Honor (9781101606148) (17 page)

Finally he let me go. When I looked up, I saw he was ashamed of his reaction. He wasn't an abusive man, not in that way. I don't know what took possession of him that day. I don't think he knows either.

Mum ran to me, wiping my face. ‘My lion, my sultan. Are you all right?'

I ignored my mother's hand on my forehead and glared at my father. Now there was resentment in his eyes but also a flash of misery. What were we doing to ourselves? Why were we always taking it out on each other?

Then and there I understood it was no good shaking in your shoes. If I displayed weakness, he would step on me. The whole bloody world would step on me. But if I were strong, really strong, no one could. Since then I have never been weak. At fault, yes. Entirely wrong. But not weak. Never. And since then I have not eaten meat.

Iskender Toprak

London, 1 January 1978

Five forty in the morning, and Adem was already awake. Lately he had begun to set the alarm clock at ungodly hours so that he could have some time to himself before Roxana woke. He liked to watch her while she was sleeping. Her face looked different then, less strained, no longer angry at him for who he was and what he couldn't become. Now, stripped of its peach-coloured lipstick, her mouth was smaller, without a hint of coldness; her hair spread out on the pillow like spun wool pointing in all directions, clutching around his heart.

Being in love with Roxana was like watching a boat pass by in the distance. Adem sat on the shore stock still, shielding his eyes from the sun. Under his gaze the ship kept moving. Not too fast, never in a hurry, an almost imperceptible farewell. He knew their days together were numbered. She was slipping away from him inch by inch, and the only thing he could do was to wait until she became a dot on the horizon. When she discovered that he had no money left, she would be done with him. He was aware of all this because she had made it clear from the start.
A woman has needs
, she was fond of saying. Roxana was always astoundingly, agonizingly forthright.

She had seen him lose at roulette, but she still believed he had money up his sleeve: savings in the bank, a loan that would be paid back or property in London.
Surely he must have something. He has been in this country for so long.
She expected Adem to reveal his hidden treasure any day now. Her expectations hadn't come out of thin air: he had done everything in his power to give her that impression.

The truth was, however, that a few days ago Adem had lost his job in the factory. His sloppiness had finally taken its toll. Now his only source of income was the money he had borrowed from friends; his only asset, the house where his family lived. He had been given a mortgage six years ago, and had so far paid off only a quarter of it.

Sighing, Roxana turned in her sleep. Her face twisted, her nostrils slightly flared. ‘No,' she said, and mumbled something incomprehensible. Then again, she repeated, ‘No, no.'

Adem held his breath, trying to hear more. He wondered what she was dreaming about. Her body was here in bed with him but her soul was far away with another man. If so, was it someone she loved? He didn't know which would be worse: that she had never been in love and was incapable of opening her heart or that she had loved once and would never dedicate herself to anyone in the same way again.

Quietly, he got up from the bed. The blanket slid aside, revealing Roxana's bare thighs. She could sleep naked, winter or summer, utterly comfortable in her skin. He could never do that. Each time, he would take off his pyjamas before sex and instantly put them back on afterwards.

‘Take your socks off in bed. You're like an old man!' Roxana complained.

He obeyed, though he didn't like it because he was always cold. The heating in the flat was poor. Old pipes in need of repair, leaking in places. But he dared not complain about it. Another thing Roxana didn't like was his moustache. ‘Englishmen don't have them,' she often said. ‘When're you gonna cut it? It makes you look like Stalin.'

Shuffling his feet in the dark, Adem went to the kitchen and turned on the light. The mess surprised him, even though he thought he had got used to it by now. Roxana hated housework and often reprimanded him for not giving her a hand.
You can't make me serve you. I'm not your wife, am I?

She liked to say such things – insinuations as sharp as broken glass. Her bitterness was an inseparable part of her, almost vindictive. It wasn't really the harshness of her comments that he minded so much as the generalities she projected on to him. Every time Roxana lectured him, Adem had the impression that she was addressing all the men she had known. That hurt. Being part of a rogues' gallery, having no distinctive character in her eyes, made him feel like the temporary lover that he was. He wanted to be unique, her one and only. It didn't matter that there had been others before him. Well, it
did
matter, but at least if he could be assured that he was special it would lessen the discomfort. Roxana would laugh at such a thought.
I never said I was in love with you, did I?
Whenever he came close to talking about his feelings, something he had never done before, neither with his wife nor his children, she would wave her hand, as though to disperse some cigarette smoke that was bothering her.

Adem opened the cupboard, trying not to look at the sink, where a stack of dirty plates and mugs caked in mould swam in murky water. Managing to find a clean pot, he started to make Turkish coffee.

