“How many years has it been? Five, six? What an incredible coincidence, don’t you think?
Derdâ nodded her head, forcing herself to smile a little.
“You do remember me, don’t you?”
Derdâ nodded her head again.
“Why don’t you come over and see me sometime?”
Derdâ nodded her head for the last time before cutting into her steak. She’d get her revenge out on this guy some other time. But right now she needed someone who could help her adjust to life in London and he was the only English person she knew who spoke Turkish, so she couldn’t kill him, at least not yet.
Steven’s semidetached house had a garden in perfect trim with stunning red and white roses. It was only few streets away from the pub but Derdâ felt as if each and every person they passed on the way was staring at her hair. Those few minutes spent fantasizing about how she’d gouge out their eyes made her forget her hatred for Steven. Steven unlocked the green wooden door to his apartment and they both stepped inside.
The house was both cozy and tastefully decorated, and it seemed like a happy family lived there. It was extremely neat and tidy. Steven gestured for Derdâ to sit down on the sofa. It had a white and red rose design just like the roses in full bloom in his garden. Derdâ sat down in the armchair beside the couch. She knew that if she sat down on the sofa Steven would sit right next to her. But as it happens he had other plans. He wanted to show Derdâ one of her films.
He picked up the remote and turned on the DVD player. Then he turned to Derdâ, perched on the edge of the armchair, and said, “Please make yourself at home,” adding, “you might want to put your bag down?” Derdâ was still clutching her bag. She slowly set it on the floor but she was startled at the sight of her own image on the TV screen. She felt nothing at all.
It wasn’t long before the film quickly got violent and Derdâ looked at Steven who was standing over her. As far as she could judge his expression, he was intently following everything. His face went through a range of emotions. First sour, then pleased, then frustrated. Every now and then he chuckled. This old guy was nothing like Stanley or Mitch. But it did occur to Derdâ that Steven was just as mad as Rahime. Derdâ looked back at the screen and was shocked to see her own two eyes staring right back at her, a frozen frame of her frozen gaze. Steven had paused the film just at a close up shot of her eyes.
He gingerly placed the remote control on the couch and said, with a queer smile on his face, “What is it you wear? Would I be able to find one for myself? What do you call it?”
“A chador,” Derdâ said.
He snapped his fingers, leaned forward on his toes, then rocked backward.
“That’s it!” he cried. “A chador! Where can I find one?”
Unmoved by his surprise, Derdâ simply nudged her bag on the floor with her Dr. Martens.
“I have one in here.”
Steven was sixty years old but he had the build of a child, as if he’d been afflicted by a serious illness in his youth that had stunted his growth.
“Really?” he said, and he nearly threw himself at Derdâ’s bag before he stopped himself. He looked at her, his face racked with curiosity.
“Could I have a look at it?”
Derdâ remained silent while Steven leaned over and pulled her black chador out of the bag. He wore an excessively courteous expression on his face, as if he were handling a sacred possession of the royal family. He held it up to the sunlight beaming through the window.
“Perfect!” he said in English. And then he continued in Turkish.
“How do you put it on?”
Four hours later, Steven and Derdâ were sitting at the table just behind the sofa eating pasta. He was wearing Derdâ’s black chador. Derdâ eagerly ate her food as she spoke. She was much more at ease than she had been before.
“Now your face is exposed. You’re eating. But soon it’ll be covered, too. Only your eyes will show.”
“Yes,” said Steven, almost whispering.
“You won’t speak permission,” Derdâ roared. This was her catchphrase from her latest film. Steven was about to agree, but he stopped himself and covered his mouth with his hand as he made coy circling gestures under his eyes and smiled coquettishly like an Ottoman madam.
“I’ll stay here tonight,” Derdâ said.
Steven nodded in assent, and he nodded again and again.
“Maybe I’ll stay tomorrow, too,” she went on.
Seeing Steven now entirely subservient, Derdâ became even bolder.
“Maybe I’ll never leave. And you will teach me English. Yes, we’ll start tomorrow.”
And then with a glance at Steven’s empty plate she erupted. “That’s enough already. You’ve had more than your share. Now get up and clear the table!”
As Steven hurried to clear the table, Derdâ had a look around the house. She stopped in front of a walnut china cabinet with crescent moon and star reliefs—clearly it was from Turkey. Tucked away among a set of crystal whisky glasses and souvenir plates from various countries, she saw a packet of Camel cigarettes. Steven had been struggling to quit and though he’d been clean for some time he still kept a single pack of Camels in the china cabinet as a kind of prisoner of war. Derdâ opened the cabinet door and pulled out the pack. She took out a cigarette and shouted, “Rahime!” Steven was now Rahime. He’d fallen in love with the name the moment he’d heard it. Derdâ had learned a lot from Mitch’s scripts. The first way to break down a person’s sense of self was to deny him his name—it was far more effective than just beating him
