by Elif Shafak
In front of that door Mr Chaplin was sitting now, his tail curled about him. He had a coal-black coat and jade eyes flecked with gold. One of his paws was white, as if he had dipped it in a bucket of lime and instantly changed his mind. His collar, adorned with tiny silver bells, tinkled each time he moved. He never heard the sound. Nothing disturbed the silence in his universe.
He had sneaked out the previous evening when Tequila Leila had left for work. This wasn’t unusual, as Mr Chaplin was a nocturnal flâneur. He would always get back before dawn, thirsty and tired, knowing that his owner would have left the door ajar for him. But this time he was surprised to find the door closed. Since then he had been waiting patiently.
Another hour went by. Cars passed, honking their horns with abandon; street vendors shouted their wares; the school around the corner played the national anthem on loudspeakers and hundreds of pupils sang in unison. When they finished singing they took the collective oath: May my existence be a gift to the Turkish existence. Far in the distance, near a construction site where a worker had recently plunged to his death, a bulldozer rumbled, shaking the earth. Istanbul’s babel of sounds filled the skies, but the cat didn’t hear them either.
Mr Chaplin longed for a comforting pat on the head. He longed to be upstairs in his flat with a bowl full of mackerel-and-potato pâté – his favourite food. As he stretched and arched his back, he wondered where on earth his owner was, and why Tequila Leila was so unusually late today.
Grief
As dusk was falling, Leila’s friends – apart from Nostalgia Nalan, who had still not caught up with them – arrived at the apartment building on Hairy Kafka Street. Letting themselves in would not be a problem since they each had a spare key.
A look of hesitation crossed Sabotage’s features as they approached the main door. He realized, with a sudden tightening in his chest, that he was not ready to go into Leila’s flat and face the painful void left by her absence. He felt a strong urge to walk away, even from those so dear to him. He needed to be alone, at least for a while.
‘Maybe I should check back in at the office first. I left so abruptly earlier.’
This morning, when Sabotage had heard the news, he had grabbed his jacket and run out of the door, informing his boss on his way out that one of his children had come down with food poisoning. ‘Mushrooms, it must be the mushrooms at dinner!’ It wasn’t the smartest excuse, but he hadn’t been able to come up with anything better. There was no way he could have told his colleagues the truth. None of them knew about his friendship with Leila. But now it occurred to him that his wife might have called the office, exposing his lie, and he could be in deep trouble.
‘Are you sure?’ Jameelah asked. ‘Isn’t it late?’
‘I’ll just pop in, see if everything is okay and come straight back.’
‘Fine, don’t take too long,’ said Humeyra.
‘It’s rush hour … I’ll do my best.’
Sabotage hated cars, but since he was claustrophobic and couldn’t stand being jammed inside a packed bus or ferry boat – and all buses and ferry boats were packed at this time of the day – he was painfully dependent on them.
The three women stood on the pavement and watched him walk away, his gait a little unsteady, his gaze fixed on the cobblestones, as if he could no longer trust the firmness of the ground. His shoulders stooped and his head bent at a painful angle, he seemed drained of all vitality. Leila’s death had shaken him to his very core. Turning up his jacket collar against the quickening wind, he disappeared in a sea of people.
Zaynab122 discreetly wiped away a tear and pushed up her glasses. She turned to the other two and said, ‘You girls go ahead. I’ll nip into the grocer’s. I need to make halva for Leila’s soul.’
‘All right, honey,’ said Humeyra. ‘I’ll leave the main door open for Mr Chaplin.’
Nodding, Zaynab122 crossed the road, right foot first. ‘Bismillah ar-Rahman ar-Rahim.’ Her body, deformed by the genetic disorder that had taken hold of her since she was a baby, aged faster than normal – as if life were a race it had to finish at full speed. But she rarely complained, and when she did it was only for God’s ears.
