he spoke again he articulated each word carefully – like a parent explaining an unwelcome fact of life to a sullen child. ‘I’m not entirely convinced that this would be the right choice for you.’
‘But you said I could choose a subject of interest as long as it was on the options list and this one is. I checked it.’
‘Perhaps you could tell me why you want to take this seminar?’
‘The subject is … important to me for family reasons.’
‘Family reasons?’
‘God was always a contentious issue in our house. Or religion, I should say. My mother and father have conflicting views. I’d like to study it, properly.’
Dr Raymond cleared his throat. ‘We are lucky to have one of the world’s greatest collection of books; you can read on God as much as you want.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to do that under the guidance of a professor?’
It was a question Dr Raymond preferred not to answer and he didn’t. ‘Azur is very knowledgeable, that’s for sure, but I must warn you, his teaching method is, how shall I put it, unorthodox. It doesn’t work well with everyone. This seminar divides students – some enjoy it, others become profoundly unhappy. They come to me to complain.’
Peri sat still. Oddly, her adviser’s lack of enthusiasm had whetted her curiosity; she was now even more eager to take the seminar.
‘Bear in mind it’s a small class. Azur accepts few students and he expects them to attend every week and to do all the reading and assignments. It’s a lot of work.’
‘I don’t shy away from hard work,’ said Peri.
Dr Raymond heaved an audible sigh. ‘Well, by all means go and talk to Azur, ask him to show you the syllabus.’ He couldn’t help adding, ‘If he has one, that is.’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
Dr Raymond paused, disquiet passing across his usually genial features. Then he did something he had never done in his long years as an Oxford don: to speak negatively to a student about a colleague behind his back. ‘Look, Azur is seen as a bit of an oddball around here. He believes he is a genius and geniuses think they’re not bound by the rules of common people.’
‘Oh,’ Peri gasped. ‘But is it true?’
‘Is what true?’
‘Is he a genius?’
Dr Raymond realized that his cynicism had backfired, and whatever he said next might drive him further into a corner. His solemn expression changed to one of light-heartedness. ‘It was meant in jest.’
‘A joke? I see …’
‘Don’t rush, take it easy,’ Dr Raymond said, putting his spectacles back on, signalling the end of the conversation. ‘See how you feel about it first. If in doubt, come back and talk to me, we’ll easily find you another option. A more suitable one.’
Peri jumped to her feet, having heard only what she wanted to hear. ‘Great, thank you, sir!’
After Peri left, her adviser’s lips turned downward in contemplation. His jaw set even more tautly, his nostrils flaring and his fingers laced together under his chin, he sat in his armchair for a while, motionless. Finally, he shrugged, deciding he had done what he could. If that silly girl was going to bite off more than she could chew, she would have only herself to blame.
The Youth
Istanbul, 2016
Deniz, standing behind Peri’s chair, leaned down, gave her a cursory peck on the cheek and whispered into her mother’s ear: ‘Mum, I want to leave.’
Her face caught the light from the Murano chandelier. Her friend was by her side, twirling a strand of hair around a finger. The two teenagers looked bored. Much as they craved inclusion in the grown-up world, it was obvious they found it dull and perhaps predictable.
‘Selim is going to take us home,’ Deniz added.
She wasn’t asking her mother for permission, only informing her. The other girl, the daughter of the bank CEO, was also coming – a last-minute sleepover. They had made their plans. Probably they would stay up late, listening to music, texting their friends, nibbling mid
night snacks, laughing at people’s Instagram photos and YouTube videos; nonetheless Deniz would be complaining, a barrage of grievances having accumulated in her breast, as if it were a detention centre she lived in and not the house of her loving parents.
‘Okay, sweetheart,’ Peri said. She trusted her husband’s driver, Selim, who had been with the family for long years. ‘You can leave early; Dad and I won’t be late.’
The guests smiled. A few rolled their eyes. It was a familiar conversation to anyone with teenage children.
‘Ciao, girls!’ The CEO waved from his corner.
‘Let me walk you girls out,’ Peri said, as she pushed her chair back.
Adnan rose to his feet. ‘No, you stay, darling. I’ll do it.’
His eyes lit up as their gazes met. He did not seem upset about the Polaroid any more. He had dropped the subject. He was good at that, knowing when to let things go – unlike Peri. Effortlessly he smiled at her, the smile that meant he was assuming responsibility and putting things in order. Level-headed and sensible, Adnan enjoyed solving problems; and if he couldn’t solve them, he knew how to manage them. So different from Peri. For her, problems were like insect bites: she’d scratch and scratch away at them. She could neither allow them to heal nor leave them alone. Whereas he liked to repair broken things – and broken people. How else to explain his attraction to instability, Peri thought. How else to explain his attraction to me.
As her husband and daughter passed by, Peri stood up. She kissed Adnan on the lips, even though she knew some guests would regard it as poor etiquette and others as indecent behaviour. ‘Thank you, darling.’
