by Elif Shafak
Upstairs in her room she looked at her face in the cracked mirror. In the reflection she thought she saw, for a fleeting moment, her past self. The girl she had been back in Van stared at her with wide-open eyes, an orange hula hoop in her hand. Slowly, compassionately, she smiled at that girl, finally making peace with her.
Her wedding gown was simple but elegant with delicate lace sleeves and a fitted silhouette that accentuated her waistline.
A knock on the door broke her reverie.
‘Did you keep that veil short on purpose?’ asked Zaynab122, entering the room. A squelching sound came from her padded insoles as she crossed the bare floor. ‘Remember, I predicted it was going to be much longer. Now you are making me question my skills.’
‘Don’t be silly. You were right about everything. I just wanted to keep things simple, that’s all.’
Zaynab122 walked towards the coffee cups they kept in the corner. Empty though it was, she glanced at one of the cups, sighing.
There was an uneasy moment before Leila spoke again. ‘I still cannot believe Bitter Ma is letting me go.’
‘It’s because of the acid attack, I think. She still feels guilty, as well she should. I mean, she knew that man was off his nut, but she took his money and offered you up – like a lamb to the slaughter. He could have killed you, that beast.’
But it wasn’t out of sheer kindness or an admission of some unconfessed guilt that Bitter Ma had given her much-needed blessing. D/Ali had paid her a hefty sum – an amount unheard of on the street of brothels. Later on, when Leila would pressure him about where he had got the money from, he would say his comrades had chipped in. The revolution, he claimed, was all for love and for lovers.
The sight of a prostitute getting out of a brothel in a wedding gown – not something that happened very often – drew a knot of spectators. Bitter Ma had decided that if an employee of hers was going to leave for good, she would be given a proper bash. She had hired two Romani musicians, brothers by the look of them, one of whom was banging a drum while the other played a clarinet, his cheeks bulging, his eyes dancing to a lively tune. Everyone had poured on to the street, cheering, clapping, stamping, whistling, ululating, waving handkerchiefs, watching with rapt attention. Even the police officers, having abandoned their posts by the gate, had come to see what the fuss was about.
Leila knew that by now D/Ali’s family had heard about what they regarded as a scandal. His father, having flown in from Germany on the earliest flight, had tried to knock sense into his son – firstly quite literally, by threatening to hit him (though he was too old for that), next by threatening to cut him off from the family fortune (not that there was much of a fortune), and lastly by threatening him with outright rejection (that had hurt more than anything). But D/Ali, ever since he was a boy, had a way of hardening in the face of aggression and his father’s attitude had only strengthened his resolve. His sisters kept calling to report that their mother was crying all the time, grieving, as though he were dead and buried. Leila knew D/Ali did not relay everything so as not to upset her, and secretly she was grateful for this.
Even so, a few times she had tried to bring up her worries, not quite able to believe that the past, her past, wouldn’t form a wall between them and grow in size, in impenetrability. ‘Does it not bother you? And even if it doesn’t now, won’t it in the future? Knowing who I am, what I have been doing …’
‘I don’t follow what you’re saying.’
‘Yes, you do.’ Her voice, which had roughened with strain, softened. ‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘Fine, and I’m telling you, in almost every language we use different words to talk about past and present, and for good reason. So, that was your past and this is your present. It’d bother me tremendously if you held another man’s hand today. Just so you know, I’d be super jealous.’
‘But …’
He kissed her gently, his eyes aglow with warmth. He guided her fingers towards the tiny scar on the side of his chin. ‘See this? It happened when I fell from a wall. Primary school. And this one, here on my ankle, when I toppled off my bike trying to cycle one-handed. The one on my forehead is the deepest. A present from my beloved mother. She got so upset at me she threw a plate at the wall, missing badly, of course. It could have hit me in the eye. She cried more than I did. Another mark to carry for life. Does it bother you that I have so many scars?’
‘Of course not! I love you just as you are!’
