by Elif Shafak
‘You were so beautiful, you were so lovely
If you’d been a börek I would have eaten you
With few onions, and much meat.
I got lost in conversation, you stuck to the pan and burned
At once I lost my desire.’
When the song was finished, the creatures pulled Siranuş’s cauldron to one side, as well as the fire underneath it. While she suffered the punishment of the whimsical, dripping beads of sweat, the Three Ugly Sisters appeared on the stage. The three sisters, each uglier than the other, were Mari, Takuhi and Agavni. One of them had one breast, the second had two breasts, and the third had three. Side-by-side, they bounced their breasts up and down as they did a belly dance. They were so busy following each other out of the corners of their eyes to catch each other’s mistakes that they forgot about the audience, and even that they were on the stage. Mari hated Agavni because she felt she’d stolen her missing breast. Agavni hated Mari for causing her to carry an extra breast. Both of them hated Takuhi more than anything in the world. They hated Takuhi who with her two breasts threw her sisters’ deformities in their faces, and who, shining darkly like a pearl in mud, was ugly but not deformed. Some evenings Mari and Agavni couldn’t control their tempers and stopped in the middle of their belly dance to start slapping Takuhi. When the audience saw them hit her, when they saw their belated revenge, their worn out enmity, their hearts melted, and they began to relax. Disagreeable to the tongue but pleasant to the eye, the hellish fire under Siranuş burned furiously; thick and languorous smoke would fill the western part of the tent. Finally, when the sisters took Takuhi by the arms and led her off the stage, the audience felt regret for having taken pleasure in the pain of others.
Right after the Three Ugly Sisters, Snowball Vergin would emerge onto the stage. Or rather he jumped out onto the stage. With him jumped the open syphilis sores all over his body. His mother, who was a famous Galata whore, caught the sickness from a famous sweet little gentleman who lived from his inheritance. The poor woman tried everything she could to get rid of the burden in her womb, but she gave up when she realised the baby, who was nourished not only by his mother’s blood, but the also by time itself, clung to her womb like a mussel clinging to its shell. The wealthy gentleman swore that he would undertake the treatment, but a few months before the baby was born he found that both his fortune and his desire had been consumed. Vergin was born gasping for breath and with sores all over him. He was a half-wit from birth; he could not understand the clumsiness he saw. But Vergin grew anyway, not little by little, but by leaps and bounds. He grew so quickly that when he stopped to catch his breath he could see the changes in his body. He bent over and looked with curiosity between his thighs. Amazing. There wasn’t even a single sore there. None of the festering wounds that had pierced his body, none of the aches that left his mind shorn, nor the memories that gripped the heart…none of them, none of them had touched him there. He was pleased.
He called his crotch snowball. No one asked him the meaning of snowball, and he didn’t explain it to anyone. Indeed all of the personalities around him hadn’t been given their share of gratitude from the world, but had been given too many nicknames. Vergin’s nickname was accepted without question in the sidestreets of Galata.
He didn’t grow much after that day. Because he’d already grown enough. He grew just like a snowball rolling down a hill, and the more he grew the further downhill he rolled. And he lived in his own haggard, tattered world, with his low and untamed dreams, just like a snowball that melted itself with its own warmth. While the shouting of passers-by echoed off sinister houses on the streets of ill-repute and broke up, happy faces, young, tender bodies scattered one by one; lifting wine glasses as they slowly chiselled names on tombstones, only Snowball Vergin, only he remained the same. He was neither bound to life nor was life bound to him.
Just then, Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi appeared. When they sensed that this man, about whom all of the whores of Galata loved to tell strange stories, wanted Vergin instead of any of the beautiful women present, there was a commotion. But because they had long since become inured to all of the strange things in the world, the commotion soon died down. Snowball Vergin took his sack and left this damp and dingy place that he considered home.
When he first stepped out onto the stage, his eyes were as wide as saucers as he looked at the crowd before him. Hundreds of eyes were on him; they were spread out in groups in the darkness. He was quite pleased with the situation. From that day to this, every evening, he would wait his turn impatiently in the westward-facing section of the cherry-coloured tent, and when the time came he would rush like an arrow onto the stage.
