by Elif Shafak
He could have gone to America or Australia and started all over again. But he had chosen to stay. Without administrative and teaching responsibilities he had found plenty of time to read, research and write. This, combined with a new fire that had seized his soul, had motivated him to publish one book after another. Each of the titles he completed in all these years propelled him forward into fame and recognition, so that today he was at a point he would have never reached had he not lost his post. Perhaps Plutarch was right, after all. Fate did lead those who were willing to be led, and those who resisted the idea, like himself, were dragged forcefully instead.
He still lived in the same house with the bay windows looking into the woods. In the garden he grew culinary herbs and vegetables; socialized with a handful of old friends, no more. He cooked. Life was quiet, ordered, and this was how he wanted it. He still had lovers, several, and it no longer mattered whether the women he shared his bed with were affiliated with the university. There was something paradoxical about public disgrace that, insofar as it robbed one of social roles and respectability, was liberating. Yes, he was as free as a bird and almost as unconcerned. But he knew, of course, that birds were creatures of habit, therefore not exactly free, and had plenty of things to worry about.
Every now and then he received a call or email from a journalist set on interviewing him or a student writing a thesis on his books. He accepted some, refused others, acting purely on impulse. In the beginning, he had adamantly rejected every attempt to intrude on his private space. He was aware that the first question they would ask him would be about the scandal, despite the amount of time that had gone by. Even if they did not bring it up in the interview, there would always be a mention in their piece, which could be worse. So he had refused for as long as he could. But inaccessibility had only rendered him more alluring in the eyes of his readers. He had a loyal audience who knew, read and shared everything he produced. As one journalist had put it, among the most dishonoured thinkers of the times, he was the most revered.
After Spinoza passed away, he had refused to take care of another dog. The decision had not lasted long. A two-month-old Romanian shepherd puppy had appeared at his door with a golden bow attached to his collar – a birthday gift from Shirin. Thick, white fluffy hair with pale grey patches all over. Calm and clever, an animal made for the mountains. It seemed apposite to name him after the Romanian philosopher famous for his saturnine views on God and everything else. Besides, it suited Azur’s mood. Henceforth it was Cioran who accompanied him on his walks.
This afternoon, Shirin had knocked at his door, her belly huge, her cheeks aflame. Pregnancy made some women more beatific in appearance, and she was one of them. If ever there was a sinner saint, it would have been her.
‘You’re going to come, right? Please don’t say no. I’ll raise hell,’ she said, tapping her bright green manicured fingernails on his table.
Shirin had become a fine academic; after the scandal she had gone to Princeton, from where she wrote him almost every day without fail. Upon her return she had found a teaching position at her old college. Since then they had remained good friends, despite the age difference and their discordant lifestyles. That neither of them had tried to revive their past affair was commendable and the right thing to do, but also sad, Azur had thought. He knew he was getting old.
‘Look, this man is awful. Racist. Homophobe. Islamophobe, poor Mona would have had a heart attack. He has no shame. He says God speaks through his mouth.’
Azur smiled. ‘There are many of them; get used to it.’
‘I won’t,’ Shirin said. ‘Please come.’
‘What do you want from me, darling? You think my presence means anything to anyone, least of all to him? I’m a walking disgrace in their eyes. Besides, I stopped debating God. Don’t do it any more.’
‘I don’t believe that for a second. Just come, please.’
After she left, he made himself tea and sat at the kitchen table. A ray of sunlight slanting through the foliage of the sycamore tree outside formed a mottled patchwork on his face, accentuating his chiselled features. A local newspaper was folded beside him. There was an article about the Dutch scholar known for his contentious views on Islam, refugees, gay marriage and the state of the world. He claimed direct access to God – a privileged club membership. For near on two centuries the Oxford Union had invited eminent outside speakers, ranging from conventional to controversial. But no one could remember such a hue and cry as there had been for this one-man address.
Azur lifted the teacup, leaving a stain on the newspaper that circled the speaker’s head – now the man looked holy indeed. He stared at the image for a moment, transfixed. Then, on impulse, he grabbed his jacket and his car keys.
Twenty minutes later, as Azur approached the building, silhouetted against the overcast sky, he noticed a group of students waiting outside with placards protesting against the speaker, demanding that he should be turned off university soil.
A young man stopped him. A fresher by the look of him. He would not know Azur.
‘We launched a petition to stop this monster, will you sign?’ His English was accented but easy on the ears.
‘Isn’t it a bit late?’ Azur said. ‘The man will be speaking in ten minutes.’
‘Doesn’t matter. If we collect enough signatures the Union will have to think twice before inviting someone like him next time. Besides, we are planning to go in and interrupt the talk.’ He thrust a ballpoint pen and a pad in front of Azur.
‘Sorry to disappoint you,’ Azur said, ‘but I won’t sign.’
A look of contempt crossed the young man’s face. ‘So you agree with him? A fascist?’
‘I didn’t say I shared his worldview.’