‘Exactly.’
Together they rented a flat on Hairy Kafka Street. Number 70. The top floor. The apartment had been neglected and the area was still rough, with tanneries and leather manufacturers scattered around, but they were both confident that they could handle the challenge. In the mornings, as Leila lay back beneath the cotton sheets, she would inhale the smells of the neighbourhood, each day a different combination, and life would feel unusually sweet, heaven-sent.
They each had their favourite spot by the same window, where they would sip their tea in the evenings and watch the city extending before them, mile after mile of concrete. They would look at Istanbul with curious eyes, as if they were not part of it, as if they were alone in the world, and all those cars and ferry boats and red-brick houses were only background decoration, details in a painting for their eyes only. They could hear the sound of seagulls overhead, and the occasional police helicopter, another emergency somewhere. Nothing affected them. Nothing disturbed their peace. In the mornings, whoever woke up first would put the kettle on the stove and prepare the breakfast. Toasted bread, salted peppers, and simit bought from a passing vendor on the street, served with white cubes of cheese drizzled with olive oil, and two sprigs of rosemary – one for her, one for him.
Invariably after breakfast, D/Ali would grab a book, light a cigarette and start reading aloud passages from it. Leila knew that he wanted her to feel as passionately as he did about communism. He wanted them to be members of the same club, citizens of the same nation, dreamers of the same dream. This worried her deeply. Just as she had failed once before in believing in her father’s God, she worried that she might fail this time to believe in her husband’s revolution. Maybe it was her. Maybe she just didn’t have enough faith inside.
Yet D/Ali thought it was only a matter of time. One day she too would join the ranks. So he kept feeding her with all the information he could to this end.
‘Do you know how Trotsky was killed?’
‘No, darling, tell me.’ Leila ran the tips of her fingers back and forth over the tight black curls on his chest.
‘It was with an ice pick,’ D/Ali said grimly. ‘Stalin’s orders. He sent an assassin all the way to Mexico. Stalin was intimidated by Trotsky and his internationalist vision, you see. They were political rivals. I need to tell you about Trotsky’s Theory of Permanent Revolution. You’re going to love it.’
Can anything be permanent in this life, Leila wondered, but thought it best to keep her doubts to herself. ‘Yes, darling, tell me.’
Expelled twice due to low grades and even poorer attendance, readmitted twice thanks to two separate amnesties for failed students, D/Ali still went to university, but Leila had no expectation that he would take his education seriously. The revolution was his priority, not this bourgeois brainwashing that some insisted on calling education. Every few nights he met with his friends to put up posters or distribute flyers. It had to be done in the dark, as quietly and swiftly as possible. Like golden eagles, he said. We alight, we take off. Once he came back with a black eye; the fascists had ambushed them. Another night he didn’t show up at all, and she spent the night worried sick. But overall, she knew, and he knew, they were a happy couple.
1 May 1977. Early in the day, D/Ali and Leila left their small apartment to join the march. Leila was nervous, a gnawing tightness in her stomach. She was worried that someone might recognize her. What would she do if a man she walked next to turned out to be an old client of hers? D/Ali sensed her fears but insis
ted they should go together. He said she belonged in the revolution and should not allow anyone to tell her that she did not have a place in that fair society of the future. The more she hesitated, the more adamant he became that she, even more than he and his friends, had a right to take part in International Workers’ Day. They were lapsed students, after all; she was the real proletarian.
Once convinced, Leila took a long time to decide what to wear. Trousers seemed to be a good choice, but how tight and what fabric and which colour? And for the top, she guessed it would be sensible to go for the kind of casual shirt favoured by many socialist women, loose and unrevealing – though she wanted to look pretty too. And feminine. Was that a bad thing? A bourgeois thing? In the end she decided on a powder-blue dress with a lace collar, a red bag across her chest, a white cardigan and red flat shoes. Nothing flashy, but she hoped not completely unfashionable. Next to D/Ali she still looked like a rainbow, of course. He had chosen dark jeans, a black button-down shirt and black shoes.
