Black Milk - Elif Shafak [105]
Lord Poton (his voice shaking): No one has spoken to me like this before. I don’t know what to say. (His eyes fill with tears.) Women hate me. Doctors, therapists, too. Oh, the terrible things they write about me! You have no idea how it feels to be insulted in brochures, books and Web sites.
Me: Listen, that ship in my dream had a name: Aurora. It means “dawn” in Spanish, safak in Turkish.
Widening his slanting eyes, he looks at me blankly.
Me: Don’t you understand? I am that ship. I was the one who brought you into the port of my life.
Lord Poton (scratching his head): Let’s accept what you are saying for a moment. Why would you do such a thing?
Me: Because I thought I couldn’t deal with my contradictory voices anymore. I’ve always found it hard to handle the Thumbelinas. If I agreed with one, I could never make it up to the others. If I loved one a little more, the others would begin to complain. It was always that way. I had been making do by leaning a little bit on one and then a little bit on another. But after I gave birth the system stopped functioning. I couldn’t bear the plurality inside of me. Motherhood required oneness, steadiness and completeness, while I was split into six voices, if not more. I cracked under the pressure. That was when I called you.
That is when the strangest thing happens. There, in front of my eyes, Lord Poton starts to dissolve, like fog in the sunlight.
Lord Poton (taking out his silk napkin and dabbing at his eyes): I guess it is time for me to leave, then. I never thought I would get so emotional. (He wipes his nose.) I’m sorry—you took me by surprise is all.
Me: That’s all right.
Lord Poton (sniffling): I guess I’ll miss you. Will you write to me?
Me: I’ll write about you. I’ll write a book.
Lord Poton (clapping his hands): How exciting! I’m going to be famous!
A heavy silence descends, rushing into my ears like the wind through the leaves. I feel light, as if something has held me and lifted me up.
Lord Poton: Well, good-bye. But what will happen to the finger-women?
Me: I will take them out of the box. I’m going to give them each an equal say. The oligarchy has ended, and so have the coup d’état, monarchy, anarchy and fascism. It is finally time for a full-fledged democracy.
Lord Poton (laughing): Let me warn you, love, democracy is not a bed of roses.
Me: You might be right. But still, I’d prefer it to all other regimes.
PART SEVEN
Daybreak
The Calm after the Storm
One sunny day in August, when the plums in the garden had ripened to purple perfection, Eyup came back from the military, looking thinner and darker. He didn’t say a word for a long time, only smiled. Then I heard him in the bathroom, talking lovingly to the shampoo bottles, perfumes and creams.
“You don’t say hi to your wife, but you chat with your shaving cream?” I asked.
He laughed. “In the army one gets to miss even the tiniest luxuries in life and learns to be grateful for what he has on hand.”
“Perhaps depression teaches us the same thing, too,” I said. “I’ve learned to look around with new, appreciative eyes.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be with you,” he murmured, pulling me toward him. Then he added pensively, “We could have handled this better.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why didn’t we ask for help from our families or friends while you were going through that turbulence? Why didn’t we hire a nanny to help you? You tried to do everything alone. Why?”
I nodded. “I thought I could manage. I thought I could rock the baby to sleep, feed her healthy food and write my novels. It never occurred to me I wouldn’t be able to do this alone. That was my strength and my weakness at the same time.”
“From now on, we will do it together,” he said tenderly.
“Good,” I exclaimed. “Are you going to take care of the baby while I write?”
He paused, a trace of panic flickering in his eyes. “Let’s start looking for a nanny.”
We did. In ten days we found