by Elif Shafak
‘What headstone? Do you know how crazy you sound? You don’t even know where you’re going to bury her!’ said Zaynab122, throwing up her hands.
Nalan frowned. ‘I’ll come up with something, okay?’
‘I think we should lay her to rest next to D/Ali,’ said Sabotage.
All eyes turned to him.
‘Yes, why didn’t I think of that?’ Nalan huffed. ‘He’s in that sunny graveyard in Bebek – fabulous location, great view. Lots of poets and musicians are buried there. Leila will be in good company.’
‘She’ll be with the love of her life,’ Sabotage said without looking at anyone.
Zaynab122 sighed. ‘Can you all come back to your senses? D/Ali is in a well-protected cemetery. We can’t just go there and start digging. We’ll have to get an official permit.’
‘Official permit!’ Nalan scoffed. ‘Who’s going to check it in the middle of the night?’
Heading towards the kitchen, Humeyra gave Zaynab122 an appeasing nod. ‘You don’t have to come, it’s all right.’
‘I have no choice,’ Zaynab122 said, her voice quavering with emotion. ‘Someone needs to stand at your side, pray the right prayers. Otherwise you’re all going to end up cursed for the rest of your lives.’ She lifted her head, looked at Nalan and squared her shoulders. ‘Promise me you won’t swear on cemetery ground. No profanities.’
‘Promise,’ said Nalan blithely. ‘I’ll be nice to your djinn.’
While the others had been debating, Jameelah had quietly left the table. She was now standing by the door, having put on a jacket, and was busy tying her shoelaces.
‘Where are you going?’ Nalan asked.
‘I’m getting ready,’ Jameelah said, calmly.
‘Not you, my love. You must stay at home, make yourself a nice cup of tea, keep an eye on Mr Chaplin and wait for us.’
‘Why? If you’re going, I’m going.’ Jameelah’s eyes narrowed, her nostrils flaring slightly. ‘If this is your duty as a friend, it’s also my duty.’
Nalan shook her head. ‘Sorry, but we must consider your health. I can’t take you to a cemetery in the middle of the night. Leila would have skinned me alive.’
Jameelah threw her head back. ‘Will you all please stop treating me as if I’m dying! Not yet, okay? I’m not dying yet.’
Rage was so rare an emotion for her that they fell quiet.
A gust of wind blew in from the balcony, fluttering the curtains. For an instant, it was almost as if there was a new presence in the room. A barely perceptible tickle, like a stray hair on the back of one’s neck. But it grew stronger, and now they could all feel its power, its pull. Either they had stepped into some invisible realm, or another realm was seeping into theirs. As the clock on the wall ticked off the seconds, they all waited for midnight to arrive – the paintings on the walls, the rumbling flat, the deaf cat, the fruit fly and the five old friends of Tequila Leila.
The Road
On the corner of the Büyükdere Road, across from a kebab restaurant, there was a speed trap that had ensnared many careless drivers and was certain to ensnare many more. Time and again a patrol car would lurk unseen behind a thick clump of shrubs and catch unsuspecting vehicles racing through the intersection.
From the drivers’ point of view, what made the trap unpredictable was the hours it was manned. Sometimes traffic police were there with the dawn, sometimes only in the afternoon. There were days when they were nowhere to be seen, and one might think they had packed up and gone. But then there were days when a blue-and-white car sat constantly in wait, like a panther biding its time before the fatal attack.
From the officers’ point of view, this was one of the worst spots in Istanbul. Not because there were no drivers to stop and fine, but because there were simply too many. And much as handing out piles of tickets generated revenue for the state, it was not as if the state was disposed to showing gratitude. So the officers had to ask themselves what good it did to be vigilant. Besides, the job was fraught with pitfalls. Every now and then the car they pulled over turned out to belong to the son or nephew or wife or mistress of a top government official, top businessman, top judge or top army general. And then the policemen would get in top trouble.
