by Elif Shafak
The picture had intrigued both children, though for different reasons. Sabotage wanted to know why anyone would wear high-heeled shoes and a swimsuit just to stand on a patch of green grass. Whereas Leila was drawn to the ring itself.
Her mind wandered back to the spring when she was ten years old. On the way to the bazaar with Mother, she had seen a group of boys chasing an old man. When they caught up with him, the boys, shouting and laughing, had drawn a circle around him with a piece of chalk.
‘He is a Yazidi,’ Mother had said, upon seeing Leila’s surprise. ‘He can’t get out of there on his own. Someone must erase that circle for him.’
‘Oh, let’s help him then.’
Mother’s expression was not so much one of annoyance as confusion. ‘What for? Yazidis are evil.’
‘How do you know?’
‘How do I know what?’
‘That they are evil?’
Mother had pulled her by the hand. ‘Because they worship Satan.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Everyone knows that. They are cursed.’
‘Who cursed them?’
‘God, Leila.’
‘But did God not create them?’
‘Of course He did.’
‘He created them as Yazidis and then He was angry at them for being Yazidis … that doesn’t make sense.’
‘Enough! Move!’
On the way back from the bazaar Leila had insisted on passing through the same street, just to check if the old man was still there. To her immense relief, he was nowhere to be seen, the circle partly erased. Maybe the whole thing was a made-up story and he had walked out of it easily. Maybe he had had to wait for someone to come and put an end to his confinement. Years later now, when Leila saw the circle around the waist of the blonde woman, she remembered that incident. How could the same shape that separated and trapped one human being become a symbol of ultimate freedom and sheer bliss for someone else?
‘Stop calling it a circle,’ said Sabotage Sinan, when she shared her thoughts with him. ‘It’s a hula hoop! And I’ve asked my mother to get me one from Istanbul. I begged her so much she ordered two in the end: one for her, one for you. They have just arrived.’
‘For me?’
‘Well, it was for me – but I want mine to be yours! It’s bright orange.’
‘Oh, thank you, but I cannot accept it.’
Sabotage was adamant. ‘Please … can’t you consider it a present … from me?’
‘But what will you tell your mother?’
‘It’ll be fine. She knows how much I care about you.’ A deep blush spread from his neck to his cheeks.
Leila yielded, even though she knew her father would not be happy.
It was no small feat bringing a hula hoop home without being noticed. It would fit neither in her bag nor inside her clothes. She thought about burying it under the leaves in the garden for a few days, but that wasn’t a good plan. In the end, she rolled it through the kitchen door while no one was there and quickly ran with it to the bathroom. There, in front of the mirror, she tried twirling the plastic ring just like the American model did. It was harder than she thought. She would have to practise.
From the music box of her mind she chose a song by Elvis Presley, singing his love in a language utterly foreign to her. ‘Trit-me-nayz. Don-kiz-me-wans-kiz-me-twayz.’ She didn’t feel like dancing at first, but how could she reject Elvis in his pink jacket and yellow trousers – colours so unusual in this town, particularly for men, that they seemed defiant, like the flag of a rebel army.
She opened the cupboard where Mother and Auntie kept their few toiletries. There, among bottles of pills and tubes of cream, nestled a treasure: a lipstick. A vivid cerise. She applied it generously over her lips and cheeks. The girl in the mirror looked at her with the eyes of a stranger, as if through a frosted window. In the reflection she caught, for a fleeting moment, a simulacrum of her future self. She tried to see if she was happy, this woman, both familiar and beyond her grasp, but the image evaporated, leaving not a trace, like dew from a morning leaf.
Leila would never have been discovered had Auntie not been vacuuming the runner in the corridor. She would have heard Baba’s footsteps, heavy as they were.
Baba shouted at her, the whole of his mouth pulled tight like a drawstring pouch. His voice bounced off the floor where seconds ago Elvis had been showing his signature dance moves. With a look of disappointment by now all too habitual, Baba glowered at her.
‘What do you think you are doing? Tell me where you got this ring from!’