After Snowball Vergin it was the snake-charmer’s turn. When the ladies saw the snake-charmer, with a silver amulet on his arm, hoop earrings on his ears, and a cummerbund around his waist, they went pale with fear. Those of them who were pregnant closed their eyes tight. By now the snake-charmer would have reached the centre of the stage; he would greet the audience by raising his eyebrows slightly and gently nodding his head, and open the basket. The ladies held their breath, and clung to each other to keep from fainting. The snake would emerge from the basket, slither to the edge of the stage, and stare with its emerald-green eyes. As it stared and was stared at, the audience began to see.
The world was reflected in reverse in the snake’s eyes.
In the world shown in the mirror of its eyes, virgins were widows, and masters were slaves. It was crawling with life under the black earth; it flowed into those who stepped on it. Among the thirsty tree roots, its rotten bones, its evil vipers, its useless structure, wasted seeds, among the wriggling worms, satin was sackcloth, shining copper coins were worthless. The worms gnawed at the young and the old, the rich and the poor with equal appetite. They were everywhere. They made a faint crunching sound as they gnawed; they could destroy the world with this faint crunching sound. If a sacrifice was performed on the dome of the city, and divided into pieces, with equal portions being placed in bowls in front of them, it wouldn’t even begin to satisfy their appetite. When death takes a person’s life, it leaves behind his cloak; when fire consumes a new-born baby, it doesn’t touch the gold it’s wearing. In a world like this one would rather be a cloak than the person wearing it; or be born as gold rather than as the baby wearing it.
It was a description of hell; not a hell after death, but a hell within life’s bosom.
At this stage of the show, the women who couldn’t look into the snake’s eyes any more, jumped screaming to their feet. Nauseating, bright yellow bugs were crawling around their ankles, their throats and their earlobes. The women would hastily begin taking off all their jewellery and throwing it onto the stage. Everyone wanted to purify themselves; to purify themselves as quickly and easily as possible and get away from this hell.
Then, the mirror closed just as it had opened. The snake-charmer bowed with a slight smile, deliberately picked up the jewellery that had been thrown onto the stage and put it into his basket, and then, in contrast to his slowness of a moment before, rushed off the stage as if he was fleeing. The snake slithered after its master like a whistled melody.
After the snake-charmer, Madame Kinar would come out with her puppets. She had little puppets on each of her ten fingers. She would represent the natural world through them. For a deluge, she would spray the place with water; for hail she would break the branches of young trees; for a wind storm she would tear apart a bird’s nest; for a flood she would sweep the crops away; for drought she would burn the soil; for famine she would empty the granaries; for a typhoon she would spray on whoever was in front of her; for a cyclone she would swallow all living creatures; for fire she would roast; for an earthquake she wouldn’t leave a stone standing. There was no evil that nature did not inflict on mankind.
When the dust settled, an anxious silence would fall over the audience. Seeing all of these natural disasters one after another had unsettled the ladies and s
poiled their fun. On top of that, everyone knew there was worse to come. Because it was the Sable-Girl’s turn to appear on stage.
When it was the Sable-Girl’s turn, darkness would fall inside the cherry-coloured tent. Pregnant women would writhe in distress, babies would start to cry, elderly women would recite all the prayers they knew one after another; virgins and widows, believers and unbelievers, poor and rich, all of the women came together, and held their breath. In that momentary darkness, it would cross their minds that the door of the tent must still be open. That is, they could get out; right now they could get away. Changing one’s mind was certainly possible. But how was it possible to change one’s mind when the moment they’d been waiting for had arrived?
