Black Milk (12 page)

Behind her, leaning against a tissue box, is Little Miss Practical, wearing a parka, black, bulky boots and commando-style trousers with a matching green hooded top. Her arms crossed over her chest, her brows furrowed, she sighs loudly. For some reason unbeknownst to me, she is staring at the wall, clearly avoiding any eye contact.

Next to the potted petunia under the window, her knees drawn up to her chest, sits Dame Dervish. A clump of her reddish hair has escaped from her turban, and is casting a shadow on her face. Upon closer inspection, I notice she is chained to the radiator with handcuffs.

“What is going on here?” I ask, a trace of panic creeping into my voice.

“Tonight, while you were sleeping, we had an emergency meeting,” says Miss Ambitious Chekhovian. “We reached the conclusion that it was high time for a shift in the regime. From this moment onward, I have changed my name to Milady Ambitious Chekhovian and I have taken charge of the Choir of Discordant Voices.”

Suddenly Miss Highbrowed Cynic coughs.

“I beg your pardon,
we
have taken charge,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. “That means, Miss Highbrowed Cynic and I. Together, we have performed a coup d’état.”

This has got to be a joke, but all the finger-women look so serious and intense that it’s better not to laugh.

“As the chairwoman of the executive committee,” Miss Highbrowed Cynic joins in, “I am pleased to announce that we will soon introduce a new constitution that, for the next thirty-five years, will make it impossible to overthrow us. After that, our children will start to reign.”

“Hey, that is a far cry from democracy,” I object.

But Miss Highbrowed Cynic pretends not to hear. She is extremely agitated tonight and tries to conceal it, which makes her anxiousness even more pronounced, causing her to look as if she were high on amphetamines. “I am proud to announce,” she says, “that as the new government our first act has been to consolidate peace and order in the house.”

“I don’t see any change,” I say under my breath.

“Now that peace and order have been consolidated,” continues Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, “our second act will be to send you away from this city.”

“What . . . Why . . . Where am I going?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“To America,” roars Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, enjoying her newfound power. “We are going to the New World, all of us.”

“Okay, girls, that’s enough,” I say. “I am not going anywhere until you explain to me—in clear and proper terms—why you want me to go to America.”

They go quiet for a moment, as if they were not expecting this reaction. Do they really believe they are army generals and cannot be questioned?

“This is not about America, it is about you. It could well have been anyplace, like Australia or Japan,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. “What matters is that you need to leave Istanbul at once.”

Miss Highbrowed Cynic smacks her lips approvingly. “We are going to America because it just so happens that we applied for a fellowship in your name. Congratulations! You have won. Now get packed!”

I feel a lurch in my stomach, only now realizing how serious they are.

“We have decided that you should take this trip in order to grow as a writer,” Miss Highbrowed Cynic adds. “It will be inspiring for you to get away for a while. We are doing this for your own good.”

“For my own good,” I repeat.

If she heard the scorn in my voice, Milady Ambitious Chekhovian doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. “I will be honest with you,” she says. “We have been planning this coup d’état for a while. But it was you—with your recent irrational behavior—who accelerated the process.”

“What
irrational behavior
are you referring to?” I ask as calmly as I can manage.

“Lately, your state of mind has not been well,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, her voice shaky with emotion. “All these years, we have slaved away so that you could excel as a novelist. We never took off, we never fooled around. People might think novels pop off an assembly line, but they don’t. Behind every book, there is toil. There is sweat and pain.”

“All right,” I say. “Why do you bring this up now?”

Milady Ambitious Chekhovian raises her chin and straightens her shoulders, like the military hero she has become. “Did we do all this for nothing? How dare you throw away the years of sweat in one fell swoop?”

“Wait a minute, I am not throwing away anything,” I object. “Where are you getting all of this?”

“From your behavior, of course. I have been watching you for some time. Don’t think I haven’t noticed!”

“Noticed what?” I bellow. I am not calm anymore, and don’t try to be.

