10 Minutes 38 Seconds in this Strange World

by Elif Shafak

  ‘Spit it out, Sweet Ma.’

  ‘This boy isn’t into women,’ said Bitter Ma sighing, as if the ways of the world tired her. ‘He has a long-term boyfriend. The father knows about it. The man knows everything. He believes marriage will cure his son of his deviant ways. So he found him a bride, planned his wedding and decided on their guest list, I guess.’

  ‘What a father! He sounds like a jerk to me.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s no small jerk.’

  ‘Ha, Jerk Pasha.’

  ‘Right, and Jerk Pasha wants a kind, sophisticated, experienced woman to show his son the ropes before the wedding night.’

  ‘Kind, sophisticated, experienced …’ Leila repeated slowly, savouring each word. Bitter Ma seldom praised her, if ever.

  ‘I could have called one of the other girls,’ Bitter Ma said impatiently. ‘You’re getting old, for sure. But I know you need the money. Are you still taking care of that African girl?’

  ‘Yes, she’s with me.’ Leila lowered her voice. ‘All right then, where?’

  ‘The Intercontinental.’

  Leila’s face closed. ‘You know I don’t go there.’

  Bitter Ma cleared her throat. ‘Well, that’s the address. Up to you. But you need to learn to move on. Your D/Ali has been gone for a long time. What difference does it make, this hotel or that motel?’

  Leila did not say anything.

  ‘So? I can’t wait all day.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll go,’ Leila said.

  ‘Good girl. Grand Deluxe Bosphorus Suite. Penthouse. Be there at quarter to ten. Oh, one more thing … You must wear a dress: long sleeves, low cut, gold, glittery – mini, needless to say. It’s a special request.’

  ‘Is this the son’s request or the father’s?’

  Bitter Ma laughed. ‘The father’s. He says his son likes gold and anything shimmery. He thinks it might help.’

  ‘Tell you what. Forget the son, send me to Jerk Pasha. I’d love to meet him – for real. It might do him good to loosen up a bit.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. The old man would shoot us both.’

  ‘All right then … but I don’t have a dress like that.’

  ‘Then go and buy one,’ Bitter Ma hissed. ‘Don’t piss me off.’

  Leila pretended not to hear that. ‘Are you sure the son is okay with this?’

  ‘He isn’t. He’s had four girls before – apparently didn’t even touch them. It’s your job to make him change his mind. Capeesh?’

  She hung up.

  Towards the evening, Leila headed to Istiklal Avenue, a route she avoided unless necessary. The main drag of shops was always packed. Too many elbows, too many eyes. Teetering in her high heels, low-cut blouse and red leather miniskirt, she joined the throng of pedestrians. They all took small, synchronized steps, their bodies moulded together. From one end of the avenue to the other the crowd flowed, leaking out into the night like ink from a broken fountain pen.

  Women glared, men leered at her. She watched wives linking arms with their husbands, some owning them, others happy to be owned. She watched mothers pushing buggies on their way home from family visits, young women with eyes cast down, unmarried couples holding hands furtively. People behaved as if they were above their surroundings, confident in the knowledge that the city would be here for them the next day, and every day thereafter. Then, fleetingly, she saw herself in a shop window – looking more tired and more distracted than her mental image of herself. She entered the store. The sales assistant – a gentle, softly spoken woman with a headscarf tied at the back of her head – recognized her from previous visits. She helped Leila to find just the right dress. ‘Oh, it looks great on you, it really complements your complexion,’ she said brightly as Leila stepped out of the fitting room. Words that had been said to countless other women, no matter what they put on. Leila smiled nonetheless, for the sales assistant had betrayed not a hint of prejudice. She paid the money and kept the dress on. Her old clothes she left there, tucked in a plastic bag. She’d pick them up later.

  She checked her watch. Seeing she had a bit of time to kill, she headed to Karavan. The aromas of street food wafted along the road – döner kebab, rice with chickpeas, grilled sheep intestines.

