by Elif Shafak
This city has an East and a West. But once a person rises into the air and sees it from above, this compass breaks. There remains neither East nor West. For me now there’s only below and above. Because I…
yabanci (alien): A thing or a person the eye has not seen before.
…have finally become a floating balloon.
yaldacilik (gilding): 1. The art of gilding. 2. To cover an object’s bad sides to make it look more beautiful than it is (for example, to gild it with gold or silver dust).
I’m a floating balloon filled with gas. And like every floating balloon, I’m floating in the eyes of a lonely-child. Lonely-children, unlike other children, often turn their eyes inward. When they’re not looking into themselves, they usually either have their heads down and are looking at the ground, or else are lying on their backs looking at the sky. For this reason, they’re the first ones to notice me. As I swing in the sky, the lonely-children in the various corners of the earth will stop what they’re doing and watch me with fixed eyes. Perhaps at the very first moment they see me, they don’t think there could be lonely-children other than themselves who are watching me at the same moment. Let them think so. A floating balloon is a show seen by an audience of one. In time she’ll learn why this is so.
yalingöz: Without eyelids.
Yes, it is learnt of in time. Because a lonely-child is so surprised and excited the first time she sees a floating balloon, she’ll want to show it to someone else at once. She’ll think she can break free of her loneliness by showing someone else this beauty she’s discovered by herself. She’ll either go home and call someone outside, or pull her mother by the arm, or shout to the children nearby. At first the others won’t understand what the lonely-child is saying; then, they’ll look at where she’s pointing. But they won’t see anything there. Because the floating balloon has long since floated away. It’s not there. It’s not as if it had been there and was gone; it was as if it had never existed. The people the lonely-child has called to see the floating balloon will laugh half bashfully and half angrily. She’s understood. She’s understood that if you take your eyes off a floating balloon, it won’t be where you left it when you look back. This means that, just at the moment you took your eyes off it, the floating balloon ceased to exist at the point you left it. Because it exists when it’s seen, but ceases to exist when it isn’t seen.
The next time the lonely-child sees a floating balloon, she won’t try to show anyone else. She’s grown up after all; enough to see that in this world, anything she discovered alone wouldn’t free her from loneliness. From now on she’ll keep her secrets to herself. The next time, she’ll hold her breath, and won’t take her eyes off the balloon as she watches it rise. Her heart will soar. She won’t tell anyone what she’s seen. Because the rise of the balloon addresses only the eye; it is seeing and being seen. Putting it into words wears it out; virtually any word that tries to describe it will be inadequate. As if it’s not a balloon, but a silent promise that’s floating in the sky. The balloon floats, the child watches; the child watches, the balloon floats. Then, the balloon passes through the sky’s satin gate. It disappears. The lonely-child is disappointed. Because she didn’t take her eyes off it for a single moment; she hadn’t let go of the imaginary string. The floating balloon has still gone. Not because it was invisible, but that in its visible state it had become lost to the eye. Then the lonely-child realises something else. She understands that time is forever chasing its own end. For this reason, every balloon explodes in the end, and every secret gives itself away.
yasam (life): To see life, we hold a mirror to our mouths. Even if we don’t see life, we know we’re alive from the condensation on the mirror.
So, in the end I became what I’d always wanted to be. I am a floating balloon. And like every floating balloon, I’m floating in the eyes of a lonely-child. My celestial passage will only last for the blink of an eye. And like every floating balloon, I can be considered a miracle. Because I swallowed so much gas without stopping and because I can remain light as long as I’m in the air. On top of this, if I wanted I could eat even more and expand even more, but not become the slightest bit heavier, and still be able to glide through the sky.
It’s so nice to fly… It’s so nice to be in the dome of the sky, lighter than a feather, more vagrant than a kite, more playful than steam, more carefree than a snowflake. My intention is to climb higher and higher. My intention is to climb miles and miles into the grey sky, and, touching the sun’s shadow, sit cross-legged on top of the clouds, watching the world. Because I want to know, can you see everything that’s going on down there when you look from up here? I’m curious about whether the hidden secrets of back gardens, the sins that are committed, the unfinished games, are recorded line-by-line, word by word. I want to know, does humanity has any privacy at all? Even if it’s only once in a while, I want to know if there’s a moment of the night when we can flee from sight, be free from being seen, some dark point, a small gap, invisible rip, tiny crack, minor leak…that is, as if a flea had bitten, a tick had fastened itself, a caterpillar had gnawed, a leech had sucked, a moth had eaten, one of the three apples that fell from the sky had worms, I want to know if there’s even the smallest bit of privacy in this world.
There’s not much further to go. The clouds are near. When I’ve climbed a bit more, my head will touch the clouds. Then I’ll climb a bit more, and then, finally, at long last, I’ll learn the answer about which I’ve been curious. Soon I’ll see the truth, and soon the truth will be seen.
yay (bow): At one time, they used to bury swords that had been used to execute prisoners. So that they would forget what they had seen. If a bow was used, it was definitely broken. It was best to break them because they couldn’t succeed in forgetting what they’d seen.
Suddenly, I’m staring into a pair of bulging eyes. They’re looking at me with curiosity. They’re trying to understand what I am, what I’m seeking here, and why I’m so strange. They’re judging me. They know I don’t belong here. I’m a stranger in this stratum. This is the picture frame in which I least belong; it too is aware of this. The bulging eyes belong to a bird of prey. If I’d seen it at another time, that is, if I’d seen it when I was looking from below, I might have found it beautiful; but now, meeting it here, it looks terribly ugly. I wait for it to pass me and move on, but it continues to follow me. It keeps making sporadic squawking sounds. The sound is unpleasant and frightening. And suddenly, I don’t know why, it begins to attack. Its pointed beak, its beak the colour of raw meat, its beak punctures me.
