some specific information?'
A whispered word escaped Auntie Banu's slightly parted lips but rather than a 'yes' or 'no,' it sounded like a moan. She felt so small amid the cavernous vastness of earth, sky, and stars and the quandary that pulverized her soul.
'You can ask me the question you have been dying to find out ever since the American girl told you all those sad things about her family. Don't you want to learn if it is true or not? Don't you want to help her find out the truth? Or do you reserve your powers for your clients alone?' Mr. Bitter challenged, his charcoal, bulging eyes feverishly triumphant. Then he added, suddenly placid, 'I can tell you, I am old enough to know. I was there.'
'Stop it!' Auntie Banu exclaimed, almost shrieking. She felt her stomach lurch and the burn of sour bile in her throat as she snapped, 'I don't want to learn. I am not curious. I regret the day I asked you about Asya's father. Oh God, I wish I hadn't. What is knowledge good for if you cannot change anything? It is venom that handicaps you forever. You can't vomit it up and you can't die. I don't want that to happen again…. Besides, what do you know?'
Why she had blurted out that last question, she couldn't fathom. For she knew too well that if she wanted to learn about Armanoush's past, Mr. Bitter would be the right one to ask, since he was a gulyabani, the most treacherous among all the djinn, yet also the most knowledgeable when it came to traumatic ends.
Ill-omened soldiers, ambushed and massacred miles away from their home, wanderers frozen to death in the mountains, plague victims exiled deep into the desert, travelers robbed and slaughtered by bandits, explorers lost in the middle of nowhere, convicted felons shipped to meet their death on some remote island… the gulyabani had seen them all. They were there when entire battalions were exterminated in bloody battlefields, villages were doomed to starve or caravans reduced to ashes by enemy fire. Likewise, they were there when the Byzantine emperor Heraclius's huge army was crushed by the Muslims at the Battle of Yarmuk; or when Berber Tank thundered to his soldiers, 'Behind you is the sea, before you, the enemy! Oh my warriors, whither would you flee?' and with that they invaded Visigothic Spain, killing everyone on their way; or when Charles, thereafter named Martel, slew 300,000 Arabs in the Battle of Tours; or when the Assassins, intoxicated with hashish, killed the illustrious vizier Nizam-al-Mulk and spawned terror until the Mongolian Hulagu destroyed their fortress, along with everything else. The gulyabani had witnessed firsthand each and every one of these calamities. They were particularly notorious for stalking those lost in the desert with no food and water. Whenever, wherever someone died leaving no gravestone behind, they appeared beside the corpse. Should they feel the need, they could disguise themselves as plants, rocks, or animals, particularly vultures. They would spy on calamities, observing the scene from the side or above, though it is also known that occasionally they would haunt caravans, steal whatever food the destitute might need to survive, scare the pilgrims on their holy journey, attack processions, or whisper a terrifying tune of death into the ears of those sentenced to the galleys or those forced to walk a death march. They were the spectators of those moments in time in which humans had no testimony, no written record left behind.
The gulyabani were the ugly witnesses of the ugliness human beings were capable of inflicting on one another. Consequently, Auntie Banu reasoned, if Armanoush's family had really been forced on a death march in 1915, as she claimed, Mr. Bitter would surely know about it.
'Aren't you going to ask me anything?' Mr. Bitter mouthed as he sat on the edge of the bed, fully enjoying Auntie Banu's quandary. 'I was a vulture,' he continued bitterly, the only tone in which he knew to talk. 'I saw it all. I watched them as they walked and walked and walked, women and children. I flew over them, drawing circles in the blue sky, waiting for them to fall on their knees.'
'Shut up!' Auntie Banu bawled. 'Shut up! I don't want to know. Don't forget who the master is.'
'Yes, master.' Mr. Bitter shrank back. 'Your wish is my command and thus it shall be as long as you wear that talisman. But should you want to learn what happened to that girl's family in 1915, just let me know. My memory can be yours, master.'
