10 Minutes 38 Seconds in this Strange World

by Elif Shafak

  Compared to the previous attempt, the body felt lighter as they hoisted it up and out. Gently, they placed it on the ground. Afraid of what they might see this time around, they cautiously lifted up a corner of the shroud.

  ‘It’s her,’ said Humeyra, her voice breaking.

  Zaynab122 took off her glasses and wiped at her eyes with the palms of her hands.

  Nalan brushed away the strands of hair stuck to her sweaty forehead. ‘All right then. Let’s take her back to her love.’

  Carefully, they placed their friend’s body in the wheelbarrow. Nalan held the torso in place, balancing it against her legs. Before setting off, she opened the vodka and took a hefty gulp. The liquid coursed down her gullet towards her belly, burning on its way down, nice and warm, like a friendly campfire.

  Another bolt of lightning pierced the sky and hit the ground about a hundred feet away, momentarily illuminating the entire graveyard. Caught mid-hiccup, Sabotage flinched. He let out a strange sound. Then the sound became a growl.

  ‘Stop making that noise,’ said Nalan.

  ‘It’s not me!’

  He was telling the truth. A pack of dogs had materialized out of nowhere. There were about ten of them, maybe more. A large, black mongrel stood at the head of the group, ears flattened, eyes flashing yellow, teeth bared. They were closing in.

  ‘Dogs!’ Sabotage swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

  Zaynab122 whispered, ‘Or maybe djinn.’

  ‘You’ll know which when they bite your arse,’ said Nalan. Slowly, she inched closer to Jameelah, shielding her.

  ‘What if they’re rabid?’ asked Humeyra.

  Nalan shook her head. ‘See their ears, they’re clipped. These dogs aren’t feral. They’ve been neutered. Probably vaccinated too. Stay calm, everyone. If you don’t make a move, they won’t attack.’ She paused, as a new idea occurred to her. ‘Have you got any food with you, Humeyra?’

  ‘Why are you asking me?’

  ‘Open that bag. What do you have in there?’

  ‘Just coffee,’ Humeyra said at first, but then sighed. ‘Okay, I’ve got a bit of food too.’

  Out of her rucksack came the leftovers from dinner.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve brought all this,’ said Zaynab122. ‘What were you thinking?’

  Nalan said, ‘Why, a nice midnight picnic in the graveyard, of course.’

  ‘I just thought we might get hungry.’ Humeyra pouted. ‘It sounded like it was going to be a long night.’

  They tossed the food to the dogs. In thirty seconds it was gone – but those thirty seconds were all that were needed to create a rift in the pack. The food not being enough for each and every dog, fights broke out. A minute ago they had been a team. Now they were rivals. Nalan grabbed a stick, dipped it in the meat sauce and hurled it as far as she could. The dogs bolted after it, snarling at each other.

  ‘They’re gone!’ Jameelah said.

  ‘For now,’ Nalan warned. ‘We must hurry. Just make sure you stay close to each other. Walk fast, but no sudden moves. Nothing to provoke them, understood?’

  Fired with a new sense of purpose, she pushed the wheelbarrow forward. Dragging their tired feet and carrying their tools, the group marched towards the truck, back the way they had come. Despite the wind, there was a very slight odour emanating from the corpse. Even if it had been stronger, no one would have mentioned it, not wanting to offend Leila. She had always been fond of her perfumes.

  The Return

  The rain, when it finally arrived, came down in torrents. Trudging through the mud and clambering out of ruts, Nalan struggled to manoeuvre the wheelbarrow. Sabotage plodded along wearily beside Jameelah, holding their only umbrella over the young woman’s head. Soaked to the skin, he seemed more sober now. At their heels came Humeyra, breathing hard, unused to such physical exertion, her fingers curled around her inhaler. She knew without having to look down that her stockings were in tatters and her ankles were scratched and bleeding. At the back tottered Zaynab122, sliding about in her squishy wet shoes as she tried to keep pace with people taller and stronger than her.

  Nalan jutted out her chin and stopped for no apparent reason. She turned off the torch.

