Black Milk - Elif Shafak [79]
So the entire week, Kuzguncuk—one of Istanbul’s most peaceful, oldest districts—reverberates with the sounds of cows mooing, ducks quacking, owls hooting and French arias.
Week 18
I don’t cry as often anymore, but now everything smells strange. Like a hunting dog that’s been released into the woods, with my nostrils flaring I spend the day trailing scents: a pinch of ginger in a huge pot of vegetable soup, the whiff of seaweed even when I am miles away from the shore, the odor of pickle juice on a store counter five blocks away. I walk around like Jean-Baptiste Grenouille in Patrick Suskind’s Perfume.
Of all the scents there is one that makes my stomach turn and has me running in the opposite direction: coconut.
Who would have ever guessed that Istanbul smells of coconuts! It’s like the city was built on a tropical island. Coconuts and their cloying aroma are ubiquitous: the sachets that dangle from the rearview mirrors in cabs, the liquid soaps used in public restrooms, the little white flakes that adorn the tops of bakery cakes, the heavy-scented candles decorating coffee shops and restaurants and the promotional cookies supermarkets give out to customers. When did Turkish people become so fond of coconut?
Istanbul is one large coconut cut in half. The Asian side is one half, the European side the other. I can’t find anywhere to hide.
Week 20
We’ve found out the sex of the baby. It’s going to be a girl.
I am happy. Eyup is happy. Mama Rice Pudding is thrilled.
“It is much easier to dress baby girls, and far more fun, too,” she says, her eyes brimming.
Female babies are dressed in pale pink, dark pink and fuchsia, while male babies are dressed in dark blue, brown and aquamarine. For little girls you get Barbie dolls and tea sets; for boys, Kalashnikovs and trucks. I wonder if I can raise my daughter differently.
“What is the use of worrying your head over such useless things?” Mama Rice Pudding says when I share my thoughts with her. “Even if you dress your daughter in the color of sapphires or emeralds, the minute she starts school she will embrace pink anyway. She will want to dress up the way her friends and all her favorite characters do. Barbie has a pink house, Dora the Explorer has pink shorts, and Hello Kitty is actually Hello Pink! Why are you trying to swim against the current?”
That same night in my dream I am swimming in a river as pink as cotton candy. I never see colors in my dreams, at least not to my recollection. I find it exciting to have a Technicolor dream, even if it is in pink.
Week 21
I secretly go to see Miss Highbrowed Cynic. There she is, as always, in a city as bustling with ideas as New York, behind an ornamented iron door, her walls still covered with posters of Che Guevara and Marlon Brando. She is wearing another one of her fringy hippie dresses. A necklace with large blue and purple beads hangs around her neck.
“Your necklace is pretty,” I say.
“Do you like it? It was made by the villagers living on the outskirts of Machu Picchu. I bought it to support the locals against the juggernaut of global capitalism.”
I can’t help but smile. I’ve missed Miss Highbrowed Cynic—the only finger-woman I know who can go from talking about a simple necklace to analyzing corporate globalization in one breath.
“So, how’s the pregnancy going?” she asks.
“Good, I saw the baby in an ultrasound. It’s a wonderful feeling.”
“Hmm,” says Miss Highbrowed Cynic.
“But I feel a little empty inside. I’m always sleeping, crying, eating or smelling coconuts.” My voice quivers slightly. “The truth is, I long for the depth of our conversations.”
Miss Highbrowed Cynic looks down at her feet as if they are culpable for the situation.
“You and I used to talk about novels, movies, exhibitions and political philosophy. You would bitch about everything, chuck dirt at everyone, criticize cultural hegemony. . . . I’ve been disconnected from books. Except for Little Women, that is.”
Miss Highbrowed