Black Milk - Elif Shafak [38]
Miss Highbrowed Cynic smacks her lips approvingly. “We are going to America because it just so happens that we applied for a fellowship in your name. Congratulations! You have won. Now get packed!”
I feel a lurch in my stomach, only now realizing how serious they are.
“We have decided that you should take this trip in order to grow as a writer,” Miss Highbrowed Cynic adds. “It will be inspiring for you to get away for a while. We are doing this for your own good.”
“For my own good,” I repeat.
If she heard the scorn in my voice, Milady Ambitious Chekhovian doesn’t seem to be bothered by it. “I will be honest with you,” she says. “We have been planning this coup d’état for a while. But it was you—with your recent irrational behavior—who accelerated the process.”
“What irrational behavior are you referring to?” I ask as calmly as I can manage.
“Lately, your state of mind has not been well,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, her voice shaky with emotion. “All these years, we have slaved away so that you could excel as a novelist. We never took off, we never fooled around. People might think novels pop off an assembly line, but they don’t. Behind every book, there is toil. There is sweat and pain.”
“All right,” I say. “Why do you bring this up now?”
Milady Ambitious Chekhovian raises her chin and straightens her shoulders, like the military hero she has become. “Did we do all this for nothing? How dare you throw away the years of sweat in one fell swoop?”
“Wait a minute, I am not throwing away anything,” I object. “Where are you getting all of this?”
“From your behavior, of course. I have been watching you for some time. Don’t think I haven’t noticed!”
“Noticed what?” I bellow. I am not calm anymore, and don’t try to be.
“I can very well see that you’re considering having a baby.”
“Oh my God, is that what this is about?” I ask.
“Yes, sir,” she says. “You are wondering: ‘Could I become a mother? What kind of mother would I make? I’m getting older. My biological clock is ticking.’ All these harmful thoughts are bouncing around your head! I don’t see this going anywhere good. Do you think I didn’t notice the way you were looking at that baby the other day?”
“How did I look?” I ask suspiciously.
“With sparkling eyes . . .”
“What is wrong with that, is it—” I try to defend myself, but Milady Ambitious Chekhovian cuts me off immediately.
“There can be only two reasons why a woman looks with sparkling eyes at another woman’s baby: (a) she wants to be a baby again; (b) she wants to become a mother. In your case, I am afraid it’s the latter.”
Miss Highbrowed Cynic joins in. “Obviously, if you stay around here, you will be led astray.”
“Led astray from what?” I ask, incredulous.
“From your literary trajectory, of course!” Miss Highbrowed Cynic and Milady Ambitious Chekhovian exclaim in unison. “From being a writer and an intellectual . . . Your path is to write and read.”
I am more amazed by their show of solidarity than by the things they are spouting. When did these two become such chums?
I turn to Miss Highbrowed Cynic, managing a smile. “I thought you weren’t against motherhood. You said it made no difference. You said, one way or another, we are always miserable.”
“Exactly,” she says, nodding. “I have now decided that it is better to be a miserable writer than a miserable writer, housewife, spouse and mother.”
My head starts to spin. What about Little Miss Practical, I wonder. She’s been unusually silent. Noticing my inquisitive gaze, she guiltily plays with the zipper of her parka.
“What is your take on this?” I ask. “I thought you were on the side of liberal democracy and free market economy.”
“True, a junta isn’t my cup of tea,” she admits. “But I’m down for it, under the extenuating circumstances.”
“What extenuating circumstances?”
“Well, at first I wasn’t thrilled with the coup. But then I saw the benefits. Life in America is far