The Bastard of Istanbul

by Elif Shafak

Zeliha unleashed another long chain of curses. She was the only woman in the whole family and one of the few among all Turkish women who used such foul language so unreservedly, vociferously, and knowledgeably; thus, whenever she started swearing, she kept going as if to compensate for all the rest.

She did not like women, which would have been easier to deal with had she not been one of them. Whenever she met a new woman she did one of two things: either waited to see when she would hate her or hated her right away.

In the Kazancı domicile she always had to correct her ways, striving for a perfection that was beyond her comprehension, whereas here in Café Kundera no one forced you to change since human beings were thought to be essentially imperfect and uncorrectable.

“There is an afterlife and it’s going to be worse than here,” was the general opinion in the group. “So enjoy whatever time you have left.”

Besides, every sudden wealth one acquired was necessarily a wealth stolen from someone else, since there is no such thing in nature

as a pure vacuum and the fates of human beings are interrelated like stitches in a latticework.

“They square perfectly,” Asya remarked. “Johnny Cash and existential philosophy, they both probe the human soul to see what’s inside, and unhappy with their findings, they both leave it open!”