When they joined the march they were surprised to find how massive it was. Leila had never seen so many people together. Hundreds of thousands had gathered – students, factory workers, peasants, teachers – stepping in tandem, their faces locked in concentration. An endless stream of sounds flowed forth as slogans were chanted and anthems were sung. Far ahead, someone was playing a drum, but as hard as she tried Leila couldn’t see who it was. Her eyes, apprehensive till now, brightened with renewed energy. For the first time in her life she felt part of something bigger than herself.
There were banners and posters everywhere, a swarm of words scattered in all directions. Fight against Imperialism; Neither Washington Nor Moscow, but International Socialism; Workers of the World, Unite!; The Boss Needs You, You Don’t Need the Boss; Eat the Rich … She saw a sign that said, We Were There: We Drove the Americans into the Sea. A blush crept over her cheekbones. She, too, had been there on that day in July 1968, working in the brothel. She remembered how Bitter Ma had made everyone tidy up the place, and how disappointed she was when the Americans did not show up.
Every few minutes D/Ali turned his acute gaze on Leila to see how she was doing. He never let go of her hand. The day was scented with the perfume of the Judas trees, imbuing everything with fresh hope and renewed courage. But now that she felt buoyant, as if she finally belonged somewhere, and now that she had allowed herself this rare moment of lightness, Leila was seized by that familiar wariness, the need to be guarded. She began noticing details she had failed at first to see. Underneath the sweet fragrance, she picked out the odour of bodies sweating, of tobacco, stale breath and rage – a rage so strong it was almost palpable. Leila watched each group carrying their own banner, each slightly separate from the next. As the procession moved on, she heard some of the protesters shout and curse at others. That surprised her immensely. Until then she had not understood how divided the revolutionaries were among themselves. Maoists despised Leninists, and the Leninists loathed the anarchists. Leila knew that her beloved was destined to follow a different path altogether: that of Trotsky and his Permanent Revolution. She wondered whether, just as too many cooks spoiled the broth, too many revolutionaries could ruin a revolution, but once again she kept her thoughts to herself. After hours of footslogging, they reached the area around the Intercontinental Hotel in Taksim Square. The crowd had ballooned further, and the air was horribly humid. The bronze light of sunset washed over the protesters. In a corner, a street lamp came on, a bit too early, pale as a whisper. Far in the distance, standing on top of a bus, a union leader was giving a fiery speech, his voice mechanical and powerful through the megaphone. Leila felt tired. She wished she could sit down, if only for a moment. Out of the corner of her eye she observed D/Ali, the set of his jaw, the slant of his cheekbones, the tension in his shoulders. His profile was strikingly handsome against the thousands of faces around them, and the glow from the setting sun that painted his lips the colour of wine. She wanted to kiss him, taste him, feel him inside her. She lowered her gaze, perturbed by the thought that he would be disappointed if he only knew what had crossed her mind, trivial and vain, when she should have been thinking about more important things.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
‘Oh, sure!’ Leila piped with what she hoped was just the right tone, so as not to betray her tepid enthusiasm for the march. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’
‘Here, my love.’ He pulled out a pack, offered her one, taking another for himself. With his silver Zippo he tried to light hers, but somehow it wouldn’t catch.
‘Let me do it.’ Leila took the lighter from him.
That was when she heard the sounds – a series of rattles from all sides and above, as if God were running a stick over a railing in the sky. An eerie quiet descended on the square. It was as if no one were moving, no one were breathing, so pure was the stillness. Then came another bang. Leila recognized it this time for what it was. Her gut clenched in fear.
Beyond the pavements, behind protective walls, snipers had been positioned on the higher floors of the Intercontinental Hotel. Snipers with automatic weapons were shooting – aiming directly at the crowd. A scream shattered the protesters’ startled silence. A woman was crying; someone else was yelling, telling people to run. And they did, without knowing which way to go. To their left was the Street of Cauldron Makers – the street where Nalan lived with her room-mates and turtles.