It had happened to a colleague – an earnest, decent fellow. He had stopped a young man in a steel-blue Porsche for reckless driving (eating pizza, his hands off the wheel) and running a red light – violations that were, to be honest, committed by scores of drivers every day in Istanbul. If Paris was the city of love, Jerusalem the city of God, and Las Vegas the city of sin, Istanbul was the city of multitasking. But the policeman had stopped the Porsche, all the same.
‘You ran a red light and –’
‘Really?’ The driver had cut him off. ‘Do you know who my uncle is?’
That was a hint any sharp officer would have heeded. Thousands of citizens in all echelons of society heard similar insinuations every day and would instantly get the message. They understood that fines could be tweaked, rules could be bent, exceptions could be made. They knew that a government employee’s eyes could be blinded temporarily and ears could be deafened for as long as needed. But this particular policeman, though not new to the job, suffered from an incurable malady: idealism. Upon hearing the driver’s words, instead of backing off, he had said, ‘I don’t care who your uncle is. Rules are rules.’
Even children knew this was not true. Rules were sometimes rules. At other times, depending on the circumstances, they were empty words, absurd phrases or jokes without a punchline. Rules were sieves with holes so large that all sorts of things could pass through; rules were sticks of chewing gum that had long lost their taste but could not be spat out; rules in this country, and across the entire Middle East, were anything but rules. Forgetting this had cost the officer his job. The driver’s uncle – a top minister – had made sure he was posted to a dreary little town on the eastern border where there were no cars for miles around.
So tonight, when two patrolmen positioned themselves at the infamous spot, they were reluctant to write any tickets. Sitting back, they listened to a football match on the radio – second league, nothing major. The younger of the two started talking about his fiancée. He did that incessantly. The other officer could not understand what compelled a man to do that; he himself was eager to keep his mind off his wife as much as possible, certainly for the few blissful hours he was at work. Excusing himself to have a smoke, he stepped out of the car and lit a cigarette, his eyes on the empty road. He hated his job. This was new to him. Boredom he had felt before, fatigue too, but hatred was not something he was used to, and he struggled with the intensity of the emotion.
His eyebrows rose as he looked up and saw a solid wall of cloud in the distance. A thunderstorm was gathering. He felt a twinge of apprehension. Just as he reflected on whether the rainwater might flood the basements across the city, like it did the last time, he was startled by a loud, screeching noise. The hairs on his neck stood on end. The squeal of tyres on asphalt sent a chill down his spine. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye even before he had the chance to turn. Then he saw the vehicle: a monster hurtling down the road, a metallic racehorse galloping towards an invisible finish line.
It was a pickup truck – a 1982 Chevrolet Silverado. The kind one rarely came across in Istanbul, more suited as it was to wider roads in Australia or America. It looked like it had once been goldfinch yellow, bright and cheery, but now it was covered in patches of dirt and rust. It was the figure at the wheel that really caught the police officer’s attention though. In the driver’s seat sat a hefty woman, her bright red hair flying in all directions, a cigarette dangling from her mouth.
As the truck flashed by, the officer caught a glimpse of the people huddled in the back. They were holding on to one another tightly against the wind. And though it was hard to make out each of their faces, from the way they were crouching their discomfort was clear. In their hands, they held what appeared to be spades
and shovels and pickaxes. Suddenly, the truck veered to the left and then to the right, and would surely have caused an accident had there been another vehicle on the road. An overweight woman in the back shrieked and lost her balance, letting go of the pickaxe she had been holding. The tool tumbled out on to the road with a thud. Then they all disappeared – the truck, the driver, the passengers.
The police officer tossed his cigarette to the ground, stomped it out and swallowed, taking a moment to process what he had just witnessed. His hands trembled as he opened the door and extracted the car radio.
His colleague was also staring at the road. His voice was full of excitement when he spoke. ‘Oh my God, did you see that? Is that a pickaxe?’
‘Looks like it,’ said the older officer, doing his best to sound calm and in control. ‘Go pick it up. We may need it as evidence, and it can’t be left there.’
‘What do you think is going on?’
‘My gut tells me that truck is not just trying to get somewhere fast … there’s something fishy here.’ With that he turned on the car radio. ‘Two-three-six on duty to dispatch. Are you receiving?’