On the back burner on low heat, the coffee started to simmer, its slow boil strangely soothing. The kitchen was suffused with a pungent smell. Soon he sat at the table with a cup in his hand and drank it down in a few gulps. Still, he didn't feel fully awake. Still, he carried the night in him.

The day before he had gone to his younger son's school and waited outside, hiding in the shadows.
Like a criminal
, he thought to himself. When Yunus walked out with his friends, he had not called his name, his throat too tight. Similarly, a few times he had hung around a café called Aladdin's Cave in the hope of running into Iskender. Once he had spotted him in the distance, holding hands with a lean, blonde girl. He knew Iskender had an English girlfriend, but seeing them together, light and full of zest, had made him feel old, revealing the vigour he no longer possessed. In the months he hadn't been to the house his son had grown up so much! He was a young man, quite handsome. Much as he wanted to, he could not go and speak to him. People were looking. That was the hardest part. Meeting the eyes of friends and neighbours, making small talk all the while pretending not to notice what was on their minds.
A shameful man who abandoned his family for a dancer.

Striding across the hall, he went to the bathroom, turned on the light and observed himself in the mirror. He frowned at his sunken eyes, the marks on his cheeks from old spots, the white streaks in his hair – how could his hair become hoary while his moustache was still black? He was going to trim his stubble, the way he had every morning for over fifteen years. But his right hand seemed to have another plan. With a sudden urge, he grabbed the razor.

When Adem came out of the bathroom, clean-shaven, he saw Roxana sitting up in bed, leafing through a women's magazine. He had only to glance at her to know that she had slept poorly and was not in the best mood.

‘Do you have coffee for me?' she said, without looking up.

‘Sure.' His voice sounded vaguely different when talking to her, like an echo of his own.

‘My neck hurts again.'

He began to massage her neck, drawing widening circles above her shoulders, his hands settling momentarily on the small of her back. She let out a moan, her body relaxing as if in a foamy bath. He kept massaging, with more strength, until his fingertips met around her neck, accidentally at first, then with a purpose. It occurred to him, and not for the first time, that he could kill this woman. He said, ‘I'll go make your coffee.'

‘Wait.' She studied him intently. ‘What have you done to your face?'

‘Oh, my moustache,' he said. ‘Do you like it?'

Even though Roxana nodded, she wished suddenly, and without quite knowing why, that he hadn't shaved it off, that he didn't love her this much and that everything could be different. A sad smile settled into the corner of her mouth, and all the bitterness seemed to bleed away from her.

London, 2 January 1978

Early in the afternoon, a golden glow illuminated the windows of the Crystal Scissors, where a bunch of Christmas decorations hung like ripe grapes, bathing the interior in a glittering light. Still reeling from a party the previous night, Rita was drinking her third cup of black coffee when the door opened and a middle-aged man walked in. His face was animated and bright, and he carried himself with a quiet confidence that could have been distancing, were it not for his warm smile.

Raising an eyebrow, Rita examined the stranger from head to toe. He didn't look like a representative for one of the shampoo companies or a petitioner trying to collect a few more signatures. Nor did he have the air of an inspector who had come to check the sanitary conditions at the salon. Well dressed and proper, he seemed a decent man – but one never knew these days.

‘May I help you?' said Rita.

‘Yes, please. I'd like to have a haircut.'

Rita let out a chuckle. ‘I'm afraid we're not open yet. Not for another fifteen minutes and –'

‘Oh, I can wait outside, no problem.'

‘I was gonna say, this isn't a unisex salon. Why don't you try the barber around the corner?'

‘Ah, I've been there before,' said Elias. ‘That man should call himself a butcher, not a barber.'

‘Well, I'm sure we can find you a good place,' Rita conceded, a hint of amusement in her voice.

‘Just wondering,' he said in a sweeter tone, ‘have you noticed lately how many salons have turned unisex?'

‘Really?' asked Rita in mock amazement. She hadn't yet ruled out the option that he might be some sort of lunatic.

Working in the tiny room at the back, Pembe stopped cleaning the hairbrushes, and strained to hear who on earth Rita could be talking to. She thought she recognized the voice, but it couldn't possibly be
him
. Her heart leaping into her throat, she tiptoed into the salon. Such was her astonishment at seeing Elias chatting with her boss that she leaned against the wall, incapable of making another move.

Elias hadn't seen Pembe enter. ‘I've kept my hair long for the past four years. I feel it's time for a change,' he was now saying.

‘Uh-hmm, I always say to my customers, ladies, long hair is for women. That's the way the good Lord made it.'

By now Pembe was convinced that she had to intervene and shoo him away, but try as she might she couldn't think of a way to do it. Pursing her lips, and biting them raw, she continued to watch them.

