Excerpt of The Bastard of Istanbul by Elif Shafak
(Page 2 of 9)
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Thus she felt on that first Friday of July desensitized as if anesthetized, a
powerfully corrosive mood for someone so zestful as she. Could this be why she
had had absolutely no interest in fighting the city today, or the rain for that
matter? While the yo-yo indifference went up and down with a rhythm all its own,
the pendulum of her mood swayed between two opposite poles: from frozen to
fuming.
As Zeliha rushed by, the street vendors selling umbrellas and raincoats and
plastic scarves in glowing colors eyed her in amusement. She managed to ignore
their gaze, just as she managed to ignore the gaze of all the men who stared at
her body with hunger. The vendors looked disapprovingly at her shiny nose ring
too, as if therein lay a clue as to her deviance from modesty, and thereby the
sign of her lustfulness. She was especially proud of her piercing because she
had done it herself. It had hurt but the piercing was here to stay and so was
her style. Be it the harassment of men or the reproach of other women, the
impossibility of walking on broken cobblestones or hopping into the ferryboats,
and even her mother’s constant nagging . . . there was no power on earth that
could prevent Zeliha, who was taller than most women in this city, from donning
miniskirts of glaring colors, tight-fitting blouses that displayed her ample
breasts, satiny nylon stockings, and yes, those towering high heels.
Now, as she stepped on another loose cobblestone, and watched the puddle of
sludge underneath splash dark stains on her lavender skirt, Zeliha unleashed
another long chain of curses. She was the only woman in the whole family and one
of the few among all Turkish women who used such foul language so unreservedly,
vociferously, and knowledgeably; thus, whenever she started swearing, she kept
going as if to compensate for all the rest. This time was no different. As she
ran, Zeliha swore at the municipal administration, past and present, because
ever since she was a little girl, never a rainy day had passed with these
cobblestones primed and fixed. Before she was done swearing, however, she
abruptly paused, lifted her chin as if suspecting someone had called her name,
but rather than looking around for an acquaintance, she instead pouted at the
smoky sky. She squinted, sighed a conflicted sigh, and then unleashed another
profanity, only this time against the rain. Now, according to the unwritten and
unbreakable rules of Petite-Ma, her grandmother, that was sheer blasphemy. You
might not be fond of the rain, you certainly did not have to be, but under no
circumstances should you cuss at anything that came from the skies, because
nothing poured from above on its own and behind it all there was Allah the
Almighty.
Surely Zeliha knew the unwritten and unbreakable rules of Petite-Ma, but on
this first Friday of July she felt spoiled enough not to care. Besides, whatever
had been uttered had been uttered, just like whatever had been done in life had
been done and was now gone. Zeliha had no time for regrets. She was late for her
appointment with the gynecologist. Not a negligible risk, indeed, given that the
moment you notice being late for an appointment with the gynecologist, you might
decide not to go there at all.
A yellow cab with bumper stickers all over its back fender pulled up short. The
driver, a rough-looking, swarthy man who had a Zapata mustache and a gold front
tooth, and who might very well have been a molester when off duty, had all the
windows down and a local rock station blasting Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” full
bore. There was a sharp mismatch between the man’s utterly traditional look and
his contrastingly unconventional musical preferences. He braked brusquely,
cocked his head out of the window, and after whistling at Zeliha, barked, “I’ll
have some of that!” His next words were muffled by Zeliha’s.
Excerpted from The Bastard of Istanbul by Elif Shafak, © 2007 by Elif Shafak. Excerpted by permission of Viking Press, a division of Penguin Group. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