Unlike the others in the group, Zaynab122 was deeply religious. A believer through and through. She prayed five times a day, refrained from alcohol and fasted the entire month of Ramadan. She had studied the Qur’an back in Beirut, comparing its numerous translations. She could recite whole chapters from memory. But religion for her was less a scripture frozen in time than an organic, breathing being. A fusion. She blended the written word with oral customs, adding into the mix a pinch of superstition and folklore. And there were things she had to do now to help Leila’s soul on its eternal journey. She didn’t have much time. Souls moved fast. She had to buy sandalwood paste, camphor, rosewater … and she definitely had to make that halva – which she then would distribute to strangers and neighbours alike. Everything had to be ready, even though she knew some of her friends might not appreciate her efforts – particularly Nostalgia Nalan.
There being no time to spare, Zaynab122 headed to the nearest store. Normally she wouldn’t go there. Leila had never liked its owner.
The grocer’s was a dimly lit store with floor-to-ceiling shelves displaying tinned and packaged products. Inside, the man known to the locals as ‘the chauvinist grocer’ stood leaning against a wooden counter worn smooth by time. Pulling at his long, curly beard, he pored over a page in an evening paper, his lips moving as he kept reading. A portrait of Tequila Leila stared out at him. ‘Fourth Mysterious Murder in a Month’, the caption read. ‘Istanbul’s Streetwalkers on High Alert’.
Official enquiries established that the woman had gone back to working on the streets after leaving a licensed brothel at least a decade ago. The police believe she was robbed during the assault, given that no money or jewellery was found at the scene. Her case is now being linked to those of three other prostitutes who were murdered in the past month, all of them strangled. Their deaths shed light on the little-known fact that the homicide rate for Istanbul’s sex workers is eighteen times higher than for other women, and most prostitute murders remain unsolved – in part due to the fact that few in the industry are willing to come forward to provide critical information. However, the law enforcement agencies are following up a number of important leads. The Deputy Police Chief told the press …
As soon as he saw Zaynab122 approach, the grocer folded the newspaper and stuffed it in a drawer. It took him a beat too long to compose himself.
‘Selamün aleyküm!’ the man said, unnecessarily loud.
‘Ya aleyküm selam,’ Zaynab122 responded as she stood next to a sack of beans that was taller than her.
‘My condolences.’ He craned his neck and jutted out his chin to get a better look at his customer. ‘It was on TV, did you watch the afternoon news?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ Zaynab122 said curtly.
‘Inshallah they’ll catch that maniac soon. I wouldn’t be surprised if the murderer turns out to be a gang member.’ He nodded in agreement with himself. ‘They’d do anything for money, those looters. Too many Kurds, Arabs, Gypsies and whatnots in this city. Ever since they moved here the quality of life has vanished – poof!’
‘I am an Arab.’
He smiled. ‘Oh, but I didn’t mean you.’
Zaynab122 studied the beans. If Leila were here, she thought, she would put this odious man in his place. But Leila was gone and Zaynab122, deeply averse to conflict, never quite knew how to deal with people who irritated her.
When she looked up again she saw that the grocer was waiting for her to speak. ‘Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.’
The man gave a knowing nod. ‘This is the fourth victim in a month, isn’t it? Nobody deserves to die like that, even a fallen woman. I’m not judging anyone, don’t get me wrong. I always say to myself, Allah will punish everyone as He sees fit. He won’t let a single sin slide.’
Zaynab122 touched her forehead. S
he felt a headache coming on. Strange. She never had migraines. It was Leila who usually suffered from them.
‘So when is the funeral? Did her family make arrangements?’
Zaynab122 flinched at the questions. The last thing she wanted to tell this nosy parker was that Leila was buried in the Cemetery of the Companionless because her family had refused to claim her body. ‘Sorry, I’m in a hurry. Can I get a bottle of milk and a packet of butter, please? Oh, semolina flour too.’
‘Sure, are you going to make halva? That’s nice. Don’t forget to bring me some. And don’t worry, this one’s on me.’
‘No thanks, I can’t accept that.’ Standing on her tiptoes Zaynab122 placed the money on the counter and took a step back. Her stomach rumbled – she remembered she hadn’t eaten anything all day long.
