There Are Rivers in the Sky

by Elif Shafak

She asked him if he ever regretted studying “aquatic memory,” given the price he paid for choosing such a controversial subject. “Not for one second. I wanted to research an unknown property of water, and I treasured every moment of it.” “But it cost you so much.” “True…but you and I both love the work we do and that love is beyond all personal success or failure. You’ll pick up where I’ve left off, and, if you falter, someone else will take on your research. We do this to keep scientific inquiry going—with or without us.” Thinking about these words now, Zaleekhah curls into herself and hugs her knees. The sofa is shorter than she is, but that’s not the cause of her discomfort. She feels guilty for never having told Berenberg how much he meant to her and she feels guilty for telling her husband how much Berenberg meant to her. She was silent when she should have spoken; she spoke when she should have been silent. Either way, guilt is her most loyal companion. And regret, too—not so much for her acts as for her failure to act. She was drawn to Berenberg’s dedication and perseverance, a devotion so selfless as to seek only the good of its object, an unreasonable commitment perhaps more commonly observed in ancient mystics and ascetics than in the modern workplace.