  ‘Why’d you do that?’ said Humeyra. ‘We can’t see a thing.’

  It wasn’t exactly true – the moonlight, however dim, illuminated the narrow path.

  ‘Be quiet, honey.’ A look of concern flashed across Nalan’s face. Her whole body had gone rigid.

  ‘What’s going on?’ murmured Jameelah.

  Nalan tilted her head at an odd angle, listening to a sound in the distance. ‘See those blue lights over there? There’s a police car behind those bushes.’

  When they looked in that direction, about sixty feet beyond the cemetery gates, they saw the parked car.

  ‘Oh, no! It’s over. We’re busted,’ said Humeyra.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Zaynab122 had only now caught up with them.

  Nalan had no idea. But she had always assumed that half the job of being a leader was acting like one. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ she said without losing a beat. ‘We’ll leave the wheelbarrow here, it’s too noisy – even in this fucking rain. I’ll carry Leila and we’ll keep walking. When we get to the truck, climb into the front with me – all of you. Leila will go in the back. I’ll cover her with a blanket. We’ll inch our way silently out of here. Once we hit the main road, I’ll step on the gas, and that’s it. Free as birds!’

  ‘They won’t see us?’ asked Sabotage.

  ‘Not at first, it’s too dark. They will eventually, but it will be too late by then. We’ll race past. There’s no traffic at this hour. Seriously, it’ll be okay.’

  Another crazy plan to which, once again, they agreed in unison, no better options presenting themselves.

  Nalan lifted Leila’s body in her arms, and hauled it over her shoulder.

  Now we’re even, she thought, remembering the night they were attacked by thugs.

  That was long after D/Ali had died. While she had been married to him, Leila had never thought she would have to go back on the streets one day. That part of her life was over, she had told everyone, and most of all herself, as if the past were a ring one could take off on a whim. But back then anything seemed possible. Love danced a fast tango with youth. Leila was happy; she had all she needed. And then D/Ali was gone, just as unexpectedly as he had come into her life, leaving Leila with a hole in her heart that would never heal and a growing pile of debts. It had turned out that D/Ali had borrowed the money he had paid to Bitter Ma, and not from his comrades, as he had once claimed, but from loan sharks.

  Nalan now remembered an evening in a restaurant in Asmalimescit where they often dined, the three of them. Stuffed vine leaves and fried mussels (D/Ali had ordered them for everyone, though mostly for Leila), pistachio baklava and quince with clotted cream (Leila had ordered them for everyone, though mostly for D/Ali), a bottle of raqi (Nalan had ordered it for everyone, though mostly for herself). By the end of the night D/Ali had got wonderfully inebriated, which rarely happened because he had what he liked to call the discipline of a revolutionary. Nalan had not met any of his comrades yet. Nor had Leila, which was strange given that they had been married for over a year by then. D/Ali had never said this openly, and would probably have denied it if asked, but it was clear from his behaviour that he was worried his comrades might not approve of his wife and her quirky friends.

  Whenever Nalan tried to bring this up, Leila would look daggers at her and find a way to change the subject. These were harrowing times, Leila would remind Nalan afterwards. Innocent civilians were being killed, every day a bomb exploded somewhere, universities had turned into battlegrounds, fascist militia were on the streets and there was systematic torture in prisons. Revolution, to some, might have been merely a word, yet to others it was a matter of life and death. When things were so dire and millions suffered so badly, it was foolish to feel offended by a group of young
people for still not having met them in person. Nalan respectfully disagreed. She wanted to understand what kind of a revolution would have no room in its vast embrace for her and her newly enlarged breasts.

  That evening, Nalan had been determined to ask D/Ali about it. They were sitting at a table by the window, where a breeze brought in the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine, mingled with the smells of tobacco, fried food and aniseed.

  ‘I need to ask you something,’ Nalan said while trying to avoid Leila’s gaze.

  At once D/Ali straightened. ‘Great, I have a question for you too.’

  ‘Oh! Then you first, honey.’

  ‘No, you first.’

  ‘I insist.’

  ‘Fine. If I were to ask you what the biggest difference is between Western European cities and our cities, what would you say?’