“I can very well see that you’re considering having a baby.”

“Oh my God, is that what this is about?” I ask.

“Yes, sir,” she says. “You are wondering: ‘Could I become a mother? What kind of mother would I make? I’m getting older. My biological clock is ticking.’ All these harmful thoughts are bouncing around your head! I don’t see this going anywhere good. Do you think I didn’t notice the way you were looking at that baby the other day?”

“How did I look?” I ask suspiciously.

“With sparkling eyes . . .”

“What is wrong with that, is it—” I try to defend myself, but Milady Ambitious Chekhovian cuts me off immediately.

“There can be only two reasons why a woman looks with sparkling eyes at another woman’s baby: (a) she wants to be a baby again; (b) she wants to become a mother. In your case, I am afraid it’s the latter.”

Miss Highbrowed Cynic joins in. “Obviously, if you stay around here, you will be led astray.”

“Led astray from what?” I ask, incredulous.

“From your literary trajectory, of course!” Miss Highbrowed Cynic and Milady Ambitious Chekhovian exclaim in unison. “From being a writer and an intellectual . . . Your path is to write and read.”

I am more amazed by their show of solidarity than by the things they are spouting. When
did
these two become such chums?

I turn to Miss Highbrowed Cynic, managing a smile. “I thought you weren’t against motherhood. You said it made no difference. You said, one way or another, we are always miserable.”

“Exactly,” she says, nodding. “I have
now
decided that it is better to be a miserable writer than a miserable writer, housewife, spouse and mother.”

My head starts to spin. What about Little Miss Practical, I wonder. She’s been unusually silent. Noticing my inquisitive gaze, she guiltily plays with the zipper of her parka.

“What is your take on this?” I ask. “I thought you were on the side of liberal democracy and free market economy.”

“True, a junta isn’t my cup of tea,” she admits. “But I’m down for it, under the extenuating circumstances.”

“What extenuating circumstances?”

“Well, at first I wasn’t thrilled with the coup. But
then
I saw the benefits. Life in America is far more stable and orderly. My needs will be better met. How pragmatic is that!”

“That is called opportunism, not pragmatism,” I say.

“There is no need to get upset,” says Miss Highbrowed Cynic. “If we take the time to read Habermas’s theory of communicative action, we will see that we all can coexist. Since system rationality and action rationality are not the same thing, as autonomous finger-women agents we can relate to one another through communicative reasoning and develop mutual understandings.”

“Yo, I don’t know what she is talking about but I couldn’t agree more,” says Little Miss Practical.

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I always thought the members of the Choir of Discordant Voices were, well, discordant, but apparently the military takeover has brought them together.

It is then that I look at Dame Dervish, who is still sitting on the floor with a brooding expression and concern-filled eyes. She is the only one not wearing a military outfit.

“What about her?” I whisper.

This question makes my tormentors uneasy. After an awkward pause, Milady Ambitious Chekhovian offers an answer. “Unfortunately, Dame Dervish did not approve of our midnight coup d’état. Despite our best efforts, we could not change her mind. She told us she would not fight us or stand in our way, but she would not, under any circumstances, support us.”

“And why is she handcuffed?” I ask.

“Well, it’s her fault, really. She tried to stage a peaceful protest, parking herself like a turbaned Gandhi under our feet, and left us with no other option than to arrest her.”

“She is a political prisoner now,” adds Miss Highbrowed Cynic.

I cannot believe my ears. My finger-women have gone wild, and I don’t know how to control them—if I ever did, that is. I want to talk to Dame Dervish privately, but I’ll have to wait for an appropriate moment.

A mantle of silence canopies the room: the militarists among us pacing the floor, the handcuffed pacifist sitting on the floor and me staring at the floor. Finally, Little Miss Practical approaches me with an envelope.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Your plane ticket. You’re leaving tomorrow. It might be a good idea to start packing. I made a list of the things you need to take with you.”

“So soon? But where am I going, what fellowship did I win? I don’t know anything!”

