Black Milk - Elif Shafak [60]
Slowly, shyly, as if willing herself to disappear into the thick night, a finger-woman walks in. I recognize her immediately. It is Mama Rice Pudding.
“Hello there!” I pick her up and place her on my palm.
“You two know each other?” Milady Ambitious Chekhovian asks.
“Well, hmm . . . We’ve . . . m-met once,” I stutter.
“Oh, yeah? When was that?” Miss Highbrowed Cynic asks, frowning. “And how come we don’t know about it?”
Deciding that the best defense is a good offense, I snap: “In fact, I should be asking that question. In all this time, why didn’t you ever tell me about Mama Rice Pudding?”
Milady Ambitious Chekhovian briefly considers the notion. “What do you think would have happened if we told you? What good would it have brought?”
“I have a right to know that I have a maternal side,” I insist.
“Great, just what we needed,” says Miss Highbrowed Cynic, grumbling to herself. “We crossed an entire ocean to get rid of this sticky miss. Alas, she found us here as well!”
Suddenly it dawns on me. Does my leaving Istanbul in such a hurry have anything to do with this?
“Wait a minute, hold on,” I say. “Is this why you brought me all the way here to America?”
Miss Highbrowed Cynic and Milady Ambitious Chekhovian cast guilty looks at each other.
“Time for some real talk! Let the cat out of the bag!” says Little Miss Practical, shrugging nonchalantly.
“Okay, it might as well come out,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. She turns to me, her eyes blazing with fire. “I don’t know if you recall, but sometime ago you were traveling on a steamboat and this plump woman with two sons sat beside you.”
Of course I remember. I nod my head.
“Well, you might not have realized it, but you were profoundly moved by your encounter with that woman. She was young and pregnant with her third child. When you looked at her you lamented the opportunities you lost. You almost wanted to be her. If I hadn’t acted at once and made you write “The Manifesto of a Single Girl,” God forbid, you were going to get trapped in your dreams of motherhood.”
“So I wrote that manifesto because of you?”
“Yes, of course,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, as she paces up and down. “I thought that would be the end of the story. But when Mama Rice Pudding noticed you were curiously watching pregnant women and mothers with their babies, she decided it was high time for her to come out of hiding and introduce herself. We tried to reason with her, and then we threatened her. But she didn’t budge. She was going to upset the status quo, so we performed a military takeover. We forced you to leave Istanbul, but apparently Miss Nuisance followed us here!”
“But, if she is a member of the Choir of Discordant Voices, she should have an equal say in all matters,” I venture.
“Thanks, but no thanks. We can’t let that happen,” Miss Highbrowed Cynic says, rubbing her temples as if on the verge of a migraine.
“We are not a democracy, okay? We were always a monarchy, and now we are a tight military regime,” roars Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. A spark flickers in her eye as she turns to her chum. “Let’s have an emergency meeting.”
As the chairpersons of the High Military Council’s executive committee, Milady Ambitious Chekhovian and Miss Highbrowed Cynic move to a corner, whispering in fierce tones. After what seems like an eternity, they walk back, their footsteps echoing their determination, their faces grim.
“Follow us outside,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian.
“Where on earth are we going at this hour?”
“Move!” she scolds me, and then calls out to the others: “All of you! On the double!”
At three-thirty in the morning, under the watchful gaze of the braver squirrels, we march in single file in the snow. Our teeth chattering, our fingertips numb, we pass by the library and the dormitories.
“How serene the universe seems tonight,” mumbles Dame Dervish as she takes a deep breath.
How she’s able to find something positive to say even under the most stressful circumstances is a mystery to me. I pick her up and put her inside my sweater so she doesn