But the student, having already lost interest, turned back and walked away, a fast shuffle. Azur felt torn between letting him go and catching up with him.
‘Wait!’ He hurried after him.
The student stopped, surprised.
‘You’re Muslim, right?’
A cautious nod.
‘You’ve read Rumi, I presume. Remember the line? If you are irritated by every rub, how will your mirror be polished?’
‘What?’
‘Let this guy speak. Ideas must be challenged with ideas. Books with better books. However stupid they might be, you can’t shut down people’s voices. Banning speakers is no way to go.’
‘Keep your high-flown philosophy to yourself,’ he said. ‘No one has the right to insult my religion and what’s sacred to me.’
‘But imagine how free you’ll feel if you can rise above this man’s hatred? We must answer insult with wisdom.’
‘Is that your Rumi again?’
‘Actually it’s Shams, his companion and –’
‘Just leave me alone,’ the young man said before he strode towards his friends, and whispered something to them. They all stared up at Azur.
Why couldn’t he ever hold his tongue? This tongue that had caused him enough trouble in life already. Running his fingers through his thinning, grey-flecked hair, he entered the Oxford Union. There was a poster at the entrance with the title of the talk: ‘Save Europe for Europeans’.
A tense excitement buzzed among the crowd that had gathered in the hall. Some had arrived here with feelings of anger, disdain and disbelief towards the speaker, who had made a career out of being insulting and derisive; some with a smug satisfaction that someone was finally saying aloud what they had been thinking.
As Azur inched his way through the audience, a few colleagues from way back waved at him, while others pretended not to have noticed him. Shame was a cloak of invisibility. He wore it in public. It did not hurt him, not as much as before, observing just how readily people judged and distanced themselves. At times like this, he thought about Peri, wondering what she was doing in Istanbul, what kind of a life she had built for herself. If he had been condemned to lifelong disgrace, she must have been condemned to lifelong remorse. Who coul
d possibly tell which was harder on the soul?
Seeing him coming, Shirin stood up, waving, one hand on her belly. Her excitement was so touching Azur felt sad. It wasn’t his cowardly accusers or opportunistic rivals who had made him feel vulnerable. It was those who, no matter what, loved and respected and supported him regardless. They had waited for him to clear his name. This he had refused to do. He had always thought that the more you protested your innocence in front of others, the more you would be incriminated in their eyes. Besides, opening up old files would have hurt Peri too.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Shirin said. ‘I knew you would.’
‘I’m going to leave early. Don’t think I could stand him till the end.’
She agreed.
In a little while the speaker walked on stage, tieless in an electric-blue cashmere suit. He spoke for thirty minutes about the dangers awaiting Western civilization. His voice undulated in a calculated rhythm, dropping now and then to a hoarse whisper, rising upon words that he knew would induce fear. He was not a racist, he said. Certainly not a xenophobe. His favourite bakery was run by an Arab couple, his private doctor was of Pakistani origin and he had spent the best holiday of his life years before in Beirut, where a cab driver had recovered his lost wallet. But the doors of Europe had to be securely bolted. It was the only logical consequence of an entire omnishambles created by others. Europe was home. Muslims were strangers. Even a five-year-old knew one did not invite strangers into one’s house. Everyone in the world envied the wealth of the West and it had to be protected both from the outsiders and the Judases within, who did not see that diluting a culture, adulterating a race, defiling a heritage was wrong. Wrong! Wrong! Interracial and interfaith marriages, they all endangered the integrity of Western society. We should not be ashamed to talk about purity. Racial, cultural, social and religious purity. He was eloquent, well mannered and – like all good demagogues – knew when to crack a joke.
Europe’s problem was that it had abandoned God. People were finally waking up to this historical mistake. It was time to bring God the Saviour back – back into academia, back into the family, back into the public space. Freedoms should never be confused with Godlessness. Europe had been wasting its time debating foolish subjects – like same-sex marriage – while the barbarian hordes were massing at our gates. If people chose to be gay, fine, but they had to bear the consequences. They could not lay claim to marriage – clearly stated as a covenant with God between a man and a woman. The present turmoil – terrorism, refugee crisis, Islamic extremism on European soil – was God’s way of teaching Europeans a lesson. Testing, correcting, honing, perfecting. In the past the Lord had rained down fire and brimstone on sinful cities; today He rained refugees and terrorists upon us. Every age brought its own punishment.
‘My friends, God is here with us today. They tried to banish Him from universities. They have offended Him for so long. But He is present in all His glory. I’m nothing but His vessel, His humble mouthpiece.’
From his seat in the audience Azur scoffed, loud and bold, piercing a moment of silence in the hall. All eyes turned to him, including the speaker.
‘Whom do I see before us? We are honoured by the presence of Professor Azur, if I’m not mistaken,’ the speaker said, ‘though not a professor any more.’
Whispers rippled across the hall as colleagues and students craned their heads to get a better view of the unruly listener. Azur stood up. Beside him Shirin sat still, her face as white as a ghost’s.
