Women Who Blow on Knots

by Ece Temelkuran

  Always with love,

  Muhammed

  Egypt

  A giant yacht is moored in the marina. We never could have expected leaving Alexandria like this. A little later we would be on the Mediterranean. We are holding all these suitcases.

  Taking my first step up on the boat, I shout, “I got the seventh rule! I got the goddesses’ seventh rule!”

  Amira bumps into my back and Maryam, who is fiddling with a slingshot, bumps into Amira. Madam Lilla is wearing a hat with a brim that’s almost a metre long. This was our departure from Egypt.

  23

  The famous Firdevs Hanım’s hands were clasped below her waist, her fingernails painted red. When she saw us she flung open her arms and said: “Hmm … three young women who have run down their angels!” Mouths open and our eyes like saucers, we were speechless as we stared at the crowd of women in the magnificent hall. Only Madam Lilla understood.

  “You are going to indulge their angels, Firdevs!” cried Madam Lilla and in that moment we could not have fathomed the old, strange stories Madam Lilla and Firdevs must have shared. Everything that had happened earlier in the Union Hotel ceremonial hall was like nothing we’d ever seen.

  *

  When our helicopter landed in the airport in Alexandria our sadness had already been purged by the desert sand. We felt as crystal clear and alive as the soul of a child who has woken up after a lengthy illness. One way or another we’d made it out of the desert alive. Our minds were still too preoccupied to boast but we nevertheless received an invisible medal of honour from Madam Lilla, which she presented to us with a pat on the back. And when she asked us for the necklaces we had put on before we set out into the desert and ceremonially threw them out of the helicopter with a prayer, we had been freed from all those misadventures. Like someone who had just saved her skin we felt reborn. We had blossomed. Like joyful soldiers who bonded with each other for having survived the war we forgot to even ask who won. And when we saw that purple limousine waiting for us at the airport in Alexandria there was no need for us to think any more. Now we were wrapped up in a new story that had nothing to do with the one that came before.

  After reading the note the chauffer (maybe a man, maybe a woman) gave Madam Lilla, she let out a ‘hmm’ and said to us, “You are going to meet Firdevs Hanım. And you’re lucky because we got here just on time for Hypatia’s birthday. All the girls will be with her in the Union hotel.”

  Naturally I turned to look at Maryam our Egyptian sister. She didn’t seem to have understood anything. Her elbow against the window she asked Lilla because she knew that I was curious.

  “When you say Hypatia? Do you mean the Hypatia ?”

  I said, “Well there aren’t any Hypatias I can say that I know in Turkey.” And like an academic rushing through a list of boring footnotes, Maryam said, “She was a mathematician and astronomer in Ancient Egypt. When Christianity first emerged, the library of Alexandria was looted and she was lynched by angry young Christians who took her for a sorceress. She’s an important sister.”

  “Oh my God,” I said, “has she got her own national holiday?” I asked, cheekily.

  Flashing me an angry look, she only said, “No.”

  Madam Lilla picked up from where she left off.

  “Only Firdevs’s girls celebrate her. And when I say Firdevs’s girls… Anyway you’ll see them soon enough. You might be a little surprised.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything left to surprise us,” said Amira with sly grin. Madam Lilla fired back right away, “Mademoiselle I hope that wonder never leaves you for the alternative is death. When the wonder is gone your heart truly stops beating.”

  I let my eyes wander over the city of Alexandria that was rolling by and the driver’s face in the rear-view mirror. She doesn’t really look like a woman and she doesn’t really look like a man either. And Alexandria doesn’t really look like Alexandria. Like any other city whose name is the stuff of films, fairytales and fables, the dreamy pictures in your mind never seem to match the real thing. I think the driver must be a woman. Even a man doesn’t look that manly. She seemed covered by extremely thin glass. You could never ask her why she was like this, about the story behind her look. Deep down you sensed this story to do with her resignation from womanhood was full of sadness and you never could muster enough courage to ask.

