Honour (37 page)

They say you begin to understand your mum when you become a mother yourself, but for me it was Pembe’s letters that helped me to get to know her better.

She wrote to me regularly, openly, telling me more about herself than she ever had to my face. Getting a blue airmail envelope from her became indispensable to me, a cherished weekly routine. I would make myself tea, sit at the kitchen table and read, once, then many times, knowing that she was well and thriving.

My dear daughter, the light of my life, in this world and the next,

I think about you all the time. Please don’t stop visiting your brother. Forgive, Esma. Try. I know how hard it is, but you must. Make sure he understands he’s not alone. We are never alone. I pray to Allah that He sends him a companion, someone who has compassion for his fellow human beings and knows how ignorant they are but still loves them anyway. I pray every day that He finds this person and sends him to prison to accompany Iskender.

Don’t frown, my love. Don’t say that I am being biased towards him even now. Can you choose one finger over the other? That’s how it is for a mother. You cannot favour among your children. Iskender, Yunus and you are equally and so dear to me.

These days it is harder than before to send out post. Don’t worry if you don’t hear from me for some time. I had a most peaceful dream yesterday. I was here and there in Queen’s London at the same time. It was raining, except it was a strange rain of colours so vivid it was like watching fireworks without any fire. I woke up and thought, but it is true. I am there with you. Always.

Your loving mother, Pembe

It was the last letter I received from her: the one I have read so many times that the paper is slightly tattered around the edges, and carries fingerprints all over it, mine on top of hers, like storylines that intersect and diverge.

Later on, when I managed to travel to Turkey, the villagers told me in detail how it had happened. They assured me she had not suffered, not the least bit. A virus. The disease began with a skin rash around the neck and arms, patches of pink, nothing particularly alarming. Before long, the patient started to shiver and to sweat, and, if it went untreated at this stage, a high fever would follow, a comatose sleep that weakened the lungs so fast that many couldn’t wake up. It had emerged late in the spring of 1992, passing from animals to humans, and killed half-a-dozen people in a month – then it disappeared as if it had never been. She had probably contracted it when she paid a visit to her village, Mala Çar Bayan, to get provisions, and had accepted the offer of tea from a woman who wanted to show her the carpets she had woven in her youth. The woman’s six-year-old son was carrying the virus, though nobody knew this at the time. The child survived; my mother didn’t.

It was only when her letters ceased to come that I understood she had died for the second and last time.

I would like to thank David Rogers for reading an early draft and offering valuable suggestions.

Thanks to my agent, Elizabeth Sheinkman, for her encouragement and for being her lovely self. Special thanks to my two wonderful editors, Paul Slovak and Venetia Butterfield, for their insightful notes and scrupulous attention to detail, and to Donna Poppy for her unique contribution.

My greatest thanks go to Zelda and Zahir, who, when asked at school what mothers typically did at home, answered ‘They sign books’; and to Eyup, husband, beloved, nexus of patience and wisdom.

I am also grateful to the women, East and West, who have shared their personal stories with me, as well as their silences.

Elif Shafak
www.elifshafak.com (http://www.elifshafak.com)

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Small unit of Turkish currency.

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‘My house, my abode’ (Kurdish).

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‘I take it back, I take it back.’

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The wind that blows from the north-east, often bringing rain.

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‘The light of my eye’.

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A winter drink made with milk, sugar and cinnamon.

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Originally meaning ‘Your health, your goodness’, the word is now used to say, ‘Of course not.’

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A minibus.

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Street vendor’s cry: ‘Lady, I have Turkish delight, chickpeas . . .’

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A string instrument popular in Anatolia.

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Deep-fried dough soaked in syrup.

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‘My darling’.

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‘My abode, my lion.’

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Dumplings with spiced meat.

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‘Okay, I’ll do the rest.’

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‘She is a woman who is a state unto herself.’

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An elaborate meat dish with aubergine purée.

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Bagels with sesame seeds.