  Nalan took a swig of her raqi before responding. ‘Well, over here we women often need to carry a safety pin on the bus, in case someone molests us and we need to prick the jerk. I don’t think it’s the same in a big Western city. There are always exceptions, no doubt, but as a rule of thumb I’d say the telling sign between “here” and “there” is in the number of safety pins used on public buses.’

  D/Ali smiled. ‘Yes, maybe that too. But I think the most important difference is in our cemeteries.’

  Leila gave him a curious glance. ‘Cemeteries?’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart.’ D/Ali pointed at the untouched baklava in front of her. ‘Are you not going to eat that?’

  Knowing he had the sweet tooth of a schoolboy, Leila pushed the plate towards him.

  D/Ali said that in major European cities burial grounds were carefully laid out and neatly kept, and so green they could pass for royal gardens. Not so in Istanbul, where the graveyards were as messy as the lives led above ground. But it was not all a matter of tidiness. At some point in history, Europeans had the brilliant idea of sending the dead to the outskirts of their towns. It wasn’t exactly ‘out of sight, out of mind’, but it was definitely ‘out of sight, out of urban life’. Graveyards were built beyond city walls; ghosts were separated from the living. It was all done quickly and efficiently, like removing the yolks from the whites. The new arrangement had proved highly beneficial. When they no longer had to see tombstones – those ghastly reminders of life’s brevity and God’s severity – European citizens were galvanized into action. Having pushed death out of their daily routines, they could focus on other things: composing arias, inventing the guillotine and then the steam locomotive, colonizing the rest of the world and carving up the Middle East … You could do all that and much more if only you could take your mind off the disturbing thought of being a mere mortal.

  ‘What about Istanbul?’ Leila asked.

  Scooping up the last bit of baklava, D/Ali replied, ‘It’s different over here. This city belongs to the dead. Not to us.’

  In Istanbul it was the living who were the temporary occupants, the unbidden guests, here today and gone tomorrow, and deep down everyone knew it. White headstones met citizens at every turn – alongside highways, shopping malls, car parks or football fields – scattered in every nook, like a broken string of pearls. D/Ali said that if millions of Istanbulites had only lived up to a fraction of their potential it was because of the unnerving proximity of the graves. One lost one’s appetite for innovation when constantly reminded that the Grim Reaper was just round the corner, his scythe shining red in the setting sun. That was why renovation projects came to nought, the infrastructure failed and the collective memory was as flimsy as tissue paper. Why insist on designing the future or remembering the past when we were all slipping and sliding our way to the final exit? Democracy, human rights, freedom of speech – what was the point, if we were all about to die anyhow? The way the cemeteries were organized and the dead were treated, D/Ali concluded, was the most striking difference between civilizations.

  The three of them had then lapsed into silence, listening to the clatter of cutlery and clanging of plates in the background. Nalan still didn’t know why she had said what she said next. The words had spilled out of her mouth as though they had a will of their own.

  ‘I’ll be the first to snuff it, you’ll see. I want both of you to dance around my grave, no tears. Smoke, drink, kiss and dance – that’s my will.’

  Leila frowned, upset at her for saying such things. She raised her face towards the fluorescent lamp flickering above, her beautiful eyes now the colour of rain. D/Ali, however, had just smiled – a gentle, sorrowful smile, as if he knew, deep within, that whatever Nalan claimed, he would be the first among them to leave.

  ‘So what were you going to ask?’ D/Ali said.

  And suddenly Nalan had a change of heart: it didn’t matter any more, the question of why they were not meeting his comrades and of what the revolution was going to be like in that bright future that might or might not come. Perhaps nothing was worth worrying about in a city where everything was constantly shifting and dissolving, and the only thing they could ever rely on was this moment in time, which was already half gone.

  Sopping wet and exhausted, the friends reached the Chevrolet. They all climbed into the front seat – except for the driver. Nalan was busy in the back, securing Leila’s body, passing ropes around her and fastening them to the truck’s sides to make sure she wouldn’t roll around. Satisfied, she joined the others, softly closed her door and released the breath she had been holding.

