liquid soaps used in public restrooms, the little white flakes that adorn the tops of bakery cakes, the heavy-scented candles decorating coffee shops and restaurants and the promotional cookies supermarkets give out to customers. When did Turkish people become so fond of coconut?
Istanbul is one large coconut cut in half. The Asian side is one half, the European side the other. I can’t find anywhere to hide.
Week 20
We’ve found out the sex of the baby. It’s going to be a girl.
I am happy. Eyup is happy. Mama Rice Pudding is thrilled.
“It is much easier to dress baby girls, and far more fun, too,” she says, her eyes brimming.
Female babies are dressed in pale pink, dark pink and fuchsia, while male babies are dressed in dark blue, brown and aquamarine. For little girls you get Barbie dolls and tea sets; for boys, Kalashnikovs and trucks. I wonder if I can raise my daughter differently.
“What is the use of worrying your head over such useless things?” Mama Rice Pudding says when I share my thoughts with her. “Even if you dress your daughter in the color of sapphires or emeralds, the minute she starts school she will embrace pink anyway. She will want to dress up the way her friends and all her favorite characters do. Barbie has a pink house, Dora the Explorer has pink shorts, and Hello Kitty is actually Hello Pink! Why are you trying to swim against the current?”
That same night in my dream I am swimming in a river as pink as cotton candy. I never see colors in my dreams, at least not to my recollection. I find it exciting to have a Technicolor dream, even if it is in pink.
Week 21
I secretly go to see Miss Highbrowed Cynic. There she is, as always, in a city as bustling with ideas as New York, behind an ornamented iron door, her walls still covered with posters of Che Guevara and Marlon Brando. She is wearing another one of her fringy hippie dresses. A necklace with large blue and purple beads hangs around her neck.
“Your necklace is pretty,” I say.
“Do you like it? It was made by the villagers living on the outskirts of Machu Picchu. I bought it to support the locals against the juggernaut of global capitalism.”
I can’t help but smile. I’ve missed Miss Highbrowed Cynic-the only finger-woman I know who can go from talking about a simple necklace to analyzing corporate globalization in one breath.
“So, how’s the pregnancy going?” she asks.
“Good, I saw the baby in an ultrasound. It’s a wonderful feeling.”
“Hmm,” says Miss Highbrowed Cynic.
“But I feel a little empty inside. I’m always sleeping, crying, eating or smelling coconuts.” My voice quivers slightly. “The truth is, I long for the depth of our conversations.”
Miss Highbrowed Cynic looks down at her feet as if they are culpable for the situation.
“You and I used to talk about novels, movies, exhibitions and political philosophy. You would bitch about everything, chuck dirt at everyone, criticize cultural hegemony… I’ve been disconnected from books. Except for
Miss Highbrowed Cynic lights a cigarette, but seeing my face, she puts it out immediately. She remembers I have quit smoking.
“Did you really miss me?” she asks.
“And how!”
“I missed you, too. We would read together for hours and gossip about other writers. It was fun. We don’t get to do that anymore.”
She weighs something in her head and then suddenly gives me a wink. “Come, let’s read Sevgi Soysal.”
“But I can’t. She’s on the forbidden-authors list,” I say uncertainly.
Miss Highbrowed Cynic flushes scarlet with rage. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she bellows. “That mama-woman doesn’t know her limits. No one can ban a book.”
I agree.
Opening a random page, Miss Highbrowed Cynic reads, and I listen to the lullaby of her voice.
Tante Rosa believed that the day would come where an apple would be an apple, that a father would be a father, that a war would be a war, that the truth would be the truth, that a lie would be a lie, that love would be love, that to be fed up would be to be fed up, that rebelling would be rebelling, that silence would be silence, that an injustice would be an injustice, that order would be order and that a marriage would be a marriage.
Week 22
I don’t know how Her Majesty the Queen found out that I had visited Miss Highbrowed Cynic, but she did. Contrary to my fear, she doesn’t throw a fit.
“So you missed reading books,” she says with a sigh, as if the thought has tired her. Then she pulls out a box from inside her coat.
“What is this?” I ask.
“I bought you a present,” she answers. “I thought you might enjoy this.”
When I open the package a book falls out:
My lack of enthusiasm doesn’t escape Mama Rice Pudding.
“All right,” she concedes. “I might have overreacted when I banned your books and burned all the paper and pens in the house.”
I remain silent.
“You are someone who is used to expressing herself through writing. So I have a suggestion for you. Why don’t you write to your baby?”
Smiling, I nod. That is the best advice I’ve ever gotten from Her Highness.
Week 25
Dear Baby (Since I don’t know your name yet, I hope you don’t mind me referring to you like this.),
This is the first letter I am writing you. I once read that some
traditional tribes sustain the belief that babies got to pick their
parents. I had laughed at the idea, but now it seems plausible.
I imagine you sitting in the sky with angels, skimming through a huge, leather-bound catalog that contains photographs of potential mothers. Under each photograph there is a short description. The angels turn the pages with utmost patience. You look at all the candidates with a buyer’s eye.
“Not this one,” you say. “No, not this one either-”
Doctors, engineers, housewives and businesswomen pass before your eyes. Even though there are many highly eligible candidates, women who do their jobs well and are very accomplished, you ignore them.
Just then the angel turns another page and my picture pops up. It is not a very good photo of me, my hair is a mess-again-and my makeup is slapdash. I’m wearing my onion-clothes. Under my picture is a description:
Pointing your tiny little finger at my face you remark, “This one could be fun. Let me take a closer look at her.”
I don’t know why you ended up picking me out of all the potential mothers in the universe. Maybe you are a crazy kind of girl. You find the idea of a perfect mother boring. Or you already know me better than I know myself. Maybe you see the potential in me. Maybe you want to help me overcome my shortcomings. You can be my guide,