‘Um, one more thing: do you, by any chance, sell rosewater, sandalwood paste, camphor?’
The grocer gave her a curious look. ‘Of course, sister, right away. My store has everything you need. I never understood why Leila didn’t shop here more often.’
The Apartment
Back from his stroll, Mr Chaplin was pleased to find the main door ajar. He crawled into the apartment building and, once inside, whizzed up the stairs, the bells on his collar tinkling wildly.
As the cat approached Leila’s flat, the door opened from the inside and Hollywood Humeyra appeared with a rubbish bag in her hand. She set the bag down outside the entrance. The caretaker would collect it later that evening. She was about to go back inside when she noticed the cat. She stepped into the hallway, her wide hips blocking the light.
‘Mr Chaplin! We were wondering where you were.’
The cat brushed against the woman’s legs, which were thick and sturdy, and covered in blue-green veins bulging through her skin.
‘Oh, you cheeky creature. Come inside.’ And Humeyra smiled for the first time in hours.
Deftly, Mr Chaplin made a beeline for the dining room, which also served as the living room and the guest room. He jumped into a basket cushioned with a fleece blanket. Keeping one eye open, one eye closed, he scanned the place, as though committing every single detail to memory, making sure nothing had changed while he was away.
Although in need of some repair, the flat was improbably charming, with its pastel colours, south-facing windows, high ceilings, a fireplace whose purpose seemed more aesthetic than practical, golden-blue wallpaper peeling at the edges, low-hanging crystal chandeliers, and uneven, cracked, but freshly scrubbed oak floorboards. On every wall there were framed paintings in an array of sizes. All of them were by D/Ali.
The two large front windows overlooked the roof of the old Galata Tower, which glared up at the apartment blocks and skyscrapers in the distance as though reminding them that, hard though it might be to believe, it had once been the tallest building in the city.
Humeyra now entered Leila’s bedroom and began sifting through boxes of curios, absent-mindedly humming to herself. A traditional melody. She didn’t know what made her choose it. Her voice was tired but full and rich. For years she had sung in Istanbul’s seedy nightclubs and acted in low-budget Turkish films, including a few X-rated ones that still caused her embarrassment. She’d had a good figure back then, and no varicose veins. It had been a dangerous existence. Once she had been injured in the crossfire between two rival mafia clans, and another time she had been shot in the knee by a demented fan. Now she was too old for that kind of life. Breathing in all that secondary smoke, night after night, had exacerbated her asthma and she carried an inhaler in her pocket that she used frequently. She had gained a lot of weight over the years – one of the many side effects of the kaleidoscope of pills she had been popping like sweets over the decades. Sleeping tablets, antidepressants, antipsychotics …
Humeyra believed there was something markedly similar about the experience of being overweight and being prone to melancholy. In both cases society blamed the sufferer. No other medical condition was regarded this way. People with any other illness received at least a degree of sympathy and moral support. Not the obese or the depressed. You could have controlled your appetite … You could have controlled your thoughts … But Humeyra knew neither her weight nor her habitual despondency was really a personal choice. Leila had understood this.
‘Why are you trying to fight depression?’
‘Because that’s what I’m supposed to do … everyone says.’
‘My mother – I used to call her Auntie – she often felt the same way, maybe worse. People always told her to fight depression. But I have a feeling that as soon as we see something as our enemy we make it stronger. Like a boomerang. You hurl it away, it comes back and hits you with equal force. Maybe what you need is to befriend your depression.’
‘What a funny thing to say, honey. How am I to do that?’
‘Well, think about it: a friend is someone you can walk with in the dark and learn lots of things from. But you also know you are different people – you and your friend. You are not your depression. You are much more than what your mood is today or tomorrow.’
