“Thank you,” Derdâ said.
The boy was about to say “you’re welcome” when a hand seized him by the collar and dragged him away. Then Bezir lifted him into the air and tossed him like a stone. Ubeydullah lifted his head, looked at his son, and began reciting the Koran even more loudly; Bezir understood. He took a few coins from his pocket and gave them to the boy dusting himself off. He stood up and picked up his tanks. First he shot a glance at Bezir and then he looked at Derdâ. Then he turned and walked away. Ubeydullah closed the Koran in his hand, still mumbling, and then pronounced a clear “Amen” for everyone to hear.
Ubeydullah imagined he was performing prayers in his house in London as he walked through the maze of steel benches at the airport, running his prayer beads through his fingers. Bezir and Regaip carried the suitcases, and Derdâ walked behind them with her schoolbag flung over her hated black chador. Her mouth gaped open in surprise as she took in the immensity of the building. It was the first time she’d been to an airport.
But her wonder came to an end when she remembered how much she despised each and every person she had known in her short life. Now there were people everywhere. She was surrounded by them, by all these people, people hurrying past her. They were racing past her, going the same direction, not seeing the girl dressed in black. Why don’t they understand, Derdâ thought. I am walking beside them. I am here with them. But nobody cares. They don’t even see me. They’re blind. Or maybe it’s this black robe, my cloak of invisibility.
Three hours later a stewardess peered down into the only visible part of Derdâ’s face and smiled at her with pity before helping her fasten her seat belt. Half an hour later the plane’s wheels disappeared into its white belly, Derdâ looked down at Istanbul, and the plane flew away like a migrant bird.
For a while she thought of the girl from Yatırca and her teacher Yeşim. As if they were right there before her eyes. One cried as the other spoke to her. And then slowly their faces faded away. She’d learned the word from Nazenin and she said it just like her. She said it to herself in her mind, in one sharp exhalation: Fuck! It felt good. So she said it again, Fuck, fuck, fuck! and an imperceptible smile flickered on her face. No one could hear her. Just people, she thought. They can’t see me, they can’t hear me. I’ll say it a thousand times for every one of them. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, “fuck, fuck, fuck …” A few of them she even whispered out loud, only to mock the people mute to her profanity. She pronounced the “k” a little more loudly. Ubeydullah was sitting next to her and noticed the little girl moving her lips. He was pleased, assuming she was either praying out of fear or reciting a verse from the Koran—Ebcet had told Ubeydullah that Derdâ had been sent to a Koran course when she was five.
When she had recited a thousand fucks, she tilted her head back and looked at the buttons above her. She noticed a circular stain in the overhead light. She looked more closely. It was a fly, still alive. Somehow it had gotten inside the cover and it got stuck inside. It buzzed helplessly behind the little plastic cover, unable to escape. Derdâ felt no pity, felt nothing at all, and switched on the lamp.
Derdâ watched everything with intense curiosity. A minivan had picked them up at Heathrow Airport and they were pulling onto the ring road. Derdâ sat by the window. Though she hadn’t spent much time in cars, she’d already decided it was the best spot. But it wasn’t because a window seat let her watch the scenery. In a window seat there was one less person next to her. Derdâ was learning. The fewer the better. But now the scenery was new. She gazed out over green fields and marveled at the farm houses along the highway. It was all like the pictures in the books she’d once read. She looked at everything. Signs, people in passing cars, clouds, and giant power plants. Her eyes burned from looking so much, they ached from the sensory overload.
They were driving at ninety kilometers per hour but she didn’t want to leave a single image behind. Nothing escaped her eagle eye. Sometimes she missed things as they sped by—a building or a bridge—but she immediately turned her head. Back. But she turned too quickly, loosened the black chador wrapped tightly around her, and everything went black. She wanted to pull the cloth tight around her cheeks by adjusting the pin under her chin but she couldn’t—she was afraid she might miss something in the passing scenery.
She was fascinated by everything she saw, her eyes moist with pleasure and surprise, hardly blinking. Traffic picked up when they arrived in London. Just when Derdâ came eye to eye with a punk begging on the sidewalk, Bezir reached over her to a black tube above the window—Derdâ hadn’t even noticed such
