That is when the strangest thing happens. There, in front of my eyes, Lord Poton starts to dissolve, like fog in the sunlight.
Lord Poton (taking out his silk napkin and dabbing at his eyes): I
guess it is time for me to leave, then. I never thought I would get so emotional. (He wipes his nose.) I'm sorry — you took me by surprise is all.
Me: That's all right.
Lord Poton (sniffling): I guess I'll miss you. Will you write to me? Me: I'll write about you. I'll write a book.
Lord Poton (clapping his hands): How exciting! I'm going to be famous!
A heavy silence descends, rushing into my ears like the wind through the leaves. I feel light, as if something has held me and lifted me up.
Lord Poton: Well, good-bye. But what will happen to the finger-women?
Me: I will take them out of the box. I'm going to give them each an equal say. The oligarchy has ended, and so have the coup d'etat, monarchy, anarchy and fascism. It is finally time for a full-fledged democracy.
Lord Poton (laughing): Let me warn you, love, democracy is not a bed of roses.
Me: You might be right. But still, I'd prefer it to all other regimes.
PART SEVEN Daybreak
The Calm after the Storm
One sunny day in August, when the plums in the garden had ripened to purple perfection, Eyup came back from the military, looking thinner and darker. He didn't say a word for a long time, only smiled. Then I heard him in the bathroom, talking lovingly to the shampoo bottles, perfumes and creams.
"You don't say hi to your wife, but you chat with your shaving cream?" I asked.
He laughed. "In the army one gets to miss even the tiniest luxuries in life and learns to be grateful for what he has on hand."
"Perhaps depression teaches us the same thing, too," I said. "I've learned to look around with new, appreciative eyes."
"I'm sorry I couldn't be with you," he murmured, pulling me toward him. Then he added pensively, "We could have handled this better."
"What do you mean?"
"Why didn't we ask for help from our families or friends while you were going through that turbulence? Why didn't we hire a nanny to help you? You tried to do everything alone. Why?"
I nodded. "I thought I could manage. I thought I could rock the baby to sleep, feed her healthy food and write my novels. It never occurred to me I wouldn't be able to do this alone. That was my strength and my weakness at the same time."
"From now on, we will do it together," he said tenderly.
"Good," I exclaimed. "Are you going to take care of the baby while I write?"
He paused, a trace of panic flickering in his eyes. "Let's start looking for a nanny."
We did. In ten days we found a nanny from Azerbaijan, a woman larger than life — huge breasts, teeth capped with gold, a loud voice and a hearty laugh. A bewildering combination of Mary Poppins, Xena the Warrior Princess and Impedimenta — the stout, matriarchal wife of Chief Vitalstatistix and the first lady of the village in Asterix the Gaul. A woman who could say the sweetest words in Turkish, talk a blue streak in Russian, and believed the main problem with Stalin was that he hadn't had a good nanny as a child. She taught us the basics about babies — how to burp them, rock them to sleep, feed them, and still have time for ourselves. She helped us greatly. We all helped one another.
The same month, there was the anniversary of a liberal newspaper's literature supplement. When I went to the place of celebration, I found a crowd of novelists, poets, critics, local and foreign reporters, photographers and academics drinking wine out of paper cups, nibbling cheese cubes and milling about garrulously. As in most social activities in Istanbul there was a thick, gray haze that swirled around in lazy spirals, the smoke of all those cigarettes, cigars and pipes hovering in the atmosphere. But we were on a terrace and the air beyond and above us was crisp, the sky a deep ocean blue.
It was there that, after all this time, I ran into Mrs. Adalet Agaoglu. She broke into a smile when she saw me.
"Do you remember the talk we had a while ago?" she said.
"How can I forget?" I said.
"I think you did the right thing by becoming a mother in the end," she said, holding my hand in her hand, my eyes in her stare.
I gently squeezed her hand, and offered humbly in return, "And I respect your decision not to become a mother so as to fully dedicate yourself to your writing."
After all, as even the smallest glimpse into the lives of women writers — East and West, past and present — keenly shows, every case is different. There is no single formula for motherhood and writing that suits us all. Instead, there are many paths on this literary journey, all leading to the same destination, each equally valuable. Just as every writer learns to develop his or her own unique style and is yet inspired by the works of others, as women, as human beings, we all elaborate our personal answers to universal questions and needs, heartened by one another's courage.
Later on, as I watched Mrs. Agaoglu walk away from the party and the evening come to a slow close, I realized the wheel of life had moved through one full turn.
Rule of the Thumbelinas by the Thumbelinas
I hold the lockbox tightly in my lap, listening. Not a sound. Not a peep. My heart pummels wildly. Are they all right? I have missed them so much my eyes water.
A little bit of twisting and the lock opens with a click.
"Please come out," I say.
Nothing moves for a full minute. Then, shielding their eyes from the sudden light, weary but otherwise in good shape, the finger- women start to emerge one by one.
"Finally, freedom!" says Mama Rice Pudding. "My back has gone stiff. What a terrible experience. No refrigerator, no microwave, no rice cooker. I couldn't even brew tea for months!"
Miss Highbrowed Cynic's head pops up next. Gathering the skirts of her hippie dress, she walks out, a haughty look on her small face.
"You speak for yourself. I'm pretty sure this existential torment we now left behind will generate an artistic breakthrough in me. The Greek philosophers thought melancholy wasn't necessarily a bad experience. According to Plato, for instance, melancholy could increase the quality of artistic production. . "
"Oh, give me a break," grumbles Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. With her tiny frame she struggles to climb atop the box and manages to sit herself on the lid, fixing her hair. "I can't believe how much precious time we lost inside this penitentiary. That djinni literally stole eight months of our life! Oh, the things we could have achieved in all that time."
"Yo, is that ogre gone?" asks Little Miss Practical as she gets out and glances around.
"Yes, don't worry. He has gone," I say.
Little Miss Practical smiles, something of her old mischief twinkling in the depths of her eyes. "Wait a sec. Did you rush here to release us first thing?"
"Yes, I did," I say. "Because I missed you very much."
"Did you miss me, too, darling?" asks Blue Belle Bovary, blowing me a kiss with her cherry-red lips. "Even me?"
"Also you," I say. "There is no 'even' about it. I missed all of you equally."
"What do you mean?" says Blue Belle Bovary. "You never treated us equally."