by Elif Shafak
I stepped out to the balcony. Careful not to squash the cluster of ants busily shouldering home the bulky corpse of a black beetle, I pulled my chair closer to the railing and lit a cigarette. How many more cuts were there on her body? I did not know what had opened up those wounds… Was it a razor or a knife? Or a hair pin? I glanced at the garbage bags piled up by the garden wall down below. Nothing had changed. The sour smell of garbage was still with us.
Flat Number 10: Madam Auntie
Madam Auntie had been waiting for hours by the seaside together with collectors like her. With each gust of lodos, that enraged southwest wind, the waves brought bits and pieces, torn sails, broken oars, compasses with shattered pointers, rudders that had lost their course, the letters spilled from the names of the boats left behind from those voyages that were never to reach a port of tranquility and those travellers long disembarked.
The sea, once satisfied with playing with those plastic balls or inflatable beds the waves had long ago snatched away whilst you were on vacation and the straw mats or hats the wind had carried far away from their rightful places, brings and delivers them all to different shores.
Next to collectors like her, Madam Auntie was waiting to collect what the sea would ferry to the shore.
Flat Number 3: Hairdresser Celal
As soon as Celal left the beauty parlour, he blasted through the back streets right out to the avenue. After walking for about fifteen minutes in the crowd without a destination in mind, he entered a street lined up with five bars looking exactly alike. Though it was not at all his habit, he felt like having a beer. From among them, he chose one randomly and dashed in. Inside it was crammed full. He headed directly to the table closest to the door, as it was his habit to be as close to the exit as possible, asked for a beer, and also fries from the gaunt, runty waiter with gestures that displayed not only his distaste for his job but also the fact that his mind was occupied elsewhere.
As Celal waited to give his order, he spotted at the table across a swarthy man with three rings in three different shades of purple under his eyes, who either could not stand still or was simply on the verge of collapsing onto the table. The man’s eyes were fixed on the rakι in front of him. Though not taking a single sip from his glass at present, it was only too evident that he had already had more than his share. He had not touched the fried anchovies either.
‘Why-the-hell-are-you-star-ing-at-me-mate?’ croaked the man all of a sudden, slurring the words hoarsely. Celal shrunk in his seat not knowing what to say but thankfully the waiter sprung up by his side at precisely that moment. ‘Take it easy on him, brother,’ the waiter advised, his attention fixed on the passers-by scurrying on the other side of the windows, as if he would like to be there among them rather than here in the bar. ‘A harmless fellow. Just feeling down today.’
The beer was decent enough, the fries not at all. There were lengthy strings of mayonnaise and ketchup spurted all over them. Mayonnaise was fine but Celal couldn’t stand ketchup. He got angry at himself for not having warned the waiter. Fidgeting edgily he turned aside so as not to have to face the table across.
One of the four strapping men at the next table had lifted his thumb up, as if trying to hitchhike from where he sat. He was a scary, brawny man with a hooked nose and a bottomless craving to have his opinions confirmed by others, given the frequency with which he asked ‘Isn’t that so?’ Guzzling a swig of beer, he wiped his moustache with the back of his hand and blitzed his friends: ‘What’s up? Why are you all silent? We aren’t the type to chicken out and run away! Isn’t that so?’ He brought down the blunt knife smeared with hotdog dressing he was holding, right in the middle of the table with a bang. ‘You want a bet? Be my guest. This is how I make a bet, my man. We are no kids who’ll bet on two marbles, three bottle caps, isn’t that so? If I lose, I’ll chop off this thumb and leave it at the table, but if you lose, the same rule goes for you, isn’t that so?’
To this end, the knife on the table must not have been impressive enough, for he snapped the blade of a pocket-knife out in a flash, placing it next to the other one. Then he once again lifted his thumb up in the air, frozen like a statue. As the others gawked at the squat and chunky thumb aimed right at them, a chill swept over the table.
If it were any other time, afraid of a row Celal would have left the place, but today he felt like drinking. So he stayed and continued to drink in spite of the provocations of the drunk at the table across from him, the ketchup on the fries and the thumb terrorizing the next table.