Auntie Banu sat straight up in her bed, biting her lips hard to look adamant, having no intentions of showing weakness to Mr. Bitter. As she tried to be resilient, the air started to reek of dust and mold, as if the room had fallen into a state of putrefaction. Either the present moment was quickly decaying into a residue of time or the decay of the past was seeping into the present. The inner gates of time awaited being unbolted. To preserve them locked and everything in its place, Auntie Banu took out the Holy Qur'an, which she kept inside a pearly cover in a drawer in her bedside table. She opened a page randomly and read: 'I am closer to you than your jugular vein' (50:16).
'Allah.' She sighed. 'You are closer to me than my jugular vein. Help me out of this dilemma. Either grant me the bliss of the ignorant or give me the strength to bear the knowledge. Whichever you choose shall make me grateful, but please don't make me powerless and knowledgeable at the same time.'
On that prayer Auntie Banu slipped out of bed, put on, her nightgown, and with soft, swift steps tiptoed to the bathroom to get ready for her morning prayer. She checked the clock on the buffet inside, seven forty-five. Had she been in bed so long, arguing with Mr. Bitter, arguing with her conscience? Hurriedly she washed her face, hands, and feet, walked back to her room wearing her gauzy prayer head scarf, spread her little rug, and stood to pray.
If Auntie Banu had been late to set the breakfast table this morning, Armanoush would be one of the last to realize it. Having remained online till late, she had overslept, and would have liked to have slept in more. She tossed, turned, pulled the blanket up and down over her chest, doing her best to sink back into sleep. She opened one droopy eye and saw Asya at her desk reading a book and listening to music with her headphones on.
'What are you listening to?' Armanoush asked loudly.
'Huh?' Asya shouted, 'Johnny Cash!'
'Oh, sure! What are you reading?'
'Irrational Man: A Study in Existential Philosophy, ' the same loud, steady voice replied.
'Isn't that a bit irrational too? How can you listen to music and concentrate on existential philosophy at the same time?'
'They square perfectly,' Asya remarked. 'Johnny Cash and existential philosophy, they both probe the human soul to see what's inside, and unhappy with their findings, they both leave it open!'
Before Armanoush could ruminate on that, someone knocked on the door calling both girls to catch the last train to breakfast.
They found the table set just for the two of them, everyone else having already finished their breakfast. Grandma and Petite-Ma had gone to visit a relative, Auntie Cevriye to school, Auntie Zeliha to the tattoo parlor, and Auntie Feride was in the bathroom dyeing her hair ginger. And the only auntie in the living room now looked strangely grumpy.
'What's the problem, have your djinn dumped you?' Asya asked.
Instead of answering, Auntie Banu headed to the kitchen.. In the following two hours, she reorganized the cereal jars lined on the shelves, mopped the floors, baked raisin-walnut cookies, washed the plastic fruits on the counter, and painstakingly sponged an ossified mustard stain at the corner of the stove. When she finally came back to the living room, she found the two girls still at the breakfast table, scoffing at every single scene in The Malediction of f the Ivy of Infatuation-the longest-running soap opera in Turkish TV history. But instead of feeling resentful for seeing them mock something she valued, Auntie Banu was only surprised-surprised to realize that she had completely forgotten about it, missing her favorite program for the first time in years. The only other time she had missed it was years ago during her period of penitence. Even then, may Allah forgive her, she had thought about The Malediction of the Ivy of Infatuation, wondering what was happening in the show while she repented. But now that there was no reason to miss it, how could she? Was her mind so preoccupied? Wouldn't she know if she were so confused?
Suddenly, Auntie Banu noticed the two girls eyeing her from their chairs, and felt uncomfortable, perhaps because she also realized that with the soap opera now over, they could be rummaging around for some new targets of ridicule.
But Asya seemed to have something else in mind. 'Armanoush was wondering if you could read the tarot cards for her?'
'Why would she want that?' Auntie Banu said quietly. 'Tell her she is a beautiful, intelligent young woman with a bright future. Only those who don't have a future need to learn about their future.'
'Then read some roasted hazelnuts for her,' Asya insisted, skipping the translation.
