Black Milk - Elif Shafak [48]
A shadow of panic crosses Mama Rice Pudding’s face. “Oh, no! Not that monster!”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask.
“Please don’t tell them I am here. They’ll tear me to shreds, those witches!”
She is right. Milady Ambitious Chekhovian with her doggedness, Miss Highbrowed Cynic with her pessimism, Little Miss Practical with her intolerance of anything that takes longer than ten minutes to prepare, would tear Mama Rice Pudding apart. I need to protect her from her sisters.
“Don’t worry, you are safe with me. I won’t whisper a word.”
Smiling warmly she reaches for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. Her fingers are not manicured and well groomed like Little Miss Practical’s; they aren’t decked with rings like Milady Ambitious Chekhovian’s or chewed up like Miss Highbrowed Cynic’s. They are rough from hard work, pink and plump. I am bewildered by the affection I feel for her. If she is my motherly side, isn’t it weird that I feel the need to mother her?
“Wait a minute, how are you going to get into America?” I ask. “Do you have a visa?”
“I don’t need a visa,” she says. “They don’t even search finger-women like me at airports.”
I can see why. It’d be hard to find a terrorist streak in her.
“I’m not worried about the external world,” she says. “You just keep that coven of finger-women away from me and I’ll be just fine.”
“Okay.”
“Please promise me that you will not let them ever crush me again.”
As I ponder how to skirt this demand and how to get her out of this restroom without the other Thumbelinas seeing her, the plane experiences turbulence. The pilot announces that everyone must return to their seats and fasten their seat belts.
A few seconds later, I open the door. The line has dispersed and I can see that Milady Ambitious Chekhovian is already in her seat.
“The coast is clear now,” I say to Mama Rice Pudding. “You can go out.”
“I will,” she says with a new edge to her voice. “But you haven’t given me your promise yet.”
It is one of those moments when I know I should be totally honest and tell the truth, but for the sake of courtesy or out of pure cowardice, I simply can’t. Instead, I tell her what she wants to hear, even though I know deep down inside that I can’t keep that promise.
“I swear I will not let the other finger-women silence you.”
A huge smile lights up her face. “Thanks. I know I can trust you.”
“By the way, who is this other chick you were talking about?” I hear myself asking.
“You will meet her when the time is ripe.”
“But why is she hiding?”
“She is not hiding. None of us is. It’s you who doesn’t acknowledge our presence. For years, you’ve given all your attention to Little Miss Practical, Miss Highbrowed Cynic, Milady Ambitious Chekhovian and Dame Dervish.”
“I understand,” I say, although I am not sure I do.
“Okay, we need to go now.”
“Well, it was really nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she says, blushing. “I guess I will see you around.”
Still smiling, she slips out the door. I stay in the restroom a few more seconds, slightly shaking—not knowing whether it’s due to the turbulence or to the confusion in my mind.
It dawns upon me that I don’t know myself very well. Throughout my adult life, I’ve favored certain voices inside me at the expense of others. How many inner voices are there that I have yet to meet?
I go back to my seat.
Until the plane touches down in New York, this is all I think about.
A Festive Banquet
Simone de Beauvoir, even more than fifty years after her death, remains a diva in the history of the feminist movement. At her funeral in 1956, thousands of mourners heard an unforgettable phrase: “Women, you owe her everything”—a phrase that says a lot about her charisma and legendary heritage. You may not agree with everything she said, you may not even like her personality, but you cannot turn a blind eye to her work or intellectual legacy.
“One is not born a woman, but becomes