They headed off in that direction, thousands of bodies, like a river bursting its banks. Pushing, shouldering, shouting, running, tripping over each other …
Down the street an armoured police vehicle appeared out of nowhere, blocking the way. Now the protesters realized they were caught between the risk of snipers behind and the certainty of arrest and torture ahead. Then the shooting, which had momentarily slowed down, escalated to a continuous crackle. A great roar arose as thousands of mouths opened at once, a deep primal cry of horror and panic. Squeezed together, those at the back kept forging ahead, crushing those in front, like stones grinding against each other. A young woman in a pale floral dress slipped and slid under the armoured vehicle. Leila yelled at the top of her voice, the thud of her own heart pounding in her ears. Suddenly she was not holding D/Ali’s hand any more. Had she let go of him or had he let go of her? She would never know. One second she could feel his breath on her cheek, and the next he was gone.
For a fleeting moment she was able to see him, about eight or ten feet away; she called out his name, over and again, but the crowd swept her away from him, like a rogue wave that carried away everything in its path. She heard the sound of bullets but could not tell any more where they were coming from; they could just as well have been fired from out of the ground. Next to her, a heavyset man lost his balance and toppled over, hit in the neck. She would never forget the expression on his face, one of incredulity more than pain. A few minutes earlier they had been at the helm of history, changing the world, demolishing the system – and now they were being hunted down without even a chance to see the faces of their assassins.
The next day, 2 May, over two thousand bullets were collected in the area surrounding Taksim Square. More than a hundred and thirty people were reported to have been severely injured.
Leila phoned every public hospital and private doctor in the area. When she could no longer find the strength to talk to strangers, one of her friends would take over the search. Each time, they were careful to provide D/Ali’s legal name, for, like Leila, life had given him an alias along the way.
There were many Alis in the hospitals they called; some were being treated in beds, others were in the morgue, but there was no trace of her Ali. Two days later, Nostalgia Nalan tried one last place, a clinic in Galata that she knew from before. And they confirmed that D/Ali had been brought there. He was one of the thirty-four fatalities, most of them trampled to death in the stampede on the Street of Cauldron Makers.
Ten Minutes Thirty Seconds
In the final seconds before her bra
in surrendered, Tequila Leila recalled the taste of single malt whisky. It was the last thing that had passed her lips on the night she died.
November 1990. It had been an ordinary day. In the afternoon she made a bowl of popcorn for herself and Jameelah, who was staying with her. Special recipe – butter, sugar, popcorn, salt, rosemary. They had barely started eating when the phone rang. Bitter Ma was on the line.
‘Are you tired?’ In the background a soft, mystical melody played, not the kind of thing Bitter Ma would normally listen to.
‘Would it make any difference?’
Bitter Ma pretended not to hear that. They had known each other for so long that they simply ignored the things they couldn’t be bothered to take on board.
‘Listen, I’ve got this fabulous client. He reminds me of that famous actor, the one who drives the talking car.’
‘You mean the Knight Rider on TV?’
‘Yes, bingo! The guy looks just like him. Anyway, his family is stupidly rich.’
‘So what’s the catch?’ Leila asked, a little sharply. ‘Deep pockets, young, handsome: a man like that doesn’t need a hooker.’
Bitter Ma chuckled. ‘The family is, how shall I put it … muchly, hopelessly conservative. Like, extreme. The father is a tyrant and a bully. He wants his son to take over his business.’
‘You still haven’t told me what the catch is.’
‘Patience is a virtue. The young man is getting married next week. But the father is deeply concerned.’
‘Why?’
‘Two reasons. One, the son doesn’t want to get married. He doesn’t like his fiancée. My sources tell me he can’t even stand to be in the same room as her at the moment. Two, and this is a bigger problem – I mean, not in my eyes, but in the eyes of the father –’
