Black Milk - Elif Shafak [76]
“I want to apologize for breaking your heart,” I say meekly. “I don’t know how to make it up to you, and I fear that now it might be too late. It is just that there is something urgent we need to talk about. May I come inside?”
“Sorry,” she says frostily. “I’m kind of in a rush and don’t have time for you.”
She looks over her shoulder toward her kitchen counter, as if she were about to slam the door in my face. Perhaps she is.
“I have food on the stove,” she says. “I’m making beef kebab with artichokes. It is a special recipe that requires maximum attention. I’m also preparing strawberry marmalade. If it boils for too long the sugar will crystallize. I need to go back to my work.”
“Wait, please.”
Words get clogged in my throat, but I manage to utter an intelligible sentence: “Look, I don’t know what to do and I’m scared. I need someone to talk to, but the other finger-women won’t understand. Only you can help me.”
“And why is that?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Because I am pregnant.”
The door springs wide open, a shriek of delight pierces the air and out runs Mama Rice Pudding, her face blossoming with life, her arms open wide. She jumps up and down with joy. I have never seen anyone receive news with so much glee, and for a second, I fear she has lost her mind.
“Congratulations!” she yells, staring at me wide-eyed, like a child at a circus.
“Listen to me, please. My mind is so confused I don’t know what to do or how to feel. I guess I wasn’t prepared for this, you know.”
“Great! Fabulous! Oh, bless you!” she yells again. “Come on in, let me give you some food. You need to eat more now.”
During the next hour I do nothing but gobble. Though she cannot convince me to eat meat, she makes me devour a generous slice of raspberry cheesecake, and then pushes into my mouth homemade pastries and spoonfuls of marmalade. When she is fully convinced that I cannot possibly eat another morsel she leans back, suddenly serious.
“Well, well. So this is the way of things,” she says. “So you want my help?”
I don’t like the change in her voice, but I nod all the same.
“All right, I will help you. But there is one condition.”
“Which is?”
“There will be a change in the political regime. We are no longer living under martial law, is that understood? We are done with the coup d’état.”
“Sure, of course,” I say like a good sheep. “I have always wanted the Choir of Discordant Voices to move toward a full-fledged democracy. This will be the beginning of a new era.”
“About that . . .” she says, suddenly having a coughing fit.
“Did something get stuck in your throat?”
Mama Rice Pudding gathers herself upright. “I need to make something very clear,” she says. “I am not advocating democracy here. Actually, I want to go back to a monarchy again, except this time I will be the queen.”
She must be joking. I’m about to scoff but something in her eyes stops me midway.
“Was there democracy when I was being oppressed?” she asks. “Why should I condone a democratic state now that I’m in charge? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Time to hoot my toot!”
Suddenly I find her irritating, almost scary.
“Go and make me a golden crown,” she says. “Those two crazies of yours are no longer in power. I’ll have them rot in Alcatraz!”
“There is an Alcatraz inside me?” I ask.
“No, but I will build one,” she roars. “Finally the tables have turned! Je suis l’état!13”
On my way back, I stop by Miss Highbrowed Cynic’s house and break the news to her. She listens without a word, her face as pale as a white sheet. Together we go to Milady Ambitious Chekhovian’s apartment and warn her about the upcoming takeover.
“You can’t just get rid of us just like that,” says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian, the strength in her voice missing.
“You can’t do this to us,” repeats Miss Highbrowed Cynic like a nervous parrot.