  Alexandria is loud and chaotic: a city best seen from a distance. Like a famous painting it’s best to look and not touch. All of Alexandria now seems to be leaning on car horns as if hopeful and determined to make music all together. This is a city that shouts at the top of her lungs but fails to say anything at all. As if once upon a time the city was a woman who lost her mind and became a man when she was attacked by a band of savages.

  The tail-end traces of womanhood flutter over the driver’s face like cirrus clouds. Her furrowed brow casts shadows over the soft curve of her mouth. In her expression in the rear-view window occasionally the sun breaks through the clouds and then it’s overcast again. In those moments when she looks at us with curiosity she’s a woman but when her arm is hanging out of the window and she’s waving at passing cars like a minibus driver, gesturing for them to hurry up and pass, the cottony clouds of womanhood have drifted away from her face.

  Considering the odd colonial houses that line the roads the city clearly has a past but Alexandria must have grown weary of it because she has chosen to cover up and hide. Like any other city unsure of how to express its history, its story looks besieged by vibrantly colourful shops, storefront windows and billboards that dot the landscape. This is a city besieged by its own history, cloaked in all this noise, covered in sandy brown earth that keep the ghosts of the past from rising.

  “This is nothing like Cairo,” said Maryam. “I mean Tahrir.”

  “All the cameras were in Tahrir. That’s why,” I said.

  Looking out the window, Maryam cocked an eyebrow and laughed.

  “I never quite worked out how you could have a revolution with people who don’t believe it’s happening unless they see it on TV.”

  Looking out of the other window, Amira said calmly, “It’s just the opposite. The youth are looking for something that never appeared on TV and so was never tainted. But once something ends up on TV it disappears in real life.”

  Maryam: “That’s also true. The rotten side of Tahrir came out when they created all those popular faces for the revolution. That’s when real people left the streets. And when people went and spoke on TV on the people’s behalf, it was the end of Tahrir. It was like the hierarchy was put in place.”

  Madam Lilla unexpectedly entered the conversation.

  “This is the problem of your generation, ladies. You want the world but you don’t want to manage it. You don’t want a leader. Out of the question. You want a revolution without getting in the mud. It isn’t practical!”

  Maryam looked at her and said,“It’s a generation, Madam Lilla, that learned that earlier generations and their revolutionaries have all wasted away. Apart from Che who died early enough, there is no one they can open up their hearts to. We need to come up with a new language … to rediscover our emotions.”

  “Yes,” said Amira, “and especially when we are talking about the Arab world. Just give us a little time!”

  Maryam and Amira spoke in hushed tones because they were talking about revolutions, their countries, indeed they were talking about themselves. But Lilla was full of life as she plunged deeper into the topic, our episode in the desert already a thing of the past.

  “You can’t make it happen without a leader, ladies. I am telling you that you have got to have a leader. Humankind is not as advanced as you might think. If people are going to make a real sacrifice they still need someone to fall in love with. And with no sacrifice there’s no revolution.”

  After a awkward pause, she went on, “And you need to look after yourselves. Ladies, the crucial point here is the women. One way or another men will set up a new sys
tem and be the soldiers that support it. Only women take prophets and revolutions seriously. You need to look after yourselves and not get duped this time around. The world has lost its faith. And the world hasn’t got any plans. But we can do it better. Women can always do it better.”

  Distressed, Maryam whispered, “It’s hard, Madam. Very hard.”

  Then Lilla said, “But there’s still more left to do.”

  Her eyes fixed on the road, she took a deep breath and breathing out she said, “You’ll see.”

