"I'm not having any problems falling asleep; actually I'm sleeping a lot," I say, trying to reason, trying to stay calm.
I don't know about the baby, but these sounds are starting to piss me off. "Birds chirping in an Australian rain forest seem like the perfect sleepless aid if you ask me."
"What do you want to listen to, then?" she asks.
"Punk, postpunk, industrial metal. This is the kind of music I always listened to while writing my novels. I could use a dose of Pearl Jam, Chumbawamba, Bad Religion—"
"No way," she says, scrunching up her face. "Forget all that vulgar noise. You are not making a novel. You are making a baby."
So the entire week, Kuzguncuk — one of Istanbul's most peaceful, oldest districts — reverberates with the sounds of cows mooing, ducks quacking, owls hooting and French arias.
Week 18
I don't cry as often anymore, but now everything smells strange. Like a hunting dog that's been released into the woods, with my nostrils flaring I spend the day trailing scents: a pinch of ginger in a huge pot of vegetable soup, the whiff of seaweed even when I am miles away from the shore, the odor of pickle juice on a store counter five blocks away. I walk around like Jean-Baptiste Grenouille in Patrick Suskind's Perfume.
Of all the scents there is one that makes my stomach turn and has me running in the opposite direction: coconut.
Who would have ever guessed that Istanbul smells of coconuts! It's like the city was built on a tropical island. Coconuts and their cloying aroma are ubiquitous: the sachets that dangle from the rearview mirrors in cabs, the liquid soaps used in public restrooms, the little white flakes that adorn the tops of bakery cakes, the heavy-scented candles decorating coffee shops and restaurants and the promotional cookies supermarkets give out to customers. When did Turkish people become so fond of coconut?
Istanbul is one large coconut cut in half. The Asian side is one half, the European side the other. I can't find anywhere to hide.
Week 2О
We've found out the sex of the baby. It's going to be a girl.
I am happy. Eyup is happy. Mama Rice Pudding is thrilled.
"It is much easier to dress baby girls, and far more fun, too," she says, her eyes brimming.
Female babies are dressed in pale pink, dark pink and fuchsia, while male babies are dressed in dark blue, brown and aquamarine. For little girls you get Barbie dolls and tea sets; for boys, Kalashnikovs and trucks. I wonder if I can raise my daughter differently.
"What is the use of worrying your head over such useless things?" Mama Rice Pudding says when I share my thoughts with her. "Even if you dress your daughter in the color of sapphires or emeralds, the minute she starts school she will embrace pink anyway. She will want to dress up the way her friends and all her favorite characters do. Barbie has a pink house, Dora the Explorer has pink shorts, and Hello Kitty is actually Hello Pink! Why are you trying to swim against the current?"
That same night in my dream I am swimming in a river as pink as cotton candy. I never see colors in my dreams, at least not to my recollection. I find it exciting to have a Technicolor dream, even if it is in pink.
Week 21
I secretly go to see Miss Highbrowed Cynic. There she is, as always, in a city as bustling with ideas as New York, behind an ornamented iron door, her walls still covered with posters of Che Guevara and Marlon Brando. She is wearing another one of her fringy hippie dresses. A necklace with large blue and purple beads hangs around her neck.
"Your necklace is pretty," I say.
"Do you like it? It was made by the villagers living on the outskirts of Machu Picchu. I bought it to support the locals against the juggernaut of global capitalism."
I can't help but smile. I've missed Miss Highbrowed Cynic — the only finger-woman I know who can go from talking about a simple necklace to analyzing corporate globalization in one breath.
"So, how's the pregnancy going?" she asks.
"Good, I saw the baby in an ultrasound. It's a wonderful feeling."
"Hmm," says Miss Highbrowed Cynic.
"But I feel a little empty inside. I'm always sleeping, crying, eating or smelling coconuts." My voice quivers slightly. "The truth is, I long for the depth of our conversations."
Miss Highbrowed Cynic looks down at her feet as if they are culpable for the situation.
"You and I used to talk about novels, movies, exhibitions and political philosophy. You would bitch about everything, chuck dirt at everyone, criticize cultural hegemony. . I've been disconnected from books. Except for Little Women, that is."
Miss Highbrowed Cynic lights a cigarette, but seeing my face, she puts it out immediately. She remembers I have quit smoking. "Did you really miss me?" she asks. "And how!"
"I missed you, too. We would read together for hours and gossip about other writers. It was fun. We don't get to do that anymore."
She weighs something in her head and then suddenly gives me a wink. "Come, let's read Sevgi Soysal."
"But I can't. She's on the forbidden-authors list," I say uncertainly. Miss Highbrowed Cynic flushes scarlet with rage. "You've got to be kidding," she bellows. "That mama-woman doesn't know her limits. No one can ban a book." I agree.
Opening a random page, Miss Highbrowed Cynic reads, and I listen to the lullaby of her voice.
Tante Rosa believed that the day would come where an apple would be an apple, that a father would be a father, that a war would be a war, that the truth would be the truth, that a lie would be a lie, that love would be love, that to be fed up would be to be fed up, that rebelling would be rebelling, that silence would be silence, that an injustice would be an injustice, that order would be order and that a marriage would be a marriage.
Week 22
I don't know how Her Majesty the Queen found out that I had visited Miss Highbrowed Cynic, but she did. Contrary to my fear, she doesn't throw a fit.
" So you missed reading books," she says with a sigh, as if the thought has tired her. Then she pulls out a box from inside her coat. "What is this?" I ask.
"I bought you a present," she answers. "I thought you might enjoy this."
When I open the package a book falls out: My Baby and Me. Apparently it has been read first by Mama Rice Pudding. Some sentences are underlined, some chapters are starred: "Preparing the Baby's Room," "Fabulous Mashed Food Recipes." I thank her and put it down. I'll read it sometime.
My lack of enthusiasm doesn't escape Mama Rice Pudding.
"All right," she concedes. "I might have overreacted when I banned your books and burned all the paper and pens in the house."
I remain silent.
"You are someone who is used to expressing herself through writing. So I have a suggestion for you. Why don't you write to your baby?"
Smiling, I nod. That is the best advice I've ever gotten from Her Highness.
Week 25
Dear Baby (Since I don't know your name yet, I hope you don't mind me referring to you like this.),
This is the first letter I am writing you. I once read that some traditional tribes sustain the belief that babies got to pick their parents. I had laughed at the idea, but now it seems plausible. I imagine you sitting in the sky with angels, skimming through a huge, leather-bound catalog that contains photographs of potential mothers. Under each photograph there is a short description. The angels turn the pages with utmost patience. You look at all the candidates with a buyer's eye.
"Not this one," you say. "No, not this one either—" Doctors, engineers, housewives and businesswomen pass before your eyes. Even though there are many highly eligible candidates, women who do their jobs well and are very accomplished, you ignore them.