‘Go ahead, Two-three-six.’
‘Chevrolet pickup. Speeding driver. Could be dangerous.’
‘Any other passengers?’
‘Positive.’ His voice caught in his throat. ‘Suspicious cargo – four individuals in the back. They’re heading towards Kilyos.’
‘Kilyos? Confirm.’
The policeman repeated the description and location, then waited for the dispatcher to relay the information to other police units in the area.
When the crackle of static on the car radio had faded away, the young officer said, ‘Why Kilyos? There’s nothing there at this time of night. Sleepy old town.’
‘Unless they’re going to the beach. Who knows, maybe there’s a moonlight party.’
‘Moonlight party …’ echoed the young officer, his voice betraying a twinge of envy.
‘Or maybe they are heading to that wretched cemetery.’
‘What cemetery?’
‘Oh, you wouldn’t know. Strange, spooky place by the sea. Near the old fortress,’ the older officer mused in reply. ‘Late one night, many years ago, we were on the heels of this thug and the bastard ran into the cemetery. I followed him – God, I was naive. My foot tripped over something in the dark. Was it a tree root or a thighbone? I didn’t dare look. I just stumbled on. I heard something ahead of me – a deep, low moan. I was sure it wasn’t human, but it didn’t sound like an animal either. I turned around and ran back the way I came. Then – I swear on the Qur’an – the sound started to follow me! There was this weird, rancid smell in the air. I’ve never been so scared in my life. I managed to get out, but the next day my wife said, “What were you doing last night? Your clothes smell awful!”’
‘Wow, that’s creepy. I never knew.’
Nodding, the older officer said, ‘Yeah, well, consider yourself lucky. It’s one of those places better not to know. Only the damned end up in the Cemetery of the Companionless. Only the doomed.’
The Doomed
About an hour’s drive from Istanbul’s city centre, on the shores of the Black Sea, sat an old Greek fishing village called Kilyos, famous for its powdery beaches, small hotels, sharp cliffs, and a medieval fortress that had not once succeeded in repelling an invading army. Over the centuries, many had come and many had gone, leaving their songs, prayers and curses behind: the Byzantines, the Crusaders, the Genoese, the corsairs, the Ottomans, the Don Cossacks and, for a brief period, the Russians.
Not a soul remembered any of this today. The sand that gave the area its Greek name – Kilia – covered and erased everything, replacing the remnants of the past with smooth oblivion. Nowadays the entire coastal stretch was a popular holiday destination for tourists, expats and locals. It was a place full of contrasts: private and public beaches; women in bikinis and women in hijabs; picnicking families on blankets and cyclists whizzing by; rows of expensive villas crammed against low-cost housing; thick strips of oak, pine and beech trees, and concrete car parks.
The sea was pretty rough in Kilyos. Riptides and strong waves drowned a few people each year, their bodies hauled from the water by coastguards in rubber boats. It was impossible to say whether the victims had swum outside the buoys, recklessly self-confident, or whether the undercurrent had pulled them into its embrace like a sweet lullaby. From the water’s edge, holidaymakers watched as each tragic incident unfolded. Shielding their eyes from the sun, peering through their binoculars, they stared in a single direction, as though transfixed by a spell. When they started talking again they did so animatedly; companions sharing an adventure, if only for a few minutes. Finally, they returned to their sunloungers and hammocks. For a while their faces remained blank and they seemed to consider going elsewhere – another beach where the sand was just as golden, the wind probably calmer and the sea less crazy. Yet this was a fine location in so many other ways, with its affordable prices, good restaurants, clement weather and breath-taking views, and God knew how badly they were in need of some rest. Although they would never voice it out loud, and may not even have admitted it to themselves, a part of them resented the dead for having the nerve to drown in a holiday resort. It seemed like an act of extreme selfishness. They had worked hard all year round, saved money, put up with the whims of their bosses, swallowed their pride and restrained their anger and, in their moments of despair, dreamed of lazy days in the sun. So the holidaymakers remained. When they wished to cool off, they took a quick dip, pushing aside the nagging thought that only moments before, in the same waters, some unfortunate soul had met their end.