  In Karavan she found Nalan having a drink with a Swedish gay couple cycling from Gothenburg to Karachi – 4,855 miles. They would cross Turkey from one end to the other, then cycle through Iran. Last month they had stopped in Berlin, watched the West German flag being raised in front of the Reichstagsgebäude on the stroke of midnight. Now they were showing photos to Nalan, who seemed to be enjoying the exchange despite having no language in common. Leila sat with them for a while, happy to observe silently.

  There was a newspaper on the table. She read the news first, and then her horoscope. You believe you are a victim of circumstances beyond your control. Today is the day you can change that, her horoscope said. The astral alignment puts you in unusually high spirits. Expect an exciting encounter soon, but only if you take the initiative. Clear your head, don’t keep your feelings locked up inside any more, go for a walk and be the master of your life. It’s time to know yourself.

  Shaking her head, she lit a cigarette and placed the Zippo on the table. How wonderful that sounded: Know yourself. The ancients had been so fond of the motto, they had engraved it on their temple walls. And while Leila could see its truth, she thought the teaching was incomplete. It needed to be: Know yourself and know an arsehole when you see one. Knowledge of self and knowledge of arseholes had to go hand in hand. Still, if she wasn’t too tired at the end of tonight, she would walk back home, try to clear her head and be the master of her life, whatever that was supposed to mean.

  At the agreed-upon hour, clad in her new dress and slingback stilettos, Leila walked towards the Intercontinental Hotel, its tall, solid frame outlined against the night sky. She felt her back tense, half expecting to hear the rumble of an armoured vehicle behind a corner, the sound of a bullet as it flew past her head, the screams and cries multiplying. Empty though the parking area in front of the building was, she felt the presence of hundreds of bodies pressing in from all sides. Her throat tightened up. Slowly, she released the pent-up air in her aching lungs.

  A moment later, she entered through the glass doors and looked around, her expression composed. Custom-made chandeliers, polished brass lamps, marble floors: the same gaudy interior found in similar establishments everywhere. No signs of collective memory. No shared knowledge of history. The entire place had been decorated anew, the windows covered with silvery curtains, the past replaced by glitz and glam.

  There was a walk-through metal detector and a conveyor belt at the entrance, and next to it three hefty guards. Security levels had been raised across the city since terrorist attacks targeting high-end hotels in the Middle East. Leila placed her handbag on the conveyor belt and passed through the metal detector, swaying her hips. The guards leered at her, each an open book. As she picked up her handbag from the opposite end of the belt she leaned over to give them a full view of her cleavage.

  Behind the reception desk stood a young woman with a genuine tan and a fake smile. A flicker of bemusement crossed her face as Leila approached. For a split second, she was unsure whether Leila was what she thought she was, or a foreign guest bent on having a wild night out in Istanbul, looking for an unforgettable memory to share with friends back home. If the latter, she’d keep smiling; if the former, she’d start frowning.

  As soon as Leila spoke, the woman’s expression changed from polite curiosity to outright contempt.

  ‘Good evening, darling,’ Leila said cheerily.

  ‘How can I assist you?’ The receptionist’s voice was as cold as her gaze.

  Tapping her fingernails on the glass countertop, Leila gave the room number.

  ‘Whom shall I say is calling?’

  ‘Say it’s the lady he’s been waiting for his whole life.’

  The receptionist’s eyes narrowed but she said nothing. Quickly
, she dialled the number. A short conversation ensued between her and the man at the end of the line. She hung up, and said, without looking at Leila, ‘He’s expecting you.’

  ‘Merci, darling.’

  Leila sauntered towards the lifts and pressed the up button. An elderly American couple, going to their room, also got on and greeted her in that relaxed way Americans of a certain generation had. For them the night was ending. For Leila, it was just beginning.

  Seventh floor. Long, well-lit corridors, harlequin-patterned carpets. Leila stood outside the penthouse apartment, took a deep breath and knocked on the door. A man opened it. He did indeed look like the actor in the talking car. There was a hint of redness around his eyes, which were blinking too fast, and she wondered if he had been crying. In his hand he held a phone, clutching it tightly as if he were afraid of letting it go. He had been speaking with someone. Was it his sweetheart? Her gut told her it must have been – only not the person he was about to marry.

