When they woke her from her daydreams they were in Finsbury Park, the headquarters of the Hikmet Tariqat in London. The English version of Çemendağ. Finsbury Park, where property prices plummeted with the rise of Muslim immigrants, where the English became poorer and increasingly racist every day and Muslims got richer and richer, slowly taking over the neighborhood.
The minivan pulled away with Regaip inside. The others entered a twelve-story apartment building, half occupied by members of the Hikmet Tariqat. By the time they reached his flat on the eleventh floor, countless people had come out to kiss Ubeydullah’s hand. Then he placed his hand on Bezir’s shoulder.
“You go up to your flat. They’ll send the girl.”
Ubeydullah’s wife Rahime and several other women brought Derdâ into the bathroom. “Do you know how to perform ablutions?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The women weren’t convinced. They wanted her to show them. Right then and there. Derdâ undressed and performed her ablutions in the exact way Mübarek had taught her to do them. In the Hikmet Tariqat style. The women were satisfied. One smiled and said, “Look, I’m Sister Rahime, I was your age when I came here, so don’t be afraid.” She took Derdâ’s hand and led her to one of the two apartments on the twelfth floor. She rang the doorbell to the flat closest to the stairwell and then left, going back down the stairs. She heard the door open and turned to look at Derdâ, who remained motionless for a few seconds before passing through the door.
Bezir’s apartment had three rooms with wall-to-wall carpeting. Carpets with lions. In the living room there was only a couch, two armchairs, a lectern that could have well been a hundred years old, and a poster of the Kaaba in a black frame. One of the rooms was completely empty, and in the other room there was only a large wardrobe. The only mirror in the house was in the bathroom. One bedroom was significantly larger than the others. In it there was a double bed pushed up against the wall, accessible only from one side—from the marks in the carpet it was apparent it had just been moved into the room.
Bezir walked over to the poster of the Kaaba. There were two prayer rugs on the floor, one beside the other. He stood over one and signaled for Derdâ to come. The little girl stood over the other rug and with their bodies facing the picture of Kaaba on the wall, set in the direction of Mecca, they began to pray together. Thick curtains covered the windows. It was midnight in London. Derdâ watched Bezir out of the corner of her eye and prayed he didn’t know that she wasn’t really praying.
Bezir slowly rolled up the rugs and set them on the couch. Then he took Derda by the hand and led her to the bedroom. Never taking his eyes off the little girl he pulled his gown over his shoulders and, pointing at her chador, he told Derdâ to take it off. She did and then he told her to lie down. Then he pointed to the wall.
“Come here.”
He remained standing, watching Derdâ, now only in her underwear. She was trembling. They both were trembling. Bezir spoke for the last time that night: “Bismillahirrahmanirrahim.”
And he fucked Derdâ until the morning dawned in London.
It was the longest night in the history of London. Even the sun was too embarrassed to rise; morning came late that day.
Bezir got in the elevator, examining the teeth marks on his hands, and left. Derdâ was lying in the bathtub covered in blood, hardly able to breathe. “Clean yourself up,” Bezir had told her. He’d carried her to the bathtub and left her there, as if laying her in a grave. Derdâ was naked. She was too scared to find out where the blood was coming from. In any case, she couldn’t even move her head. All her strength was gone. She’d resisted all night long. Pulling, pushing, and biting the hands covering her mouth to muffle her screams. But to no avail. There was dried blood under her fingernails. Her arms and legs were covered in bruises. The bruises covering her arms and legs made her look like a leopard—and after just one single night of being battered. Battered and shriveled up. She couldn’t even cry.
She heard someone at the front door. Someone was trying different keys in the lock. Finally, a key turned in the lock, the door opened, and a woman called out: “Derdâ! Derdâ!”
Rahime came into the bathroom and saw the girl. Without registering any surprise, she turned on the tap and tested the water temperature. Derdâ watched as if her eyes had sunk deep into their sockets, as if she were looking at the world from somewhere deep inside the depths of her body. She couldn’t speak, she couldn’t give sound to the words on the tip of her tongue. She could only look. She looked at Rahime’s hand under the running water as if she was looking through the wrong end of binoculars. After making sure the water was warm, Rahime pulled her hand away and flicked the drops off her finger tips. Then she turned on the shower and Derdâ felt water falling on her legs. She moaned. It was all she could do. Warm water poured down over her body like rain, over her feet, her arms, her hands, her neck.
“Close your eyes,” Rahime said, smiling.
Derdâ didn’t hear her. She didn’t understand. There was a humming in her ears. She involuntarily closed her eyes as rain drops fell into her mouth. Water struck her face, lashes of
