There Are Rivers in the Sky

by Elif Shafak

It prompted her to imagine that the houseboat is female and has experienced its – her – share of storms and doldrums, which it – she – survived with considerable damage but perhaps improved resilience. It warmed her up to the idea of moving here. Not a logical deduction in any way, but, after being invariably rational and mostly predictable all her adult life, she felt entitled for once to deviate from reason.

Colleagues before they became lovers and long before they got married, they both dedicated their lives to scientific research. It was not only a profession they shared but a passion. She always believed that nothing – not even great sex or fiery love – could bring a couple closer than having a common ideal to fight for, and that is what they had. They were both devoted to the study and conservation of the earth’s water. While it might not sound much to others, for them there was no stronger bond. How their relationship had soured like this, Zaleekhah cannot possibly say. All she knows is that at some point in their marriage she looked back and realized they had long since left the track they had set out upon, like a tram that derails on sharp corners.

It is perhaps easier to justify the end of a relationship – both to yourself and to others – when there is a definite, tangible cause, no matter how painful. But it is harder to grasp the gradual evaporation of love, a loss so slow and subtle as to be barely detectable, until it is fully gone.

In London he never allows himself to relax, never taking a moment’s respite to enjoy the songs of wandering artists or to smell the flowers straggling over high brick walls, but he can do that now that he is in a strange city and a stranger himself. He strolls through the beaux quartiers – neighbourhoods that abound in stylish boutiques, smart brasseries and gilded cafés with marble tables on the pavements where customers sit and sip absinthe, wine and lemonade, and laugh as if they have cast all their worries to the winds.

People, elegant and confident, stream by him on both sides, seemingly in no hurry. He has never before experienced this kind of easy assurance. The poverty and hardship of his upbringing have kept him from knowing such luxuries. He has no idea what it is like not to have to work every moment of each day, to go for a walk for no other reason than to see and to be seen.

‘People think a tattoo is an act of rebellion or something, but, actually, it’s a form of storytelling. That’s what most customers come in for – not just some random image or word in ink. They come because they have a story to tell.’

It seems to him that the different strands of his life and personality are unravelling. He has dedicated his life to words, but now, suddenly, words are not enough. He does not know how to articulate this feeling of extreme loneliness and rootlessness that has descended upon him amongst his fellow countrymen. Strangely, he feels like a foreigner in his own homeland.