Black Milk - Elif Shafak [80]
“Did you really miss me?” she asks.
“And how!”
“I missed you, too. We would read together for hours and gossip about other writers. It was fun. We don’t get to do that anymore.”
She weighs something in her head and then suddenly gives me a wink. “Come, let’s read Sevgi Soysal.”
“But I can’t. She’s on the forbidden-authors list,” I say uncertainly.
Miss Highbrowed Cynic flushes scarlet with rage. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she bellows. “That mama-woman doesn’t know her limits. No one can ban a book.”
I agree.
Opening a random page, Miss Highbrowed Cynic reads, and I listen to the lullaby of her voice.
Tante Rosa believed that the day would come where an apple would be an apple, that a father would be a father, that a war would be a war, that the truth would be the truth, that a lie would be a lie, that love would be love, that to be fed up would be to be fed up, that rebelling would be rebelling, that silence would be silence, that an injustice would be an injustice, that order would be order and that a marriage would be a marriage.
Week 22
I don’t know how Her Majesty the Queen found out that I had visited Miss Highbrowed Cynic, but she did. Contrary to my fear, she doesn’t throw a fit.
“So you missed reading books,” she says with a sigh, as if the thought has tired her. Then she pulls out a box from inside her coat.
“What is this?” I ask.
“I bought you a present,” she answers. “I thought you might enjoy this.”
When I open the package a book falls out: My Baby and Me. Apparently it has been read first by Mama Rice Pudding. Some sentences are underlined, some chapters are starred: “Preparing the Baby’s Room,” “Fabulous Mashed Food Recipes.” I thank her and put it down. I’ll read it sometime.
My lack of enthusiasm doesn’t escape Mama Rice Pudding.
“All right,” she concedes. “I might have overreacted when I banned your books and burned all the paper and pens in the house.”
I remain silent.
“You are someone who is used to expressing herself through writing. So I have a suggestion for you. Why don’t you write to your baby?”
Smiling, I nod. That is the best advice I’ve ever gotten from Her Highness.
Week 25
Dear Baby (Since I don’t know your name yet, I hope you don’t mind me referring to you like this.),
This is the first letter I am writing you. I once read that some
traditional tribes sustain the belief that babies got to pick their
parents. I had laughed at the idea, but now it seems plausible.
I imagine you sitting in the sky with angels, skimming through a huge, leather-bound catalog that contains photographs of potential mothers. Under each photograph there is a short description. The angels turn the pages with utmost patience. You look at all the candidates with a buyer’s eye.
“Not this one,” you say. “No, not this one either—”
Doctors, engineers, housewives and businesswomen pass before your eyes. Even though there are many highly eligible candidates, women who do their jobs well and are very accomplished, you ignore them.
Just then the angel turns another page and my picture pops up. It is not a very good photo of me, my hair is a mess—again—and my makeup is slapdash. I’m wearing my onion-clothes. Under my picture is a description: Head pickled, chaotic personality, prone to moments of irrationality, has yet to find herself, is actively searching for answers. Loves telling stories. Writer. Columnist. Litterateur.
Pointing your tiny little finger at my face you remark, “This one could be fun. Let me take a closer look at her.”
I don’t know why you ended up picking me out of all the potential mothers in the universe. Maybe you are a crazy kind of girl. You find the idea of a perfect mother boring. Or you already know me better than I know myself. Maybe you see the potential in me. Maybe you want to help me overcome my shortcomings. You can be my guide, my best teacher.
Like I said, I don’t know why you chose me, but I want you to know