‘You are right. I don’t teach any more.’
His mouth turned down, the speaker said, ‘Yes, I heard. It even reached our quiet little corner in Amsterdam.’ A fake smile of sympathy spread across his face. ‘But I’m pleased to see with my own eyes how God has brought you back to the light.’
‘Who said I’d been in the dark?’ Azur said.
‘Well, it’s obvious …’
Azur nodded. ‘Then I must give you hope. I’ve been all things unholy. If God can work through me, He can work miracles through anyone – maybe even open up a closed mind like yours.’
‘How splendid of you to quote St Francis. For your own purposes, I presume. It’s what people do. Someday we must have a debate. It’ll be fun.’
And with that the preacher moved on, leaving Azur still standing up, itching to engage in a debate that would not be granted anytime soon.
When he returned from his evening walk, still reliving the moment at the Oxford Union, the house felt chilly. The photographs on the walls, the tiles by the fireplace. As he was heating a lasagne from the day before, his phone began to ring. An unfamiliar number, it looked international. Not in the mood to talk to anyone, he decided not to answer it. It stopped halfway, a moment of dead silence. Cioran by his feet gave a little whimper. Then it started ringing again.
This time something inside nudged him to pick up the phone. And he did. On the other end of the line, from a seaside mansion in Istanbul, was Peri, trying to find her voice.
The Three Passions
Istanbul, 2016
Breathe in. Breathe out. For a moment, time seemed to have melted away and she became the girl she once was, catapulted from a bad dream or thrust into yet another – the wardrobe she had climbed into was like her brother’s prison cell. Meanwhile, outside, the guests and the staff had been taken upstairs to the gilded office. Peri had heard their footsteps as they were herded together, but now an ominous silence had descended on the household. She tightened her grip on her husband’s phone as she waited for the ring. A sudden lump formed in her throat as she heard Azur’s voice at the end of the line.
‘Hello?’
The familiar timbre brought tears to her eyes. Her mouth felt as though it were full of tiny particles, fine grains of remorse. It was frightening the speed with which the shared past, like liquid pain, flowed into the silences of the present.
‘Hello? Who is this?’
She almost hung up, so sharply did the words abandon her. Yet she was tired of running away from herself and the impulse to confront her fears propelled her forward. ‘Azur … it’s me, Peri.’
‘Pe-ri …’ he repeated and paused, as if the very invocation of her name embraced the totality of things, the good and the bad and everything in between.
Her mind was racing. Her pulse was racing. Yet when she spoke again her voice sounded calm. ‘I should have called you before. I acted like a coward.’
Azur remained silent. He had known this moment would come, but he had never planned for it.
‘What a surprise,’ he said at last. He seemed about to say something else but changed his mind. ‘You all right?’
‘Not really,’ she replied without dwelling on it. She did not tell him there were armed men in the house. Nor did she say that this conversation could be cut off abruptly, as her battery was running low. She heard a dog bark in the background. ‘Spinoza?’
‘Spinoza is dead, my dear. I’m hoping he’s in a better world.’
She began to cry, silently. ‘I owe you an apology, Azur. I should have spoken in front of the committee.’
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ he said gently. ‘You were in no state to make a sound judgement. You were too young.’
‘I was old enough.’
‘Well … I should have been more careful.’
That took her by surprise. So he had not hated her all this time, as she’d feared. Instead he had taken it on himself.
I read your latest book, she wanted to say. I have read every single title you have published since … You have changed. You sound more cynical … dispassionate. And I wonder if that means you’ve lost your restlessness, the playful spirit that could charm your students and mesmerize entire audiences. I hope not.
From upstairs she heard the distant drum of footsteps. A brief commotion. Someone yelled. A gunshot pierced the air. A thud.
Peri’s whole frame went rigid, her breath coming in rasps.
‘What was that?’ asked Azur.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Where are you?’
Inside a wardrobe in a posh villa in Istanbul that has just been taken over by thugs, in my mouth the taste of fear and a truffle named Oxford. No, she couldn’t tell him that.
‘Does it matter?’ she said, keeping her voice impossibly low.
He said, ‘When I met you, Peri, I thought, this girl doesn’t know it but she carries the three passions of Bertrand Russell: the longing for love, the search for knowledge and the unbearable compassion for the suffering of mankind.’
Her face clouded over.
‘You had all three of them,’ he said. ‘So deep was your need for love. Your thirst for learning. Your sensitivity towards others … to the point of self-effacement. I felt for you. But I also felt angry at you. You reminded me of a woman I had known.’
‘Your wife?’ she asked cautiously.
‘No, my dear. This was someone called Nour. I became anxious that I could hurt you just like I had hurt her. The truth is, I know I’ve ended up harming every woman who’s reached out to me.’
‘Except Shirin.’
‘True, she was invincible. She seemed so. She was younger, but she was strong, stubborn. A natural-born warrior. Next to her there was nothing to worry about. Nothing bad would ever happen to her.’
‘You wanted a love devoid of guilt.’
