Excerpt of The Bastard of Istanbul by Elif Shafak
(Page 6 of 9)
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That was a little unfair to the rain, since the traffic, the broken
cobblestones, the municipality, the stalker, and the cabdriver, not to mention
the stop for shopping, should also have been held accountable for her delay, but
Zeliha decided to bring up none of those. She might have violated The Golden
Rule of Prudence for an Istanbulite Woman, she might also have violated The
Silver Rule of Prudence for an Istanbulite Woman, but she held her ground to
abide by the Copper Rule.
The Copper Rule of Prudence for an Istanbulite Woman: When harassed on the
street, you’d better forget about the incident as soon as you are on your way
again, since to recall the incident all day long will only further wrack your
nerves!
Zeliha was smart enough to know that even if she had brought up the harassment
now, other women, far from being supportive, would have the tendency to pass
judgment on a harassed sister in cases like these. So she kept the answer short
and the rain remained the only thing to blame.
“Your age, miss?” the receptionist wanted to know.
Now that was an annoying question, and utterly unnecessary. Zeliha squinted at
the receptionist as if she were some sort of a semidarkness one needed to adjust
her eyes to better see. All of a sudden, she remembered the sad truth about
herself: her age. Like too many women used to acting above and beyond their
years, she was disturbed by the fact that, after all, she was far younger than
she’d like to be.
“I am,” she conceded, “nineteen years old.” As soon as the words came out of her
mouth, she blushed, as if caught naked in front of all these people.
“We’d need the consent of your husband, of course,” the receptionist continued,
no longer in a chirpy voice, and wasted no time in proceeding on to another
question, the answer of which she already suspected. “May I ask you, are you
married, miss?”
From the corner of her eye Zeliha noticed the plump blonde on her right and the
head-scarved woman on her left wriggle uncomfortably. As the inquisitive gaze of
every person in the room weighed heavier upon her, Zeliha’s grimace evolved into
a beatific smile. Not that she was enjoying the tortuous moment, but the
indifference deep underneath had just whispered to her not to mind other
people’s opinions since they would make no difference at the end of the day.
Lately she had decided to purge certain words from her vocabulary and now that
she recalled that decision, why not start with the word shame. Still, she didn’t
have the nerve to utter aloud what by now everyone in the room had fully
understood. There was no husband to consent to this abortion. There was no
father. Instead of a BA-BA* there was only a VO-ID.
Fortunately for Zeliha, the fact that there was no husband turned out to be an
advantage in formalities. Apparently she didn’t need to get anyone’s written
approval. The bureaucratic regulations were less keen to rescue babies born out
of wedlock than those born to married couples. A fatherless baby in Istanbul was
just another bastard, and a bastard just another sagging tooth in the city’s
jaw, ready to fall out at any time.
“Your birthplace?” the receptionist continued drearily.
“Istanbul!”
“Istanbul?”
Zeliha shrugged as if to say, where else could it be? Where else on earth but
here? She belonged to this city! Wasn’t that visible on her face? After all,
Zeliha considered herself a true Istanbulite, and as if to reprimand the
receptionist for failing to see such an apparent fact, she turned back on her
broken heel and invited herself to the chair next to the head-scarved woman. It
was only then that she took notice of the latter’s husband, who was sitting
still, almost paralyzed with embarrassment. Rather than passing judgment on
Zeliha, the man seemed to be wallowing in the discomfort of being the only male
here, in such a blatantly feminine zone. For a second Zeliha felt sorry for him.
It occurred to her to ask the man to step onto the balcony and have a smoke with
her, for she was sure he smoked. But that could be misinterpreted. An unmarried
woman could not ask such questions of married men, and a married man would
display hostility toward another woman when next to his wife. Why was it
difficult to become friends with men? Why did it always have to be like that?
Why couldn’t you just step out onto the balcony and have a smoke and exchange a
few words, and then go your separate ways? Zeliha sat there silently for one
long moment, not because she was dog-tired, which she was, or because she was
fed up with all the attention, which she was as well, but because she wanted to
be next to the open window; she was hungry for the sounds of the street. A
street vendor’s husky voice infiltrated the room: “Tangerines . . . Fragrant,
fresh tangerines . . .”
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.