The answer comes from Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. “Ninety minutes from Boston, there is a beautiful college called Mount Holyoke. That is where you are going. It is an all-girls campus!”

Miss Highbrowed Cynic joins in with pride: “You won a fellowship given to a limited number of women artists, writers and academics from around the world. It is a lively intellectual hub, you’ll see.”

After that, I cannot go back to sleep. My instinct is to take off to the end of the world as soon as it is morning, but how far could I run from those voices within? My courage melting like hot wax, I sit there, tense and wary, watching the sun rise. In that husky light, everything around me seems to quickly evaporate—the night, the names, the places. . . .

In that instant I know, in my bones and soul, that the summer has come to an end. Not gradually and imperceptibly, but in a single moment, in a quantum jump.

Perhaps all summers are like that. They go on and on, uneventful and lazy, and just when you have gotten used to the sluggish rhythm, they end abruptly, leaving you totally unprepared for the cold autumn.

All I know is a new season is under way.

A
n hour later, when the three women in uniform leave the room to pack their suitcases, I go to rescue their detainee. Feeling like some hero in a war movie,
Saving Private Dame Dervish,
I sneak toward the captive, careful not to make any noise. With the help of a pair of tweezers, I unlock her handcuffs. She rubs her wrists, giving me a tired smile.

“Thank you, dear,” she murmurs.

Finished with Operation Freedom, we steal out of the house. I’m walking and she, having crawled into my bag, pokes her head out once in a while to have a look around. The minute we make it to the street, I begin to complain.

“I cannot believe they are doing this to me. Have they lost their minds? This time they’ve crossed the line.”

Dame Dervish listens with raised eyebrows, saying nothing.

“And now they want me to go to the States. Just like that, out of the blue,” I continue. “You know what? Maybe you and I should take up arms, organize an underground resistance and topple them. They’d be so freaked out.”

“I am a pacifist. I don’t take up arms,” says Dame Dervish. “‘Whenever you are confronted with an opponent, conquer him with love.’ That’s what Gandhi teaches.”

“With all due respect, let’s not forget that Mr. Gandhi had not met Milady Ambitious Chekhovian,” I say.

“‘Nevertheless, an elephant cannot swallow a hedgehog.’”

“Was that Gandhi again?”

“That was a slogan from the Prague Spring,” says Dame Dervish. “In 1968. If you can say that against the Soviet tanks, you can say it against any finger-woman you want.”

She never ceases to surprise me, this Sufi of mine.

“Look around you, Elif. What do you see?” asks Dame Dervish. Pedestrians hurrying up and down the street, commuters standing still in public buses that are full to the brim, peddlers selling replica designer bags, street children cleaning the windshields of the luxurious cars that stop at red lights, billboards advertising fast money and glitzy lifestyles, a city of endless contradictions . . . That is what I see when I look around in Istanbul.

“All right, now look at yourself,” says Dame Dervish. “What do you see?”

A woman who is split inside, half East, half West. A woman who loves the world of imagination more than the real world; who, year after year, has been worn down by useless paradoxes, wrong relationships, mistaken loves; who is still not over the hurt of growing up without a father; who breaks hearts and has her heart broken; who cares too much about what other people think; who is afraid that God may not really care for her and who can be happy or complete only when writing a novel. In short, “a personality under construction” is what I see when I look at myself. But my tongue won’t cooperate in making this confession.

At my uneasy silence, Dame Dervish says, “You have to accept the universe as an open book that is waiting for its reader. One must read each day page by page.”

Her voice sounds so calm and soothing, I feel embarrassed about my outburst a minute ago. “Then, tell me, how am I supposed to read this very day?”

“There is a voyage knocking at your door,” says Dame Dervish, as if she were holding an invisible cup in her hand and telling my fortune from the configuration of the coffee grounds at the bottom. “If you don’t leave Istanbul, these three finger-women will not let you be. From morning till night, they will pick at you.”