by Elif Shafak
The only professions open to trans women were hairdressing and the sex industry. And there were too many hairdressers in Istanbul already, with a salon seemingly down every alleyway and in every basement. Trans women were not allowed in licensed brothels either. Otherwise the customers felt cheated and complained. Eventually, like many others before and after her, she began working on the streets. It was dark, exhausting and dangerous; every car that stopped for her left an imprint on her desensitized soul, like tyres on the desert sand. With an invisible blade, she divided herself into two Nalans. One of them watched passively over the other, observed every detail and thought a lot, while the second Nalan did everything she was supposed to do and thought absolutely nothing. Insulted by passers-by, arbitrarily arrested by police, abused by clients, she suffered one humiliation after another. Most of the men who picked up trans women were of a particular kind, lurching unpredictably between desire and contempt. Nalan had been in the business long enough to know that the two emotions, unlike oil and water, mixed easily. Those who loathed you, would, unexpectedly, reveal an urgent lust, and those who seemed to like you could turn spiteful and violent as soon as they got what they wanted.
Each time there was a state occasion or a major international conference in Istanbul, as black cars carrying foreign delegates wove their way through the traffic from the airport to the five-star hotels scattered across the city, some police chief would decide to clean up the streets on their routes. On such occasions, all transvestites would be taken into custody overnight, swept away like so much litter. Once, after one of these clean-up operations, Nalan was kept in a detention centre where her hair was shaved in random patches and her clothes stripped. They had made her wait in a cell, naked and alone, every half hour or so coming to check how she was doing and to throw another bucket of dirty water over her head. One of the police officers – a quiet young man with fine features – seemed uncomfortable with the way his colleagues treated her. Nalan still remembered the look of hurt and helplessness on the man’s face, and for a moment she was sorry for him, as if it were he, not she, who was confined in a small space, locked up in an invisible cell of his own. In the morning it was the same officer who had returned her clothes, and offered her a glass of tea with a sugar cube. Nalan knew that others had had it worse that night, and after the conference was over and she was released she had not told anyone what had transpired.
It was safer working in the nightclubs, provided she could find a way in, and time and again she had. As the club owners were delighted to discover, Nalan had a surprising talent. She could drink and drink, and not get even slightly tipsy. She would sit at a customer’s table and engage in small talk, her eyes flashing like coins in the sun. Meanwhile, she would encourage her new-found companion to order the priciest drinks on the menu. Whisky, cognac, champagne and vodka would flow like the mighty Euphrates. Once the customer was sufficiently hammered, Nalan would move on to the next table, where she would start the same process all over again. The club owners adored her. She was a money-making machine.
Now Nalan stood up, filled a glass with water and offered it to Sabotage. ‘That scarf you bought for Leila is so pretty.’
‘Thank you. She’d have liked it, I think.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she would.’ Nalan touched him comfortingly, her fingertips lightly resting on his shoulder. ‘I’ll tell you what – why don’t you put it in your pocket? You can give it to Leila tonight.’
Sabotage blinked. ‘Say again?’
‘Don’t worry. Let me explain …’ Nalan paused, suddenly distracted by a sound. She fixed her eyes on the closed door in the hallway. ‘Are you girls sure that Jameelah is sleeping?’
Humeyra shrugged. ‘She promised she’d come out as soon as she woke up.’
With quick, deliberate steps, Nalan strode to the door and turned the handle. It was locked from the inside. ‘Jameelah, are you sleeping or are you crying your heart out? And, just maybe, eavesdropping on us?’
No answer.
Nalan said to the keyhole, ‘I have a hunch you’ve been awake the whole time, feeling miserable and missing Leila. Since we all feel the same way, why not come out?’
Slowly, the door opened. Jameelah emerged.
Her large, dark eyes were swollen and bloodshot.
‘Oh, love.’ Nalan spoke gently with Jameelah, as she did with no one else, each word a sweet apple that had to be polished before being offered. ‘Look at you. You must not cry. You need to take care of yourself.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Jameelah.