‘It’s a present.’
‘From whom?’
‘A friend, Baba. It’s no big deal.’
‘Really? Look at yourself, are you my daughter? I cannot recognize you any more. We worked so hard to give you a decent upbringing. I can’t believe you behave like a … whore! Is that what you want to become in the end? A damned whore?’
The coarse, rasping sound of the word as he expelled it into the room sent a cold shiver running through her body. She had never heard the term before.
After that day, Leila never saw the hula hoop again, and though she would wonder from time to time what Baba might have done with it, she could not bring herself to ask. Had he dumped it in the rubbish? Had he given it to someone else? Or had he buried it, perhaps, in the hope of turning it into yet another ghost, of which she increasingly suspected that this house already had too many?
The circle, the shape of captivity for an old Yazidi man, but a symbol of freedom for a young American model, thus became a sad memory for a girl in an Eastern town.
September 1963. After consulting his sheikh, Baba had decided that since Leila was getting out of control, it would be better if she stayed at home until the day she got married. The decision was made, despite her protests. Even though it was the beginning of a new term, and graduation day was now not far away, Leila was being pulled out of school.
Thursday afternoon, Leila and Sabotage walked back home together for the last time. The boy followed a few steps behind her, wearing a defeated look, his mouth contorted with despair, his hands thrust in his pockets. He kept kicking the pebbles in his path, his backpack swinging over his shoulders.
When they reached Leila’s house, they stopped by the gate. For a moment neither of them spoke.
‘We have to say goodbye now,’ said Leila. She had gained some weight over the summer; there was a new roundness to her cheeks.
Sabotage rubbed his forehead. ‘I’m going to ask my mother to talk to your father.’
‘No, please. Baba wouldn’t like that.’
‘I don’t care. It’s so unfair what he is doing to you.’ His voice broke.
Leila turned her face away, only because she couldn’t bear to see him cry. ‘If you are not going to school any more, then I’m not going either,’ said Sabotage.
‘Don’t be silly. And please don’t mention any of this to your mother. Baba wouldn’t be happy to see her. You know they don’t get along.’
‘What if I talk to your parents?’
Leila smiled, mindful of how much willpower it must have taken her reticent friend to make such a suggestion. ‘Believe me, it won’t change anything. I appreciate it though … I really do.’ A knot tightened in her gut, and for a moment she felt physically sick, shaky, as if whatever resolve had kept her going since early morning had deserted her. As she always did when she found herself emotionally cornered, she moved with urgent haste, not wanting to prolong things any further.
‘Okay, I must go now. We’ll see each other around.’
He shook his head. School was the only place unmarried young people of different sexes could interact. There was nowhere else.
‘We’ll find a way,’ she said, sensing his doubt. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Come on, cheer up. Take care!’
She sprinted away from him without so much as a second glance. Sabotage, who had had a growth spurt in the last few months and found it hard to
adjust to his new height, stayed still for a long minute. Then, not knowing why he was doing it, he started filling his pockets with pebbles, then stones, the bigger the better, feeling heavier with each weight added.
Meanwhile, Leila had gone straight to the garden, where she sat under the apple tree that she and Auntie had once decorated with strips of silk and satin. The ballerinas. In the upper branches she could still see a thin piece of fabric fluttering in the breeze. She placed her hand on the warm earth and tried not to think about anything. She grabbed a handful of soil, took it to her mouth and chewed it slowly. Acid swelled in her throat. She grabbed more soil, and this time swallowed it faster.
A few minutes later, Leila entered the house. She tossed her backpack on a chair in the kitchen, not noticing that Auntie, who was boiling milk to make yogurt, was watching her intently.
‘What have you been eating?’ Auntie asked.
Inclining her head, Leila licked the corners of her mouth. With the tip of her tongue she touched the grains stuck between her teeth.
‘Come here. Open your mouth. Let me see.’
Leila did as she was told.
Auntie’s eyes narrowed, then grew wide. ‘Is this … soil?’
Leila said nothing.
‘Are you eating soil? My God, why would you do such a thing?’