Unused to alcohol, his eyes turned bloodshot before he was halfway through the second beer. Fixating his glance on the stains and cigarette burns of the tablecloth, he heaved a deep sigh. Why was his twin so different from him? They did not have one single thing in common. Why were they not alike in any way? And if they were so very dissimilar, why did they still work together? By the time the third beer had vanished, he had reached the decision to part ways with Cemal.
Flat Number 9: Su and Madam Auntie
Su was going to have her first English lesson tonight. 7:00 p.m. was the time agreed upon. She looked at the glow-in-the-dark watch her father had given her as a birthday gift: 4:35 p.m. There still was a lot of time. Bored stiff, she wandered around the house wherein everything had turned white. Her mother was sleeping, having once again spent the night awake and cleaning.
Opening the windows she peeped at the children playing down on the street. Though she watched them with interest, it did not even cross her mind to join them. She wouldn’t want to be among them even if given the chance. Like all lonely children who had not a friend outside of school or buddy at home, who had mastered the art of being as well-behaved as expected and as docile as was not expected and who were now searching for ways to subvert the art, she too looked down on the street games with a hidden fury. Exceedingly careful not to make a sound, she sneaked outside. The intimacy that had blossomed with the old woman that day at the hairdresser was still fresh in her memory. Not that she had forgotten the ban on leaving Bonbon Palace, with the exception of attending school…but on second thoughts, the flat right across could not be considered ‘outside’, could it?
Thus, she did what she had never done before, daring to visit the neighbour next door. Not a sound was heard from the flat after she rang the bell. She pressed it again, this time a bit more tenaciously and was just about to give up when the door of Flat Number 10 opened.
Flat Number 3: Hairdresser Cemal
Offended that his twin brother had not come back, Cemal saw off the last customer and turning over the beauty parlour to the apprentices, went out into the street feeling depressed. The night breeze felt good. He blasted through the back streets with speedy steps, as if sliding, and went right out onto the main street. After walking for about fifteen minutes in the crowd without even knowing where he was headed, he entered a street lined up with five bars, all looking exactly alike. Though not at all his habit, he felt like having a beer. Among all the bars on his way, he randomly chose one and dashed in. Inside it was crammed full. He headed directly to the table closest to the door as it was his habit to be as near to the exit as possible. He then asked for a beer and also fries from the gaunt, runty waiter with gestures that displayed not only his distaste for his job but also that his mind was hooked-up somewhere else.
As he waited to give his order, Cemal spotted at the table opposite a swarthy man with three rings in three different shades of purple under his eyes, who either could not stand still or was simply on the verge of collapsing onto the table. Still without shifting his gaze from the rakι in front of him, the man beckoned the waiter and whispered, his breath smelling profusely of liquor, to the latter’s ear: ‘Ask-him-why-he-is-back-let-us-know.’ Upon seeing the confusion on the waiter’s face, he impatiently clarified: ‘Ask-him-why-did-he-leave-if-he-was-to-come-back-if-he-was-to-come-back-why-he-did-he-leave-if?’
By now Cemal had realized the man across was talking about him but he just could
not gauge what on earth he was saying. He shrunk on his chair not knowing what to say, but thankfully the waiter sprung up by his side at precisely that moment: ‘Take it easy on him, brother,’ murmured the waiter in an exasperated voice. ‘He’s a regular customer. Just feeling down today, provokes whoever he sees, but he’ll never behave shamefully.’
The beer was decent enough, the fries not at all. There were lengthy strings of mayonnaise and ketchup spurted on them. Ketchup was fine but Cemal would have none of that mayonnaise. He got angry at himself for not having warned the waiter. Fidgeting edgily he turned aside so as not to have to face the table opposite.
At the table to his right were four strapping men, one of whom had lifted up the thumb of his right hand which was bandaged in gauze with a lump of dried blood around the nail, and kept sitting like a statue. One of the others quietly murmured: ‘Why don’t you go home man, why are you still sitting around with a bandage and stitches?’ The one next to him piped up in support: ‘Anyhow, I do not have the foggiest idea why we came back here. We’re probably the only ones on earth to return to the bar after a visit to the emergency room.’