  Conquering that thousand-headed beast called traffic, we made it to the Union Hotel by nightfall. The two girls from the helicopter (I recognized their eyes) were waiting for us in the doorway, dressed in jeans, one wearing a headscarf, the other with thick, curly hair. Without saying a word they took us upstairs and down a corridor. Tired, rundown and dragging our feet, we stumbled after them single-file and finally stopped at a large door. Both girls signalled for us to remain quiet and they opened the door…

  A large room with high ceilings and an enormous chandelier that wasn’t lit. The corners of the rooms are cloaked in darkness. On the walls are paintings that have faded to match the browning walls. From inside comes a smell: sandalwood oil and an old theatre house curtain. Apart from five thick, tall columns nothing else divides the room. The wooden floor is covered in black smudges. This is one of those halls that makes you think of waltzing because it’s so big or so old. In the centre of the room is a spiral of candles. And all types of women of all ages are inside, enough to fill the entire room. They are standing at a certain distance from one another. And in the middle of the spiral stands a heavy-set woman with platinum blonde hair pulled up in a Farah Diba bun, waving her hands in the air as she speaks. We don’t have to ask: she must be Firdevs Hanım. We’ve arrived in the middle of something and so we wait on the sidelines, listening. This much I can catch from her speech:

  “… we will be here. Like grains of wheat, like water underground. With the elegance of jasmine and with the perseverance of worms. We are the keepers of good and evil. The keepers of dignity and indulgence, vengeance and forgiveness. We are precious, so very precious. We have given birth to life and death. Raised them all. We will be here. Because we have always been here and we have always known this. We will remember what we have forgotten. We will remember that we have given birth to gods. We will never forget that we were the first to know the science of earth and sky. And we will raise our daughters to be stronger than us, more joyous and more free. We will lend helping hands. And in doing so we will encourage more. We will keep our faith in each other. We will keep our faith in a god that loves us. Girls, a happy birthday to Hypatia!”

  I leaned closer to Madam Lilla who was behind me.

  “What is this? Some kind of cult?”

  On her face was the elation and pride of a woman in an airport waiting to see a friend she hasn’t seen in years.

  “The girls of Firdevs!”

  Maryam leaned into Lilla’s ear.

  “Are there eighty women here?”

  Madam Lilla proudly nodded her head and under her breath Maryam whispered, “That’s what I figured.”

  Into my ear, she said, “They say that Dido had eighty girls. The story goes that when she was crossing the Mediterranean she stopped at Cyprus and gathered up eighty young girls before she carried on to Carthage. She entrusted the city to them.”

  Our arms crossed, Amira and I raised our eyebrows in surprise.

  “Then what happened to them?” I asked and Maryam took me by the arm to shush me. But I couldn’t help myself and I asked, “Why aren’t you here?”

  Looking deeply into my eyes, she didn’t reply.

  Then the ceremony seems to end. The women slowly start to leave the inner circle, waiting for women in the outside rings to step away. And suddenly the strange and mystic mood is gone and there is only laughing and hushed gossip. Groups of four or five form and then naturally disperse only to come together again in a new number. Now and then I catch the following words that I can’t really understand:

  “Chinese … Bangladesh … Tahrir … T-shirts… The young women who have left the Muslim brotherhood…”

  Centremost in the circle Firdevs Hanım is the last to leave. Like a captain on a sinking ship, her hands are clasped below her waist. When one of the girls who brought us inside goes to her and points us out, whispering into her ear, Firdevs Hanım is already looking at us, or rather she’s looking at Madam Lilla. Then she addressed us directly, “And so here are three women who have run down their angels!”

  I looked at Madam Lilla, who was holding back a joy taking shape on her face, trying to keep a serious expression. In a flat voice she responded to Firdevs Hanım:

  “Firdevs you shall be the one to indulge their angels!”

  Amira abruptly asked Madam Lilla, “Was it Firdevs Hanım who sent us the helicopter?”

  Nodding, Lilla whispered, “You could say that.”

  There wasn’t even enough time to ask, ‘well then who did?’ Firdevs Hanım was now beside us, her enormous stature hardly leaving us any room, squeezing out even Madam Lilla’s ample soul. This woman took up all the space around her. Now leading us out of the hall with her arms open wide we could do nothing but let ourselves go as she was speaking.

  “I’ll have the girls prepare a room for you. They will find something for you to wear. And I’ll have them send you something to eat.”