‘Then perhaps you'd consider helping me,' Elias said. ‘I'm a chef, you see. Every day a customer complains about hair in his soup.'

Rita laughed. ‘I'd love to help, darlin', but I'm waiting for my half-twelve appointment.'

‘I do it,' Pembe butted in.

Both Rita and Elias turned aside and gaped at her, arms slightly akimbo, faces grim, as if they had forgotten who she was. Doing her best to sound casual, Pembe added, ‘I cut his hair.'

It wouldn't be the first time. Though she had not trained as a hairdresser, Pembe had been observing Rita long enough to know the ropes. Cutting the hair of her children, especially of her sons, for many years had also taught her a few tricks.

‘Well, that's settled, then,' Rita said with a dismissive shrug. She was about to add something else, but the door slammed open and her customer popped in. Rita walked towards the woman, her arms wide open. ‘Margaret, how nice to see you.'

In the meantime, Pembe ushered Elias to a chair at the end of the room, where she whispered tensely, ‘Why you here?'

‘Sorry, I had to see you.'

‘No, you don't!' she said, sounding like a petulant child. She put a smock around his neck, lined up the scissors on a plastic tray and began to wet his hair with a spray bottle.

Elias saw that Pembe was so vexed by his presence her hands were shaking. He felt such a strong urge to hold her and to apologize for upsetting her that he had to take a deep breath to control himself. He half regretted his bit of mischief. Nonetheless, the pleasure of having her this close outweighed the guilt. He watched her every move in the oval mirror on the wall. At her touch he closed his eyes, and when he opened them he saw that she, too, was observing him. Her next words, however, did not match the compassion in her stare: ‘I cut your hair, but don't come more.'

‘All right, don't worry. I promise, I won't come here again.'

Relieved, Pembe smiled for the first time. ‘And how do I cut?'

‘Now that, I dunno.' Elias had always kept his hair the same way and was only now beginning to realize he was not quite ready to change his style. But he said, ‘Make me handsome, please, something nice.'

‘You're nice already,' Pembe muttered in a voice so low it was a miracle he heard her.

Laughter broke out at the other end of the room. Rita and her customer were gossiping with gusto, engrossed in a world of their own.

‘I need to ask you something.'

‘What is it?' she replied apprehensively.

‘Look, I . . . I'd like to get to know you better, and spend more time together. But if you'd rather I stay away from you, tell me.'

Pembe flinched. Her face paled a little, and after what seemed an eternity she mumbled, ‘Don't stay away.'

Elias raised his right hand – the hand that was closer to the wall and therefore concealed from all eyes – and caught Pembe's right hand. It was the first time they had touched in a way that wasn't accidental, or a shy encounter, beset with guilt and panic. Like a falling man reaching out for a rope, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it so tightly it hurt. She didn't mind, for she felt the same – the intensity, the belatedness, the impossibility. Her hand grew as small as a sparrow in his.

They stood like that for another second until she pulled away. ‘How I cut?'

‘Make it like his, please,' Elias heard himself say.

Pembe followed his gaze to the nearby table, on which a magazine was open to a picture of a man at an awards ceremony – an athletic Hollywood star with porcelain teeth and suntanned skin. ‘Like him? No! Yes? Sure?' She couldn't help the giggle that escaped her.

‘Absolutely, I've always wanted to look like a celebrity.'

She took the magazine and studied the photo, even though she knew that he couldn't care less about the actor, that he was only buying time to be close to her. For the next half hour she toiled in silence, her brow furrowed in concentration. No more words were exchanged. Each time Rita stole a look at how they were doing, she saw only Pembe working and the strange customer reading one glossy magazine after another.

When she was finished Pembe took a mirror and showed him the back of his head. Elias heaved a sigh, trying not to be demoralized by the shortness of his hair and the sight of his nape. As she was taking off his smock, he asked, as if in passing, ‘Do you like films, Pembe?'

‘What?'

‘I mean, cinema. Do you like to go?'

Pembe nodded, smiling. During the early years in England she had asked her children to take her to the cinema several times, which they had done, but language was always a barrier. She had found it difficult to follow the dialogue. ‘Why you ask?' she said.

Now Elias approached, his eyes locked on hers. ‘I've left something under the hairspray. Take a look at it, please.' Then he raised his voice to a merry pitch: ‘Well, thank you very much. You've done a terrific job.'

From the other end of the salon Rita beamed, pleased to see another satisfied customer. While she and Elias exchanged pleasantries and he paid, Pembe stayed put, her eyes fixed on the can of hairspray. There was a ticket there – next Friday at four p.m. at a cinema in East Finchley. It was an old film. Black and white, and silent.