Leila didn’t know what to say. It was not a question she had asked herself before. But as she considered it now, a thought occurred to her. ‘You once told me about this woman in your village, remember? You said she ate sand, broken glass … even gravel.’
‘Yes, but that poor peasant woman, she was pregnant –’ Auntie said haltingly. She squinted at Leila, the way she stared at the shirts she ironed, looking for errant creases.
Leila shrugged. A new kind of indifference seized her, a numbness she had no experience of previously; she felt as if nothing mattered much, and perhaps never really had. ‘Maybe me too.’
The truth was she had no idea how pregnancy made itself known initially. That was one of the things about not having any girlfriends or older sisters. She had no one to ask. She had thought about consulting the Lady Pharmacist, and tried a couple of times to bring up the subject, but when a suitable moment came, she had not been able to muster the courage.
All the colour drained from Auntie’s face. She chose to make light of things nonetheless. ‘Honey, I can assure you, for that to happen, you need to get to know a man’s body. One doesn’t become pregnant by touching a tree.’
Leila gave a perfunctory nod. She poured herself a glass of water and rinsed her mouth out before drinking. She set the glass aside and then said in a low, emotionless voice, ‘But I do … I know everything about a man’s body.’
Auntie’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I mean, does Uncle count as a man?’ Leila said, still talking to the glass.
Auntie stopped moving. Inside the copper pan, the milk rose slowly. Leila walked towards the stove and turned the flame off.
The next day Baba wanted to have a word with her. They sat in the kitchen, around the table where he had taught her prayers in Arabic and told her about the black and blue angels who would come to visit her in the grave.
‘Your aunt tells me something very disturbing …’ Baba paused.
Leila kept quiet, hiding her trembling hands under the table.
‘You have been eating soil. Never do that again. You’ll get worms, do you hear me?’ Baba’s jaw angled to one side, his teeth jammed together, as if he were crunching something invisible. ‘And you shouldn’t make things up.’
‘I’m not making things up.’
In the ashen light from the window, Baba looked older and somehow smaller than usual. He contemplated her grimly. ‘Sometimes our minds play tricks on us.’
‘If you don’t believe me, take me to a doctor.’
A look of despair crossed his face, replaced quickly by a new hardness. ‘Doctor? So the whole town hears about it? Never. Do you understand? You are not to talk about this to strangers. Leave it to me.’
Then he added, too quickly, as if verbalizing an answer he had memorized earlier, ‘This is a family problem and we’ll find a solution together as a family.’
Two days later they were around the kitchen table again, Mother and Auntie joining them this time, crumpled tissues in their hands, eyes red and swollen from crying. In the morning, both women had quizzed Leila about her time of the month. Leila, who hadn’t bled for the past two months, told them wearily, brokenly, that she had started bleeding the morning before, but there was something wrong with it this time: it was too heavy, too painful; every time she moved, a sharp needle jabbed deeper into her insides, leaving her breathless.
While Mother had seemed secretly relieved to hear this and quickly changed the subject, Auntie had stared at her with sorrowful eyes, recognizing in Leila’s miscarriage one of her own. ‘It will pass,’ she had said in a soft murmur. ‘It will be over soon.’ It was the first time in years anyone had told Leila anything about the mysteries of the female body.
Then, in as few words as possible, Mother had told her that she no longer had any reason to fear pregnancy, and it was better this way, a blessing in disguise; they should all leave it behind and never talk about it again, except in their prayers, when they should thank God for His merciful intervention at the last possible minute.
‘I spoke with my brother,’ Baba said the next afternoon. ‘He understands you’re young … confused.’
‘I’m not confused.’ Leila studied the tablecloth, tracing its intricate embroidery with her finger.
‘He told me about this boy you were seeing at school. We’ve been kept in the dark, apparently everyone has been talking about it. The pharmacist’s son, my goodness! I never liked that sneaky, cold woman. I should’ve known. Like mother, like son.’