  Firdevs was the kind of woman who made you feel small and insignificant in her presence. She had more breadth than depth. We were surprised to see that she hadn’t even greeted Madam Lilla. And then we found ourselves in a room, dumbfounded by everything we had just seen – the ceremony, the ritual or whatever it was. It was a strange room with embroidered bed covers, oil paintings of scenes of Alexandria’s colonial period on the walls, machine woven rugs on the floor and the sharp scent of dust in the air. Outside the door Firdevs and Madam Lilla were speaking. Our ears pressed against the door, we listened in on the conversation.

  Madam: “I’m grateful Firdevs. I can’t thank you enough…”

  Firdevs: “What are you after, Esma?”

  (Silence … Lilla was trying to cope with the belittling tone in this unsavoury first salvo.)

  Madam: “You’re still angry with me…”

  Firdevs: “I’m not angry, Esma, but hurt.”

  (Silence. Lilla changed tack.)

  Madam: “You know why I’m going.”

  Firdevs: “I … What reason could you have for leaving us? As for your daughter…”

  Madam: “I entrusted her to you, Firdevs. You shouldn’t have told her who I was. You shouldn’t have allowed her to come after me. You betrayed me…”

  Firdevs: “I couldn’t allow you to betray your own daughter, Esma. And I never would have imagined she’d take her own life.”

  (Silence. Was Lilla on the brink of tears?)

  Madam: “It’s all over now Firdevs. Now…”

  (Lilla took a deep breath.)

  Madam: “Think of those three young women in there as my own. They’re all special in their own way and… And I can’t leave them in the middle of this trip. They need to learn to believe in themselves. To believe in life… You know. The same old story. They’re tired.”

  (Silence. It seemed Firdevs was ready to forget everything and make a fresh start)

  Firdevs: “And you Esma? Do you still believe?”

  (Silence. If this was the Lilla we knew she wasn’t going to answer and she didn’t. Firdevs went on.)

  Firdevs: “Is he still waiting for you?”

  Silence.

  Firdevs: “He believes in you, Esma. You should go back to him. At this point you should give yourself to him.”

  Unable to stop myself I whispered with my head still pressed against the door:

  “Who the hell is she talking about? This guy waiting for Madam Lilla…”

  Their fingers on their lips, Maryam and Amira shushed me and the rest of my sen
tence melted in my mouth:

  “Nana Fatima told Lilla something about going back to somebody.”

  Lilla went on in a softer, halting voice, “I have one more thing to do, Firdevs. When I take care of that… I don’t know… Maybe you’re right… It’s been a lifetime… But that doesn’t mean that people change…”

  Silence again. It lasted some time. When the conversation finished we heard the rustling of cloth; this was the kind of conversation between people who have so much to say but do it with eyes and hands instead of words. And then more rustling: they must have embraced. Breezing over the issue, Madam Lilla then said, “In the morning I’ll send you these young ladies. Speak to them, Firdevs. They need to get to know you. They’re all smart girls. This is why more than anything…”

  Firdevs seemed more at ease and in almost a cheerful tone of voice, “No need to worry, Esma. I understand. Like you said… The same old story.”

  They laughed together. It was a poignant, sorrowful laugh. In that gentle laugh you felt the depth that comes with a long friendship, one that has brewed over years. Then the laughter turned to sighs and Lilla asked, “How is Walid Bey? God willing they are all thriving. Please send them my deepest thanks. If the two of you didn’t help us out in the middle of the desert we’d be…”

  “There’s no need to thank me. Walid Bey is doing just fine, mademoiselle … he’s a husband. And standing where he needs to stand.” answered Firdevs, most likely twirling her hands in the air. And they laughed again. Firdevs said, “Come on. Let’s go have a glass of liquor and you can tell me how boring Tunisia has been. And I’ll tell you about our new girls and what we’re doing.”

  Speaking in low voices they carefully walked down the stairs – they must have been holding onto one another.