‘No!’ thundered the big and burly man with the hooked nose, shaking his head vehemently. ‘We made a bet, didn’t we? Since I lost the bet, I’ll face my punishment like a man. If I were scared of three stitches and one injection, I’d have to wear a skirt, isn’t that so? Since we are here to drink, drink we shall! We will drink to my thumb. For if I weren’t an honest man, if I hadn’t kept my word, this thumb of mine would still be in one piece, isn’t that so? But what did I do, I kept my word. So this knife wound is proof of my honesty, isn’t it? Therefore if we drink to my thumb, we’ll be drinking to honesty, isn’t that so?’ As the others reluctantly raised their glasses, a chill swept over the table.
If it were any other time, afraid of a row, Cemal would have left the place, but today he felt like drinking. So he stayed and continued to drink in spite of the provocations of the drunk at the table across from him, the mayonnaise on the fries and the thumb terrorizing the next table.
Unused to alcohol, his eyes turned bloodshot before he was halfway through the second beer. Fixating his glance on the stains and cigarette burns of the tablecloth, he heaved a deep sigh. Why was his twin so different from him? They did not have one single thing in common. Why were they not alike in any way? And if they were so very dissimilar, why did they still work together? By the time the third beer had vanished, he had reached the decision to part ways with Celal.
Flat Number 10: Madam Auntie and Su
When the doorbell rang, Madam Auntie was busy emptying out the bags she had brought in from the street. She stood still, completely startled. No one rang her door except Meryem who distributed bread every morning and collected the apartment maintenance fees once a month. At first she thought the bell might have been accidentally pushed downstairs, but when it rang again, this time even more tenaciously, a gnawing worry grabbed hold of her. She thrust into the bags everything she had taken out and then carried them all to the small room. Panting hard she closed shut the white door with the frosted glass separating the living room from the rest of the house and double locked it just in case. As for the key hanging on a purplish velvet ribbon, knowing too well she would lose it otherwise, she hung it around her neck. Giving the living room a last once over, she headed to the outside door feeling hesitant and anxious.
‘Oh, was it you, Su?’ she marvelled, relaxing visibly, as soon as she had opened the door. ‘How are things my dear, are you comfortable with your hair short?’
Su, three and a half centimetres taller than Madam Auntie when in sneakers, nodded with a beaming smile. The old woman once again felt ill at ease with the exuberant joy of the child. Her discomfort gave way to considerable anxiety upon realizing the other was there to be invited in. Warily she threw a glance back at the living room. For years not a single visitor had stepped into this house. Not even her brother whom she loved so much. They would instead meet at a patisserie adorned with stained glass and famous for its age, where they would, every time without fail, have a piece of apple pie and drink two cappuccinos amidst the scent of cinnamon and whipped cream. Though still thinking of excuses that would send the child away without breaking her heart, she was drawn into the depths of the latter’s large, black eyes. In spite of the cheeky smile stuck on her face, this child was extremely unhappy. She did not find it in her heart to send her away. Besides, she had taken all the necessary precautions, what harm could it cause to invite her in?
‘Come, let’s have coffee with milk,’ she said, moving aside to let the child in.
‘I don’t like milk,’ Su exclaimed.
‘I’ve never met a child who liked milk,’ Madam Auntie nodded. ‘But since you’re grown up enough to be a fifth grader, I thought you might enjoy drinking it.’
Faced with a line of reasoning she could barely object to, Su took her shoes off without a sound and unable to see a basket with disposable sanitary slippers at the entrance, realized in wonder that this was a house where one could walk in her socks.
‘It smells worse here than at our house,’ Su exclaimed, as soon as she entered the living room, and with an effervescent smile as if proud of making this observation, she started to scan her surroundings whilst whistling a song she heard on the minibus on the way to school every morning.