‘Nalan is right – for once,’ said Humeyra. ‘Think about it this way: it would have made Leila terribly sad to see you in such a state.’
‘That’s true.’ Zaynab122 smiled soothingly. ‘Why don’t you and I go to the kitchen? Let’s check if the halva is ready.’
‘We must also order some food,’ said Humeyra. ‘No one has eaten anything since this morning.’
Sabotage stood up. ‘I’ll help you, girls.’
‘Great idea, go and check, and order food.’ Nalan clasped her hands behind her and began pacing the length of the room, like a general inspecting her troops before the final battle. Under the light of the chandelier her fingernails glowed a bright shade of purple.
Standing by the window she glanced outside, her face reflected in the glass. A storm was brewing in the distance, rain clouds rolling towards the north-east, the area just around Kilyos. Her eyes, which had been doleful and pensive throughout the evening, now acquired a determined gleam. Her friends might not have heard about the Cemetery of the Companionless until this afternoon, but she already knew all she needed to know about that awful place. In the past she had met a number of people whose fate it was to be buried there, and she could easily imagine what had happened to their graves later on. The misery that was the cemetery’s trademark had opened up like a hungry mouth, and swallowed them in one gulp.
Later, when they all sat around the table, and everyone had a little food in their belly, Nostalgia Nalan would tell her friends about her plan. She had to explain this as carefully and gently as possible, for she knew they would, at first, be scared.
Karma
Half an hour later, they all sat around the dining table. A pile of lahmacun – ground-meat flatbread, ordered from a local restaurant – stood in the middle, barely touched. No one had much of an appetite, though they pressed Jameelah to eat. She seemed so weak, her delicate face even more gaunt than usual.
At first they made desultory conversation. But talking, like eating, seemed too much of an effort. It felt strange sitting here in Leila’s home without her popping her head round the kitchen door to offer them drinks or snacks, strands of her hair falling from behind her ear. Their eyes panned the room, lingering on every item, small and big, as though discovering them for the first time. What would happen to this flat now? It occurred to each of them that if the furniture, the paintings and the ornaments were all to be moved out, Leila might in some way disappear too.
In a little while, Zaynab122 went to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of sliced apples and a plate of the freshly made halva – for Leila’s soul. Its sweetness filled the room.
‘We should have put a candle on the halva,’ said Sabotage. ‘Leila was always looking for an excuse to turn dinners into celebrations. She loved parties.’
‘Especially birthday parties,’ Humeyra drawled, suppressing a yawn. She regretted taking three tranquillizers in quick succession. To dispel the drowsiness she had made a cup of coffee for herself and now she stirred the sugar, clinking her spoon noisily against the porcelain.
Nalan cleared her throat. ‘Oh, how she lied about her age. I once told her, “Sweetheart, if you’re going to tell tall tales, you’d better remember them. Just write it down somewhere. You can’t be thirty-three years old one year, and twenty-eight the next!”’
They laughed, and then they caught themselves laughing and somehow it felt wrong, a transgression, and they stopped.
> ‘Okay, I need to tell you something important,’ Nalan announced. ‘But please hear me through before you object.’
‘Oh dear. This is not going to end well,’ said Humeyra lackadaisically.
‘Don’t be negative,’ said Nalan, and turned to Sabotage. ‘Remember that truck of yours, where is it?’
‘I don’t have a truck!’
‘Don’t your in-laws have one?’
‘You mean my father-in-law’s dusty Chevrolet? It’s been ages since he last used that heap of metal. Why are you asking?’
‘That’s fine, so long as it does its job. We’re going to need a few more things: shovels, spades, maybe a wheelbarrow.’
‘Am I the only one who has no idea what she’s talking about?’ said Sabotage.
Humeyra rubbed the inner corners of her eyes with her fingertips. ‘Don’t worry, none of us has a clue.’