I’m a floating balloon. I’m deflating now. As I rise I’m losing air. I’m letting out the air that I took in to give back the air I had dispersed. I’m buzzing like a confused fly, zipping from here to there through the air. If there’s a lonely-child watching from below at this moment, she’ll know that I’m about to disappear from sight. But anyway, she’s watched for long enough. Anyway I don’t like to be seen too much. Because life is private. And like everything private, it sometimes has to be able to remain far from the eye, from eyes.
I’m not going to be able to stand it any longer. I’m exploding.
yilanin ayasi (serpent’s foot): ‘Try to see a serpent’s foot. Whoever sees a serpent’s foot goes to heaven,’ said the grandmother to her grandchild. ‘But there’s no such thing as a serpent’s foot,’ said the grandchild to the grandmother. They gave each other offended looks.
I’m exploding. I’m not going to be able to stand it any longer.
Zümrüdüanka: A legendary bird whose power and beauty depended both on her will to be seen and on her remaining unseen.
‘Enough! Since we started out you’ve been counting onetwothreeonetwothree… What is this? It’s making me ill. Isn’t there anything after these numbers? Look, if you’re going to count honestly, all right, then count. But if you’re going to keep getting stuck like that, then be quiet. Be quiet!’
A deep silence fills the minibus. Everyone h
as stopped, and is looking at me in surprise. Nobody moves, not even to blink. Suddenly everything freezes. Everything, even the eyes as they turn to look at me. I feel myself going red. I’m sweating. The driver’s eyes are looking at me through the rear-view mirror. The young man sitting in the front street, who had turned completely around and was looking at me with his arms folded and his face contorted into an exaggerated expression of amazement, has stayed that way. I imagine they’re waiting for me to explain why I suddenly started shouting that way. I can’t see the faces of the people sitting in the back seats, but I can feel their eyes on me. The two housewives, the well-dressed estate agent and the man next to the window who was clearly on his way to an important meeting are all watching me intently. I don’t move my head at all in order not to make eye contact with the schoolgirl and especially the child’s mother. But I can still see from the corners of my eyes that they’re looking at me.
A red light is burning in the single eye of the silken-haired doll hanging from the rear-view mirror. It seemed that the driver had stepped on the breaks the moment I shouted. The red light in the doll’s eye is now looking at me like everyone and everything else on the minibus. Beads of sweat are collecting on my forehead. I’m suffocating. But this terror won’t last much longer. The driver is the first to pull himself together. As he starts the minibus, he continues watching me through the rear-view mirror. We get under way.
The next person to pull himself together is the young man sitting in the front seat. He decides not to wait for my explanation, and turns to face forward. Judging from the way they whisper among themselves, it seems that the housewives have recovered from their initial surprise. Meanwhile. The woman next to me has started wriggling restlessly. As for the child…the bug-eyed child had embraced her mother in fear the moment I started shouting, and remained with her face buried under her mother’s coat. Now, she too is slowly lifting her head.
She lifts her head, looks at me, makes a distressed sound, breathes in, then, pouting, makes an even more distressed sound, then suddenly starts wailing. At the same moment, the mother and all of the passengers on the minibus jump to console the child. Everyone, talking at once, is uttering phrases like ‘Don’t cry my dear, there’s nothing to cry about, it’s all over.’ At one point the driver, turning sideways and holding the steering wheel with one hand, makes funny faces to try to make the child laugh. When he sees that this is not going to work, he faces forward again, and gives me dirty looks through the rear-view mirror. As for me, all I did was sit there and sweat.
Knowing that everyone in the minibus was on her side, the bug-eyed child cries even more. She’s crying and screaming and kicking up a fuss. As she cries, my brain is throbbing and my limbs are shaking from nerves. I said it before, being fat makes me an irritable person.
I get off at the next stop.
I start walking. I overcome my body’s objections, and start trudging slowly up the hill. The sky has grown quite dark, and it’s very late. I don’t know how long I was on the minibus. But I don’t care about time any more. I’m cold. It’s cold enough to snow tonight. As I approach home, I sense that something strange is going on. It’s as if…there’s too much activity. Streets that are usually deserted at this hour are lively. A little further along, a group of people has gathered. The lights of all the houses overlooking the street are burning, and curtains are wide open. Neighbours have crowded onto balconies and are hanging out of the windows. As I approach the place where people have gathered, high-pitched sounds reach my ears. Some people run past me, heading in that direction. It’s clear that whatever is being shown there, some people don’t want to miss the show.
This is a world of spectacles.
About seeing and being seen.
A little later, when I’m able to find a place in the curious crowd, I can see what everyone else sees. In the middle of the street, under a street lamp, a woman in her fifties, in a flannel night-gown and slippers with pom-poms, is shouting and screaming as she does a belly dance. A group of people in night-gowns and pyjamas, who from the state they’re in are clearly the woman’s relatives, are trying to get her back in the house by pulling at her and begging her. ‘Get her in the house and she can shout as much as she likes. Get her in the house so the neighbours won’t see. It doesn’t matter if other people hear her, it’s enough that they don’t see.’
The family is trying to pull the woman away from the crowd’s gaze. The crowd are holding their breath, watching carefully, the more they see, the better.
I hold my breath, and watch very carefully.
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First published in Turkey as Mahrem by Metis Yayinlari in 1999
First published in Great Britain and in the USA by Marian Boyars Publishers Ltd 2006
Published in Penguin Books 2010
Copyright © Elif Shafak, 1999, 2006
This translation copyright © from the Turkish by Brendan Freely, 2006
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author and of the translator has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be
lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-196138-5