Leila felt her cheeks go red. ‘You mean Sabotage … Sinan? Leave him out of this. He’s my friend. My only friend. He’s a kind boy. Uncle is lying!’
‘Stop it. You need to learn to respect your elders.’
‘Why don’t you ever believe me – your own daughter?’ She felt drained of energy.
Baba cleared his throat. ‘Listen, let’s all calm down now. We must deal with the situation wisely. We’ve had a family meeting. Your cousin Tolga is a good boy. He has agreed to marry you. You’ll get engaged –’
‘What?’
Tolga: the child who had been in the same room in that holiday house, sleeping in a cot while his father drew circles on her belly at nights. That boy had now been chosen by the family elders as her future husband.
Mother said, ‘He is younger than you, we know, but that’s fine. We’ll announce the engagement, so that everyone knows you are committed to each other.’
‘Yes, that will shut any nasty mouths,’ Baba carried on. ‘Then you’ll have a religious wedding. In a few years you can have an official marriage too, if you wish. In the eyes of Allah, a religious marriage is enough.’
Leila said, in a voice far steadier than she felt, ‘How do you manage to see with the eyes of Allah? I’ve always wondered.’
Baba placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I know you are worried. But you don’t have to be any more.’
‘And what if I refuse to marry Tolga?’
‘You will do no such thing,’ said Baba, his expression tighter.
Leila turned towards Auntie, her eyes wide. ‘How about you? Do you believe me? Because I did believe you, remember?’
For a second Leila thought she was going to nod her head – the slightest of gestures would do – but Auntie did not. Instead she said, ‘We all love you, Leyla-jim. We want our lives to go back to normal. Your father will fix this thing.’
‘Fix this thing?’
‘Don’t be rude to your aunt,’ said Baba.
‘Which aunt? I thought she was my mother. Is she or is she not?’
No one answered.
‘This house is full of lies and deceptions.
Our lives have never been normal. We are not a normal family … Why are you always pretending?’
‘Enough, Leyla!’ Mother said, her frown deepening. ‘We are all trying to help you here.’
Leila spoke slowly. ‘I don’t think so. I think you are trying to save Uncle.’
Her heart pushed against her chest. All these years, she had dreaded what would happen if she told her father what had been going on behind closed doors. She had been certain that he would never believe her, given how fond he was of his brother. But now she understood, with a sinking feeling, that Baba did believe her, in fact. That was why he had not marched to the Lady Pharmacist’s house, trembling with outrage and indignation, and demanded her son marry his soiled daughter. That was why he was trying to keep things quiet, within the family. Baba knew who was telling the truth and who was lying.
November 1963. Towards the end of the month, Tarkan got very sick. His flu had deteriorated into pneumonia, but the doctor said it was primarily his heart that was failing him. The wedding plans were put on hold. Auntie was beside herself with worry. So was Leila, although the numbness that had taken hold of her had only deepened these days, and she found it increasingly hard to show her emotions.
Uncle’s wife visited often, offering help, bringing home-made stews and trays of baklava as though to a house of mourning. At times Leila caught the woman staring at her with something akin to pity. Uncle himself did not show up. Leila would never know whether this was his decision or Baba’s.
The day Tarkan died, they threw open all the windows in the house so that his soul could swap places with light, and his breath could turn into air, and whatever remained of him could fly away in peace. Like a trapped butterfly, thought Leila. That’s what his brother had been in their midst. She feared they had all let this beautiful child down, one by one, including herself, mostly herself.
The same afternoon, in plain daylight, Leila left home. She had been planning this for a while, and when the moment came, she did everything hotfoot, thoughts running pell-mell through her mind, worried that if she hesitated, even for a second, she might lose heart. So she walked out – without a thought, without a blink. Not through the kitchen door. Everyone was there, family and neighbours, men and women, the only time that the sexes could freely mingle being either at weddings or funerals. The guests’ voices dwindled as the imam started to recite the Surah al-Fatiha: ‘Guide us to the straight path. The path of those upon whom You have bestowed favour, not of those who have evoked Your anger or of those who have been led astray.’