Nalan sat back, her chest heaving. She felt her heart begin to beat faster under the strain of what she was about to say. ‘I propose we all go to the cemetery tonight.’
‘What?!’ Sabotage rasped.
Slowly, it all came back to him now: his childhood in Van, the cramped little flat above the pharmacy, the room overlooking an ancient graveyard, the sound of rustling under the eaves that could have been the swallows or the wind or maybe something else. Shutting the memory out, he focused on Nalan.
‘Give me a chance to explain. Don’t react before you’ve heard me out.’ In her eagerness, Nalan’s words spilled out in a deluge. ‘It makes me so mad. How can a person who has built wonderful friendships all her life be buried in the Cemetery of the Companionless? How can that be her address for eternity? It’s unfair!’
A fruit fly appeared out of nowhere, hovering above the apples, and for a second they all sat still, watching, grateful for the distraction.
‘We all loved Leila-jim.’ Zaynab122 picked her words carefully. ‘She’s the one who brought us together. But she is no longer in this world. We must pray for her soul and let her rest in peace.’
Nalan said, ‘How can she rest in peace if she’s in an awful place?’
‘Don’t forget, habibi, it’s only her body. Her soul is not there,’ said Zaynab122.
‘How do you know that?’ Nalan snapped. ‘Look, maybe for believers like you the body is trivial … temporary. But not for me. And you know what? I’ve fought so hard for my body! For these’ – she pointed to her breasts – ‘for my cheekbones …’ She stopped. ‘Sorry if that sounds frivolous. I reckon all you care about is this thing you call “the soul”, and maybe there is one, what do I know? But I need you to see that the body matters too. It’s not like it’s nothing.’
‘Carry on.’ Humeyra breathed in the aroma of coffee before taking another sip.
‘Remember the old man? He still blames himself for not giving his wife a proper funeral – even after all these years. Do you want to feel the same way all your lives? Each time we remember Leila, we’ll have this guilt burning inside, knowing we haven’t done our duty as friends.’ Nalan cocked an eyebrow towards Zaynab122. ‘Please don’t be offended, but I just don’t give a damn about the next world. Maybe you are right and Leila’s already up there in heaven, teaching angels make-up techniques and waxing their wings. If that’s the case, great. But what about the way she was mistreated here on earth? Are we going to be okay with that?’
‘Of course not, tell us what to do!’ Sabotage said impulsively, and instantly halted, the most extraordinary thought now occurring to him. ‘Hang on. You are not about to suggest we go and dig her up, are you?’
They expected Nalan to wave her hand and roll her eyes to the heaven she did not believe in, as she always did when confronted with an absurd comment. When she mentioned going to the cemetery they had all assumed that what she had in mind was giving Leila a proper funeral, a last farewell. But now it dawned on them that Nalan might be making a more radical suggestion. A disturbing silence descended. It was one of those moments when everyone wanted to protest, but no one wished to be the first to do so.
Nalan said, ‘I believe we should do this. Not only for Leila, but also for ourselves. Have you ever wondered what will happen to us when we die? Clearly, we’ll all get the same five-star treatment.’ She pointed a finger at Humeyra. ‘You have run away, my love, abandoning your husband, shaming your family and your tribe. What else is on your CV? Singing in sleazy clubs. As if that’s not bad enough, you’ve got a few tasteless films under your belt.’
Humeyra blushed. ‘I was young. I had no –’
‘I know, but they won’t understand. Don’t expect sympathy. Sorry, honey, you’ll be going straight to the Cemetery of the Companionless. Probably Sabotage, too, if they find out that he’s been living a double life.’
‘Okay, enough,’ Zaynab122 interjected, sensing she would be next in line. ‘You’re upsetting everyone.’