Every now and then, a boat full of asylum seekers capsized in these waters. Their bodies were pulled from the sea and placed side by side, journalists gathering around to write their reports. Then the bodies were loaded into refrigerated vans designed to carry ice cream and frozen fish, and driven to a special graveyard – the Cemetery of the Companionless. Afghans, Syrians, Iraqis, Somalis, Eritreans, Sudanese, Nigerians, Libyans, Iranians, Pakistanis – they were buried so far from where they were born, laid to rest haphazardly wherever space was available. Around them, on all sides, were Turkish citizens who, though neither asylum seekers nor undocumented migrants, had, in all likelihood, felt equally unwelcome in their own homeland. So it was that, unbeknownst to tourists and even many locals, there was a burial ground in Kilyos – one of a kind. It was reserved for three types of dead: the unwanted, the unworthy and the unidentified.
Covered with clumps of sagebrush, nettles and knapweed, and enclosed by a wooden fence with missing posts and sagging wires, this was the most peculiar cemetery in Istanbul. It had few, if any, visitors. Even veteran grave-robbers gave it a wide berth, dreading the curse of the accursed. Disturbing the dead was fraught with danger, but to disturb those who were both doomed and dead was an open invitation to disaster.
Almost everyone interred in the Cemetery of the Companionless was, in some way or another, an outcast. Many had been shunned by their family or village or society at large. Crack addicts, alcoholics, gamblers, small-time criminals, rough sleepers, runaways, throwaways, missing citizens, the mentally ill, derelicts, unwed mothers, prostitutes, pimps, transvestites, AIDS patients … The undesirables. Social pariahs. Cultural lepers.
Among the residents of the graveyard were also cold-blooded murderers, serial killers, suicide bombers and sexual predators, and, as baffling as it may be, their innocent victims. The evil and the good, the cruel and the merciful, had been planted six feet under, side by side, in row after godforsaken row. Most of them did not have even the simplest of tombstones. Neither a name nor a date of birth. Only a coarsely hewn wooden board with a number and sometimes not even that, just a rusty tin placard. And somewhere in this unholy mess, among the hundreds and hundreds of untended graves, there was one freshly dug.
This is where Tequila Leila was buried.
Number 7053.
Nu
mber 7054, the grave to her right, belonged to a songwriter who had taken his own life. People still sung his songs everywhere, without knowing that the man who had written those poignant lyrics lay in a forgotten grave. There were many suicide victims in the Cemetery of the Companionless. Often they came from small towns and villages where the imams had refused to give them funerals, and their bereaved families, out of shame or sorrow, had agreed to have them buried far away.
Number 7063, the grave to Leila’s north, belonged to a murderer. On a jealous rampage, he had shot his wife, then charged to the house of the man he suspected his wife had been having an affair with, and shot him as well. Having one bullet and no targets left, he had aimed the gun at his temple, missed, taken off the side of his head, slid into a coma and died a couple of days later. No one had claimed his body.
Number 7052, the neighbour to Leila’s left, was another dark soul. A fanatic. He had resolved to walk into a nightclub and shoot down every sinner who was dancing and drinking, but he hadn’t been able to procure the guns. Frustrated, he had decided to make a bomb instead, using a pressure cooker filled with nails dipped in rat poison. He had planned everything down to the last detail – except he had blown up his own house while preparing the lethal device. One of the nails flying in all directions had hit him straight in the heart. This had happened only two days ago and now he was here.
Number 7043, the neighbour to Leila’s south, was a Zen Buddhist (the only one in the cemetery). She had been flying from Nepal to New York to visit her grandchildren when she suffered a brain haemorrhage. The plane had made an emergency landing. She had died in Istanbul, a city she had never set foot in before. Her family had wanted her body to be burned and her ashes returned to Nepal. According to their belief, her funeral pyre needed to be set alight where she had exhaled her last breath. But as cremation was illegal in Turkey, she had to be buried instead, and buried fast, as required by Islamic law.