Leila had urged her to cut down on the pills and take up a hobby, start exercising or volunteering in a women’s shelter, helping those with stories similar to hers. But Humeyra found it incredibly hard to be around people to whom life had been unfairly harsh. When she’d tried before, all her best efforts and well-meaning words just seemed to turn into empty puffs of air. How could she give others hope and good cheer when she herself was constantly assailed by fears and worries?
Leila had also bought her books on Sufism, Indian philosophy and yoga – all of which she had become interested in after D/Ali’s death. But, though Humeyra had flipped through these books many times, she had made little progress in that direction. It seemed to her that all these things, easy and handy though they claimed to be, were essentially designed for people who were healthier, happier or simply luckier than her. How could meditation help you to quieten your mind when you needed to quieten your mind in order to meditate? She lived with an endless commotion inside.
Now that Leila was gone, a pitch-black fear darted about in Humeyra’s head like a trapped fly. She had taken a Xanax after leaving the hospital, but it didn’t seem to be working. Her mind was tormented by gory images of violence. Cruelty. Butchery. A senseless, meaningless, baseless evil. Silver cars flashed in front of her eyes like knives in the night. Shuddering, Humeyra cracked her tired knuckles and forced herself to plough on, heedless of the fact that her massive chignon was coming undone, wisps of hair falling free across the nape of her neck. She found a stack of old photos under the bed, but it was too painful to look at them. This was what she was thinking about when she noticed the fuchsia chiffon dress draped over the back of a chair. As she picked it up, her face crumpled. It was Leila’s favourite.
Normal Female Citizens
A bag full of groceries in each hand, Zaynab122 walked into the flat, puffing a little. ‘Oh, those stairs are killing me.’
‘What took you so long?’ asked Hollywood Humeyra.
‘I had to chat with that awful man.’
‘Who?’
‘The chauvinist grocer. Leila never liked him.’
‘True, she didn’t,’ Humeyra said thoughtfully.
For a moment the two women were silent, each absorbed in her own thoughts.
‘We must give Leila’s clothes away,’ said Zaynab122. ‘And her silk scarves – my God, she had so many.’
‘Don’t you think we should keep them?’
‘We must follow the custom. When someone dies their clothes are distributed to the poor. The blessings of the poor help the dead cross the bridge to the next world. The timing is important. We must act fast. Leila’s soul is about to start its journey. The Bridge of Siraat is sharper than a sword, thinner than a hair …’
‘Oh, here we go again. Give me a bloody break!’ A husky voice rose from behind. Simultaneously, the door was pushed open, making the two women and the cat almost jump o
ut of their skins.
Nostalgia Nalan stood by the entrance, frowning.
‘You scared the life out of us,’ said Humeyra, putting her hand on her racing heart.
‘Good. It serves you right. You were too absorbed in your religious gobbledegook.’
Zaynab122 clasped her hands in her lap. ‘I don’t see any harm in helping the poor.’
‘Well, it’s not exactly that, is it? It’s more a trade-off. Here, you poor lot, take these hand-me-downs, give us your blessings. And here, dear God, take these blessing-coupons, give us a sunny corner in heaven. No offence, but religion is plain commerce. Give-and-take.’
‘That’s so … unfair,’ Zaynab122 said, pouting. It wasn’t exactly anger that she felt when people made light of her beliefs. It was sadness. And the sadness was heavier if the people in question happened to be her friends.
‘Whatever. Forget what I said.’ Nalan plonked herself down on the sofa. ‘Where’s Jameelah?’
‘In the other room. She said she needed to lie down.’ A shadow crossed Humeyra’s face. ‘She doesn’t talk much. She hasn’t eaten anything. I’m worried. You know her health …’
Nalan dropped her gaze. ‘I’ll talk to her. And where’s Sabotage?’
‘He had to rush to the office,’ replied Zaynab122. ‘He must be on his way back now, probably stuck in traffic.’
‘Fine, we’ll wait,’ said Nalan. ‘Now tell me, why was this door left open?’
The two other women exchanged a quick glance.
‘Your best friend has been killed in cold blood, and here you are in her flat with the door wide open. Have you lost your minds?’