  ‘Oh, hi … I was expecting you. Come in, please.’

  He was slurring a bit. A half-empty bottle of whisky sat on the walnut table, confirming Leila’s suspicion.

  He nodded towards the sofa. ‘Do sit down. What can I offer you?’

  She took off her scarf and tossed it on the bed. ‘Do you have tequila, darling?’

  ‘Tequila? No, but I can call room service if you’d like.’

  How polite he was – and how broken. He didn’t have the courage to stand up to his father, nor did he want to forgo the comforts he was accustomed to, and for this he probably hated himself, and would do so for the rest of his life.

  She waved her hand. ‘No need. I’ll have whatever you’re having.’

  Half turning his back to her, he brought the phone to his lips and said, ‘She’s here. I’ll call you later. Yes, of course. Don’t worry.’

  Whoever he was talking to had been listening to them all along.

  ‘Wait.’ Leila put out a hand.

  He stared at her, unsure.

  ‘Don’t mind me. Keep talking,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a smoke on the balcony.’

  Without giving him time to object, Leila stepped outside. The view was quite something. Soft lights spilled from the last ferry boats, a cruise ship passed in the distance, and down by the wharf she could see a boat with a large illuminated sign announcing it was selling köfte and mackerel. How she wished she could be there now, perched on one of those tiny stools, tucking into a filled pitta, instead of being up here, on the seventh floor of a luxury hotel, in the company of despair.

  About ten minutes later the double doors opened and he joined her, carrying two glasses of whisky. He handed one to her. They sat next to each other on a chaise longue, their knees touching, and sipped their drinks. It was top-notch single malt whisky.

  ‘I heard your father was quite religious. Does he know you drink?’ Leila asked.

  He frowned. ‘My father knows jackshit about me!’

  He drank slowly, but with determination. If he kept going at this rate he was in for a terrible hangover in the morning.

  ‘You know it’s the fifth time he’s done this in a month. He keeps arranging women for me, sending me to a different hotel each time. He covers the expenses. And then I have to receive these poor girls and spend the night with them. It’s embarrassing.’ He swallowed. ‘My father waits a few days, realizes I’m not cured, and organizes another rendezvous. It will go on like this until the wedding, I guess.’

  ‘What if you say no?’

  ‘I lose everything,’ he said, narrowing his eyes at the thought.

  Leila downed her drink. She stood up, took the glass from his hand, put it on the floor next to hers. He stared at her – nervous.

  ‘Look, darling. I understand you don’t want to do this. I also understand there’s someone you love and you’d rather be with that person.’ She stressed the last word, avoiding mention of gender. ‘Give that person another call now, and invite them here. Spend the night together in this gorgeous room, talk it through, and try to find a solution.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m leaving. But you shouldn’t tell anyone. Neither your father nor my fixer can know. We’ll say we had a hot night. You were amazing, number-one love machine. I’ll get my money, you’ll get a bit of peace … but you need to figure things out. I’m sorry to say this, this wedding seems insane. It’s not right to rope your fiancée into this mess.’

  ‘Oh, she’d be happy, no matter what. She and her entire family are vultures, preying on our money.’ He halted, realizing he might have said too much. Leaning forward, he kissed her hand. ‘Thank you. I owe you one.’

  ‘You are welcome,’ Leila said as she headed towards the door. ‘By the way, tell your father I was wearing a gold-sequinned dress. For some reason, it’s important.’

  Leila walked out of the hotel quietly, hiding behind a group of Spanish tourists. The receptionist, busy checking in new guests, didn’t see her leave.

  Back on the streets, she took a lungful of air. The moon was a waxing crescent, pale as ash. She realized she had left her scarf upstairs. For a moment she considered going back, but she didn’t want to disturb him. She loved that scarf, dammit, it was pure silk.

  She placed a cigarette between her lips, fumbled in her bag for the lighter. It wasn’t there. D/Ali’s Zippo was missing.

  ‘Do you need a light?’