Some of the women who’d come to the tent for the first time couldn’t sit still; they would approach the stage with trembling steps, trying to imagine what this demon would be like. But such terrifying monsters appeared before them that they were shaken out of their dreams, and pulled back. Indeed, for the few minutes before the Sable-Girl took the stage, every single woman combed her most secret fear out of her hair, and out of the tangles of her brain. With every passing minute it became less tolerable, as fear incited fear. It wasn’t the object of fear but fear itself that was so frightening. And fear was everywhere; it leaned against every corner and grew everywhere. It could attack from the ground at any moment. In these moments the women didn’t have a chance to look at the stage because they were busy protecting themselves from the fear before them, behind them, beside them and around them. If they’d looked, they could have seen that the Sable-Girl had long since taken the stage and was watching the trembling audience with her sable-black eyes.
A little later, a huge fire was lit on the stage in order to draw the spectators’ attention in that direction. And then all of the women who just a moment ago had been knitting sweaters from the letters of fear all screamed for help in unison. The Sable-Girl was before them, the show had begun.
The Sable-Girl greeted those who watched her in terror in an indifferent manner. Of the thousands of eyes upon her, she only valued a single, watery eye.
Every evening when she took the stage, she watched this eye that was watching her. She watched its watching. The mallet would come down, the drum would resound. The Sable-Girl would start a laboured belly dance. The furs she was wearing were long enough to sweep the ground, and ample enough to cover her body completely. They were definitely made of sable. Among the women who filled the tent were some who had coveted these furs and had had similar furs sewn for them. As the Sable-Girl gyrated on the stage, they involuntarily stroked their own furs. Now the tent was as quiet and as calm as could be. This moment of indifference was as innocent as a dove flying through the sky unaware of the letter around its neck.
The mallet descended, the drum resounded. With harsh movements the Sable-Girl would take off her furs. She would be left stark naked. She’d approach the edge of the stage and, making strange sounds, would rain centuries-old curses upon the audience. Like all of her ancestors she fearlessly displayed her monumental ugliness. Like all of her ancestors she was fearlessly ugly. The top half of her body belonged to a woman, and the bottom half of her body belonged to an animal. The mallet descended, the drum resounded. Suddenly, like a caged animal, she would let loose all her rage. With her tail straight in the air, and growling through her clenched teeth, she would crouch on all fours and prepare to attack, looking around wildly for a victim, wearing the ancient anger of nature as a weapon. And at the least expected moment, she pawed at the eyes surrounding her. Unlike her great-great-grandfather the Sable-Boy, she was not obedient.
An ear-splitting voice was heard. ‘Close your eyes!’ If any of the spectators were still insisting on looking at the stage, they immediately closed their eyes tight when they heard this voice.
Every evening the show was punctuated in the same manner. The Sable-Girl would go, the curtain would come down, but the women with their eyes closed tight would continue to remain frozen in place for a moment. As if there was no place left for them to go except this cherry-coloured tent. They weren’t going to go out the door, they weren’t going to go down the hill, they weren’t going to go back. Who knows how long they would have stayed glued to their seats, holding on to the images of what they’d seen. But the same thing happened every evening. A baby would suddenly cry, or one of the old women would be overwhelmed and suddenly fall into a faint. Then, as if they’d received a command, or as if the owner of the house was chasing them out, all of the women would open their eyes and jump to their feet. They would rush out of the tent pushing and shoving each other, trampling on those who had fallen, trying not to look back if possible, as if they were fleeing from a ghost.
Every evening without fail, a number of children were torn from their mothers’ hands and got lost. Some of these children were lost for hours and later were reunited with their mothers in tears, and others would be delivered to angry fathers the next day. It happened that some of these children remained unclaimed, and they would begin to live in the cherry-coloured tent among Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi’s strange creatures.
The forgotten children in the westward-facing section of Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi’s cherry-coloured tent would advance, step-by-step, day-by-day, they were bent into shape, through a variety of illnesses, embracing a number of crises, passing from apprenticeship to mastery of ugliness with castrated smiles and nocturnal anger. When the time was just right, they would take their places on the stage and cut through this place of confusion with ear-splitting screams.
Istanbul — 1999
zahir: Zahir, one of the ninety-nine names of God, means ‘He who doesn’t hide from sight.’
‘Don’t move!’
