She tore the pages out of the notebook, got dressed, and left the apartment. Rahime opened the door, still holding her Koran.
“What do you want?” Rahime demanded. She’d forgotten everything: that Bezir was gone and that during his absence Derdâ was supposed to spend the days with her. She’d forgotten all about the songs they’d listened to together the other night, everything. Derdâ tried to smooth things over and said that she had just come over for some bread.
“We don’t have any,” Rahime snapped. “I don’t have anything for lying bitches like you!”
Derdâ smiled as Rahime slammed the door shut. She hurried back upstairs. She was so excited about her plan that she was afraid she might abandon the whole thing if she stopped to think about it for even a second. So she didn’t. She ran straight to her neighbor’s door and rang the doorbell.
She heard footsteps, and the door swung open. Stanley had just woken up—he had heavy, dark circles under his eyes from all the meth he’d done the night before. He was wearing nothing but leather pants, with the top button undone. His torso was covered in tattoos. Hardly any skin was left uncolored. Derdâ took a step back, her pictures trembling in her hands. She was afraid of all the devils she’d just seen in the tattoos. But she thought of Bezir and how he’d be coming back soon and she held out her pictures. Stanley took them and closed the door.
She didn’t know what to do. She stood silently in front of the closed door. She waited for a few minutes before she went back to her apartment with a final glance over her shoulder at Stanley’s door as she stepped inside.
Night fell over London. Derdâ could see the lights racing over the city streets from the bedroom window. She sat in the armchair with her knees pulled up to her chest, looking out over London, but not really seeing anything. She was afraid. What if he shows the pictures to Bezir? she thought as she gnawed at the insides of her cheeks. She stared at her reflection in the glass for hours, thinking about killing herself. She could just open the window and jump.
She stood up and realized that she’d forgotten to take off her chador. It was still wrapped around her like a second skin. She hadn’t even taken off her gloves. She couldn’t be bothered. She took a step forward and opened the window. She felt the first drops of newly falling rain on her face. She looked down to the ground twelve floors below and then out into the distance. Suddenly there was a heavy knock on the door. The doorbell was broken.
Feeling empty, Derdâ left the open window and slowly walked through the living room and down the corridor toward the door. She opened the door listlessly, not even lifting her head to see who was there. But there on the floor she saw a pair of Dr. Martens and as she slowly lifted her head she saw a pair of legs covered in black leather, a black T-shirt, and finally Stanley’s face. Her eyes met his blue eyes. They were looking over Derdâ, peering into the darkness of her apartment, as if looking for someone, trying to understand if anyone else was home. He placed his hands on either side of the doorframe and leaned forward, looming over Derdâ, as he tried to get a better look inside the flat.
“Is anyone else here?” he asked in English. Derdâ involuntarily turned her head and looked into the apartment. Then she understood. She turned and said in Turkish, “No, nobody’s here,” opening her palm to Stanley to emphasize it. Though a little surprised by the gesture, Stanley understood what she meant. He took Derdâ by the wrist and pulled her out of the apartment, just like she had drawn in her graphic novel. Derdâ hardly had time to reach out and shut the door. I’m leaving, she thought. At last, I’m leaving. But they didn’t go far. They passed the stairs and then the elevator and went into Stanley’s apartment.
They passed through an empty entrance hall and down a dark corridor and stepped into a large bedroom. Derdâ knew the layout even though she’d never been here before. She knew it like the back of her hand—it was the exact same layout as the apartment she’d been living in for the past five years. In her bedroom Bezir kept the bed up against the wall. In Stanley’s room, there were black curtains hanging from chains, and there was a black leather armchair beside a double mattress on the floor—the one Derdâ had seen when she first moved in. The walls were covered with foldout posters from Torture magazine. Looking closely at the posters, Derdâ saw what the men and women were doing to each other and she dropped Stanley’s hand and stepped back. Her instinct told her to