  ‘All right. Everyone ready?’

  ‘Ready,’ said Humeyra into a stretch of silence.

  ‘Now let’s be super quiet. The hardest part is over. We can do this.’

  Nalan placed the key in the ignition, giving it a gentle twist. The engine came to life and, a second later, music blared out. Whitney Houston poured into the night, asking where do broken hearts go.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Nalan.

  She slammed a hand to the tape player – too late. The two police officers, out stretching their legs, were staring in their direction, stupefied.

  Nalan glanced in the rear-view mirror and watched the officers sprint to their car. Throwing back her shoulders, she said, ‘Okay, change of plan. Hold on tight!’

  Back to the Cityfn1

  Its tyres spinning on the rain-slick road, the 1982 Chevrolet accelerated down the hill and through the woods, splattering mud in all directions. There were weather-beaten posters and billboards on both sides of the route. One, peeling along its edges and only just legible, read: Come to Kilyos … your dream vacation … just around the corner.

  Nalan floored the accelerator. She could hear the sirens of the police car blaring, though still far behind, the small Škoda struggling to speed up without sliding on the mud and skidding out of control. And suddenly Nalan was grateful for the mud, for the rain, for the storm and, yes, for the old Chevrolet. Once they reached the city it would be harder to outpace the police car; then she would have to trust herself. She knew the back streets well.

  Off to the right, where the road forked and tall firs formed a copse in the middle, a deer froze in the glare of the headlights. Looking at the animal, Nalan had a sudden idea. She aligned the axle parallel to the kerb, hoped the bottom of the truck was high enough and drove straight towards the copse, where she instantly turned off the headlights. It all happened so fast, no one dared to breathe a word. They waited, trusting fate, or God, trusting forces beyond their control and power. A minute later, the police car whizzed by without seeing them and headed towards Istanbul, ten miles away.

  By the time they were back on the road theirs was the only vehicle in sight. At the first intersection, a traffic light swinging in the wind on overhead wires turned from green to red. The truck careered on at top speed. Far in the distance the city rose, and above its outline a streak of orange pierced the dark sky. Soon it would be dawn.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ said Zaynab122, having by now run out of prayers. There being not enough space, she was half sitting on Humeyra’s lap.
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br />   ‘Don’t worry,’ said Nalan, gripping the wheel tighter.

  ‘Yes, why worry?’ said Humeyra. ‘If she keeps on driving like this we won’t be in this world for much longer anyway.’

  Nalan shook her head. ‘Come on, stop stressing, everyone. Once we’re in the city, we won’t be so exposed. I’ll find a side street, and we’ll make ourselves invisible!’

  Sabotage looked out of the window. The effects of the vodka had hit him in three stages: first came excitement, then fear and apprehension, and finally melancholy. He wound down the glass. The wind rushed in and filled the cramped space. Try as he might to stay calm, he couldn’t see how they could possibly shake off the police. And if he were caught with a dead body and a bunch of dodgy-looking women, what would he tell his wife and his ultra-conservative in-laws?

  He sat back, closed his eyes. In the darkness stretching ahead, Leila appeared, not as a grown woman, but as a young girl. She was wearing her school uniform, white socks and red shoes, the toes slightly scuffed. Briskly, she sprinted towards a tree in the garden, knelt down, grabbed a handful of soil, tucked it into her mouth and chewed.

  Sabotage had never told her that he had seen her doing that. It had come as a shock to him: why would anyone eat dirt? Not long after, he had noticed the cuts on the inside of her arms, and he guessed there might be more of them on her legs and thighs. Worried, he had pressed her about it, but she had just shrugged. It’s okay, I know when to stop. The confession, because that’s what it was, had only deepened Sabotage’s concern. He, before anyone, and more than anyone, had seen through her pain. A heavy and dense sorrow had settled in him; a fist had closed around his heart. A sorrow he’d kept hidden from everyone, and nourished all these years, because what was love if it wasn’t nursing someone else’s pain as if it were your own? He reached out his hand, and the girl in front of his eyes disappeared, like a vision.