I don’t know why, but I wasn’t at all pleased that the man had said this. And there was no need for him to repeat his warning. I wasn’t moving. And I knew what my motionlessness resembled. My motionlessness resembled a hard-working ant running around a dead bee lying on its back at the bottom of an empty water glass; from the same starting point it always watched the world turn, and turn again, with the same delighted amazement. My motionlessness was like a memory that resembled a consumptive spitting out his unforgettable memories into a handkerchief; spending each day in quarantine infecting his sickness with loneliness. My motionlessness was like the warm, yellowish pudding that’s poured over homemade cakes; it slowly covered everything with its sweetness. Of course the water glass had an outside; a land where my memory was exempt from coughing or a layer that the pudding had not yet covered. Me, I wasn’t outside in that dry, faraway land but: I wasn’t m-o-v-i-n-g.
I was waiting motionlessly because I was stuck in a door again. This kind of thing happens to me all the time when I pass through those double doors and only one side is left open. If I have to confess, I don’t fit through this type of door. I have to go through sideways. And even then I get stuck.
The front door of the Hayalifener Apartments is one of those double doors. One of the wings was bolted to the floor and ceiling, and only a narrow space was left to pass through. Usually I’m careful going in and out, but today I was in such a hurry to get home that I found myself in a situation where my sweater had been caught on the lock between the two wings of the door. As if that wasn’t bad enough, while I was caught there by the threads of my sweater, I was caught by the neighbourhood ladies returning with their bags from the nearby market. As always, they examined me from head to toe. Just to escape their stares I rushed to move aside and let them through, but I didn’t think to take off the sweater first, and I became even more badly entangled. The neighbourhood ladies, after talking for some time about how the unravelled strand could never be restored to its former state but should at least be pulled inside the sweater so it couldn’t be seen, and about how this might be done, went inside to their homes.
As they were going up the stairs, an old man was coming down. I moved aside to let him pass too. But instead of loo
king and passing by like the others, he insisted on staying to help and took it upon himself to get me out of the situation and to rescue the strand from my sweater. For close to ten minutes he struggled with his trembling hands and his weak eyes, telling me again and again not to move.
Having to wait without moving, I was reminded of how it was for B-C in the studio. One day a week he modelled there for hours. He felt like a slave, on his way to be sold at a festival, who felt something deep in his heart, knowing that he would never see in the falcon mirror the reflection of the time when he could run free and hunt. He looked hopelessly at the merchants and customers at the auction. It didn’t make any difference who bought him; either that one or the other one. So with indifference he posed for people he didn’t know. He doesn’t know why he goes to that miserable studio, or why he behaves this way; I find it odd that he’s so untroubled.
Perhaps I thought it was my duty to take on the anxieties he was neglecting. In his place I would have been anxious. And when I’m anxious I destroy my cuticles.
This is a sensitive matter. First, when hunting, one has to flush the prey out into the open. The devil’s wiles made things difficult for me in regard to my cuticles. Anyway, they are as curious as they are wily. To be curious is to want to see; this was the weakest point of my cuticles, the cause of their downfall.
In the drawer where I hid what I saw as a child, there was an attendant from a woman’s bathhouse who looked like an ogre. With all her strength, the woman was scrubbing a child who was so thin that you could count her bones. I can’t get it out of my mind. As the giant attendant, on her knees, scrubbed off layer after layer of skin and dripped drops of sweat onto the heated marble, she was making kissing sounds. She knew well that, as the skin was made sleepy by the steam and the scrubbing, the rough cloth she was using would soon be black with dirt. Because the dirt loved to have kisses sent to it. It would immediately stick its head out to see who was blowing it kisses. The sound of the bath attendant’s kisses was like a siren’s call. The dirt that came out of the child’s body turned its rudder without thinking and didn’t even have time to think that this melody was a sad and bankrupt death. When the rocks ground up the huge ships, because of the excitement of the overseas discovery, not a single bone was left behind. The dirt’s corpse, draining away with the filthy water of the bathhouse, was rushing with due speed towards an unknown exit.