‘I’m speaking the truth,’ said Nalan. ‘We all have baggage, shall we say. And no one more than me. It kills me, this hypocrisy. Everyone loves watching camp singers on TV. But the same people would go berserk if their own sons or daughters turned out the same way. I saw it with my own eyes, this woman, just outside Hagia Sophia, was holding a sign: The End Is Nigh, Earthquakes Will Be Upon Us: A City Full of Whores and Trans Deserves Allah’s Wrath! Let’s face it, I’m a magnet for hatred. When I die, I’ll be dumped in the Cemetery of the Companionless.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Jameelah pleaded.
‘Maybe you don’t realize, but this is no ordinary cemetery we are talking about. It’s … it’s pure misery over there.’
‘How do you know?’ Zaynab122 asked.
Nalan twisted one of her rings around. ‘I’ve acquaintances who were buried there.’ She did not have to tell them that almost everyone in the trans community ended up at this final address. ‘We must get Leila out of that place.’
‘It’s like the Karmic cycle.’ Humeyra cradled her mug between her hands. ‘We’re being tested every day. If you say you are a true friend, there’ll come a time when your dedication will be tested. Cosmic forces will ask you to prove how much you really care. It was in one of the books Leila gave me.’
‘I have no idea what you’re saying, but I agree,’ said Nalan. ‘Karma, Buddha, yoga … whatever moves you. My point is, Leila saved my life. I’ll never forget that night. It was just the two of us. These shitheads appeared out of nowhere and started throwing punches. The bastards stabbed me in the ribs. Blood everywhere. I’m telling you, I was bleeding like a slaughtered lamb. I thought I was dying, no kidding. Supergirl descended on me, Clark Kent’s cousin, remember? She took me by my arms and pulled me up. That’s when I opened my eyes. It was no Supergirl, it was Leila. She could have run away. But she stayed … for me. She got us out of there – I still don’t know how she managed it. She took me to a doctor. A quack doctor, but still. He sewed me up. I owe Leila.’ Nalan took a breath, and released it slowly. ‘I don’t want to force anyone. If you don’t want to come, I’ll understand, honestly. I’ll do this alone if I have to.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Humeyra heard herself say. She knocked back what remained of her coffee, perkier now.
‘You sure?’ Nalan looked surprised, knowing of her friend’s anxieties and panic attacks.
But the tranquillizers she had taken this evening seemed to be shielding Humeyra from fear – until their effect wore off. ‘Yes! You’re going to need a hand. But first I’ll have to brew more coffee. Maybe I should make up a Thermos and take it with me.’
‘I am coming too,’ said Sabotage.
‘You don’t like cemeteries,’ said Humeyra.
‘I don’t … but as the only man in the group I feel I have a responsibility to protect you from yourselves,’ said Sabotage. ‘Besides, you can’t get hold of that truck without me.’
Zaynab122’s eyes grew wide. ‘Wait, wait everyone. We can’t do this. It’s a sin to exhume the dead! And where, may I ask, are you planning to take her afterwards?’
Nalan shifted in her chair, only now realizing she hadn’t given enough thought to the second part of her plan. ‘We’ll take her to a nice, decent resting place. We’ll visit her often, bring flowers. We might even manage to commission a headstone. A marble one, shiny and smooth. With a black rose and a poem by one of D/Ali’s favourite poets. Who was that Latin American guy he liked so much?’
‘Pablo Neruda,’ said Sabotage, his eyes sliding to a painting on the wall. It was of Leila sitting on a bed, dressed in a short crimson skirt, her breasts spilling from a bikini top, her hair pulled high, her face slightly turned towards the viewer. She was so beautiful, unreachable. Sabotage knew that D/Ali had painted this in the brothel.
‘Yes, Neruda!’ said Nalan. ‘They have a peculiar way of mixing sex and sorrow, those Latin Americans. Most nations do one or the other better, but the Latinos triumph at both.’
‘Or a poem by Nâzim Hikmet,’ said Sabotage. ‘Both D/Ali and Leila loved him.’
‘Right, great, so we’ve got the headstone sorted.’ Nalan nodded her approval.