  She lifted her head. A car had drawn up to the kerb and stopped just ahead of her. A silver Mercedes. Its rear windows were tinted, its lights turned off. Through the half-open window a man was watching her, a lighter in his hand.

  She walked towards him, slowly.

  ‘Good evening, angel.’

  ‘Good evening to you.’

  He lit her cigarette, his gaze lingering on her breasts. He wore a jade velvet jacket and, underneath it, a turtleneck in a darker green.

  ‘Merci, darling.’

  The other door opened and the driver stepped out. He was thinner than his friend, the shoulders of his jacket hanging loose. Bald-headed, cheeks sunken and sallow. Both men had the same arched eyebrows above close-set, small, dark brown eyes. They must be related, Leila thought. Cousins, perhaps. But her more immediate impression had been of how unhappy they seemed – especially for men so young.

  ‘Hi,’ said the driver curtly. ‘That’s a pretty dress.’

  Something seemed to pass between the two men, a flicker of acknowledgement, as if they recognized her, even though she was certain they were total strangers. While Leila could forget names, she always remembered faces.

  ‘We were wondering if you’d like a ride with us,’ said the driver.

  ‘A ride?’

  ‘Yes, you know …’

  ‘Depends.’

  He offered her a price.

  ‘Both of you? No way.’

  ‘Only my friend,’ said the driver. ‘It’s his birthday today, my present to him.’

  Leila thought that was a bit odd, but she had seen odder things in this city and didn’t mind. ‘You sure you’re not in?’

  ‘No, I don’t like …’ He left the sentence unfinished. Leila wondered what it was exactly that he didn’t like. Women in general or just her? She asked for twice the sum.

  The driver looked away. ‘Fine.’

  Leila was surprised that he didn’t try to haggle. It was rare for a transaction to be completed in this city without a round of bargaining.

  ‘You coming?’ the other man asked, opening the door from inside.

  She hesitated. If Bitter Ma found out, she would be incandescent with rage. Leila rarely, if ever, accepted a job without her knowledge. But the money seemed too good to turn down, especially now that the bills were mounting for Jameelah, who had been diagnosed with lupus and was suffering from a flare-up. In a single night Leila would get two hefty payments, one from the father of the young man in the hotel, and now this.

  ‘One hour, no more. And I’ll tell you where to pull over.’ />
  ‘Deal.’

  She got into the car, planting herself into the back seat. She rolled down the window, breathing in the crisp, clean air. There were moments when the city felt fresh, as though washed by a bucketful of water thrown at it by a helpful hand.

  She saw a cigar box on the dashboard and, on top of it, three porcelain angels with long gowns. She watched them for a moment, distracted.

  The car was speeding now.

  ‘Take the next right,’ Leila said.

  The man glanced at her in the rear-view mirror, something at once frightening and unbearably sad in his eyes.

  A shiver ran down her spine. She sensed, too late, that he would not listen to her.

  Remaining Eight Seconds

  The last thing Leila remembered was the taste of home-made strawberry cake.

  When she was growing up in Van, celebrations had been reserved for two revered causes: the nation and the religion. Her parents had commemorated the birth of the Prophet Mohammed and the birth of the Turkish Republic, but did not consider the birth of an ordinary human being sufficient cause for festivity every year. Leila had never asked them why that was. It was only after she had left home for Istanbul and discovered that other people seemed to have received a cake or a gift on their special days that the question hit her. Since then, on every 6 January she had done her best to have fun, no matter what. And if ever she came across someone partying too wildly, she did not judge them; who knew – just like her, they too might be overcompensating for a childhood deprived of party hats.

  Every year on her birthday her friends had thrown a party for her, with cupcakes, swirling decorations and lots of balloons. The five of them: Sabotage Sinan, Nostalgia Nalan, Jameelah, Zaynab122 and Hollywood Humeyra.

  Leila did not think one could expect to have more than five friends. Just one was a stroke of luck. If you were blessed, then two or three, and if you were born under a sky filled with the brightest stars, then a quintet – more than enough for a lifetime. It wasn’t wise to hunt for more, lest in doing so you jeopardize those you counted on.