Flat Number 2: Sidar and Gaba
As he watched the items the girl took out one by one from her backpack Sidar felt a tension descend upon him: a turquoise toothbrush (so now there were two toothbrushes in the house), an unpalatable mug with popped-out eyeballs on it, some open and others shut (so now there two mugs in the house), one jojoba shampoo for frequently washed hair (so now there were two shampoos in the house), one box of tampons (there was none of these in the house), one towel (so now there were two towels in the house), a lot of books and CDs (so now there were a lot of books and CDs in the house).
This was not what he had in mind when agreeing to the girl’s wish to stay here. He had said she could stay once in a while, not move in permanently. If this girl with beautifully solemn eyes and coppery hair wanted to feed Gaba with hazelnut wafers, lie down on this couch to watch the ceiling, make love to him, that was OK. He had no problem with her presence as long as there was only one Sidar, one Gaba and one girl. What disturbed him so much were these possessions of hers. The instant people infiltrated others’ lives they seemed to feel obliged to bring their belongings along.
Yet, whenever Sidar rode the ochre cart of hashish or the chromatic horses of acid galloping into the uncharted maze of his brain, he would stumble at the threshold of the same old question: ‘Which one?’ That was the quandary he most feared when high. Failing to come up with an answer he would each time be catapulted into a bottomless torpor. If, say, there were two mugs in front of him, he could never decide which one to drink from; if there were two towels, he wouldn’t know which one to wipe his face with; two books, two CDs…any option would be more than baffling. As long as there was more than one, the question of which fork or glass or plate or coffee-pot turned into a daunting enigma worthy of the ones asked in purgatory. Many a time he had been petrified with a sesame cookie in one hand and a creamy cookie in the other, only to realize he had been standing at the same spot without budging for forty minutes or so. Wrestling his way out of this tight bind, he would sink in deeper; whenever he felt inclined to choose one item, his thoughts would get stuck onto the one left behind. The objects would then, just like rowdy baby birds whose mother had still not returned, open their little mouths wide and shout in unison: ‘Me! Me! Me Sidar! Please choose me!’
However, he did not want to choose. Everyone thought he had made a choice between Switzerland and Turkey in coming to live in the latter. That was not true. He had not decided on anything, he had merely arrived and maybe some day he would merely leave. Likewise, the act of suicide, which he had lately started to think about more often than ever, did not mean, as deemed
by everyone, choosing death over life. Suicide was like Gaba, the one and only. He would merely commit it.
Of course, that credo was subject to scrutiny when not the why but the way of suicide was considered because in that case he would once again be confronted with the question ‘Which one?’ There was such an assortment of choices presenting so many different ways of committing suicide, and whenever Sidar rode the ochre cart of hashish or the chromatic horses of acid galloping into the uncharted maze of suicide, he got stuck there on the verge of the same quandary. Then the gas oven in the kitchen, the rope waiting to be hung down from the gas pipe crossing through the living room, the pills in the bottles, the razor in the bathtub and the Bosphorus Bridge with its Goliath feet would start to scream in unison: ‘Me! Me! Me, Sidar! Please choose me!’
‘You cannot stay here,’ he mumbled, averting his eyes away from hers.
‘But I asked before. You didn’t object then.’
‘I know,’ Sidar admitted fretfully as he spotted the spider dangling from the ceiling. ‘But I’ve changed my mind.’
Flat Number 3: Hairdressers Cemal and Celal
Though Cemal had intended to go home directly after the bar, either because he found it hard to walk straight or came to realize his decision to part ways with his twin meant saying farewell to their joint workplace as well, he soon found himself in front of Bonbon Palace. Trying not to touch the reeking, leaking garbage bags huddled on the sidewalk, he leaned over the pistachio green writing on the garden wall and stared at the beauty parlour with sorrowful eyes, but what he spotted there was quick to replace his sorrow with agitation. There was a candle flickering inside. He had no doubt that the apprentices had locked up the door and left hours ago. With a frown on his face he stood still, staring at the low set balcony of their flat. That must be where the thief had gained entrance.
