Like snow on a duck's back
Henk van Woerden
There is probably no more sensual ode to the aubergine than that by Ibn al Mustakfi in his cookbook-cum-morality guide Kitab al Wusla il al Habib (Baghdad, 1226). "Take two, preferably small, tender-skinned aubergines – fruits which are not yet completely ripe but have nevertheless attained a substantial size and contain considerable potency – fruits of unequal size perhaps, but fresh from the sun-bleached fields and purplish-black in colour, gleaming like the testicles of a chamois and redolent of the lips of a beast of burden in heat for the very first time: do not use the odourless ones, whose milk always tastes of iron, for they lack the sultriness of summer..."
Ibn al Mustakfi starts his book with the customary pious formulas. But the most remarkable thing about the work is the famous preamble to his recipe for what would become known as Buran al Mustakfiya – puréed aubergine with sheep's brains – in which he rigorously divides the human pleasure principle into six main categories: eating, drinking, love-making, dressing, smelling and what he calls "tasting sound", bringing forth the sounds of the lute. There is no greater pleasure than eating, and his cosmos makes no allowance for the pleasures of the eye: painting. He prefers to paint with foods, with coriander and roasted cumin; to work his magic with eggs cooked in myrrh, lamb stewed in pomegranate juice, or bouillabaisse with just a pinch of cinnamon. "Even a worm on a rock eats herbs and spices," Mustakfi remarks at one point. Sixteen-year-old Özlem is utterly and blissfully unaware of all this when, on 22 June 1971 in a new neighbourhood on the outskirts of Frankfurt, she gingerly dips her left foot into the bathwater and then, no less carefully, lets her right foot follow. She slides slowly down on her buttocks, feels the water tickle her belly and armpits, and finally disappears under the bubbles, while the suds slop over the edge of the bath.
Silence, humming in her ears.
She surfaces spluttering. The sun is shining through the ribbed glass of the window. On the street a dog is barking, and then another, for no other reason than because it is a summer morning. Every few minutes the shadow of a cloud passes over the neighbourhood and a chill comes over the room. As if the sky is shivering, she thinks, lying here inside, safe in the warm water. She locked the door, just to be sure. She plans on lying here for hours, maybe even setting a record. A personal one, at least. How long can one person soak anyway? Has anyone ever made a study of that? It's the holidays, and there's not exactly anything else to do in this crummy neighbourhood. She doesn't feel like washing dishes or scrubbing the floor or rinsing liver clean at her mother's restaurant. Aysel's Corner is almost too small to be a restaurant – plus business is slack on weekdays – but at the weekend they come all the way from the city centre for mum's liver. The marinated and grilled livers are truly unsurpassed; a healthy squirt of lemon juice, a pinch of cayenne pepper: her mouth waters at the thought.
She stretches a leg out of the foam and examines it closely. Lets it splash back into the water and lifts the other one. Some girls are already shaving. Excess body hair has never been a problem for her, nor for her mother, even though her father was apparently extremely hairy. "A mat on his back, a mat on his belly and two moustaches over his eyes," says her mother mischievously on the rare occasions that she reminisces about the past. There are no photographs of him. Mum doesn't care for photographs. Once she even claimed that none had ever been taken. She doesn't say much more about the past, since tide and time fly for no man. She often mixes up proverbs, even though her German is good. It's as if she doesn't care, which may be the worst thing about Mum: she doesn't care how she appears to others. No matter what people say, she isn't bothered: "Like snow on a duck's back."
There are two stories about her father. In one he's known simply as "your father". This is the more romantic of the two. Her father was handsome and strong, but not rich. That wasn't a problem though. He was kind, and Aysel would have done anything for him. She was even willing to sleep with him, although no one was allowed to know. She shared everything with that father, in secret, a whole summer long. Whenever she thinks about him, she starts blubbing.
Once the two of them were slicing onions in Aysel's Corner. Her mother was quietly singing an old song: "One day at sunrise, his hand will break my life." When the song was over, she said, "I woke up that morning with a smile. I was so happy to see him again." She dried her eyes with the corner of a dishcloth. "Your father liked to go diving. Once he fished a birdcage out of the sea for me. He cut his leg open in the process. A nasty gash near the knee. But that's what you get. He could have drowned."
She was upset for the rest of the day: "I feel like something is crushing me." Özlem didn't quite understand, because the other story was a lot grislier. And sometimes her mother could laugh about it, when it didn't make her cry.
In the other story, his name was Charis. "Charis was a magnet for bad luck," Aysel scoffed, "but he wasn't the only one in those days." Plus he was a foreigner. She met Charis at the market. And one fine day she decided that she was ready.
"Ready for what?"
"For the taking."
What is the point of this story? Mum is never precise, and when she is precise, she is dreaming. She believes in the power of food, and in the power of the moment: seize your chance. But she had let it slip through her fingers. It's not clear what actually happened. "What's done is done. There's no turning back time, sweetheart." Aysel had allowed herself to be seduced by a hairy Greek; that much is clear. It led to misery. Misery usually passes. But not this time, said her mother bitterly. "I left my happiness with him."
Another time Özlem was suddenly told the whole story. She had to promise not to tell anyone what had happened. Not a soul; don't wash your dirty laundry in public. On the night she spent with Charis, riots had broken out in town. Not just brawls, like the kind you saw at football matches: this was a massacre. People are as stupid as they are poor, or vice versa. Once the blood starts flowing, there's no stopping it. But Özlem would learn that later, when it's her turn, may the Prophet forbid. That night Aysel and her boyfriend hid in an empty house, their meeting place. Towards morning, the mob forced its way in. The two of them were beaten. By her own people: by the teacher, the barber, by fishermen and people from the market. The house was set on fire. And then the clouds opened up. In the pouring rain Charis was led away to the wharf and beaten with iron bars. And she could expect the same treatment, for the disgrace she had brought on herself. They called her a Jewish slut. An infidel and a Christian pig. It's always the names that make the difference. Without those words, they wouldn't have the courage, the inspiration: they tore off her clothes. They dragged her up the hill and were about to toss her off the fortress onto the rocks below. If her father – Özlem's grandfather – hadn't come between them... Aysel's lip began to tremble, and she cut the story short.
Her grandfather had a way with words, like no one else, Özlem was told. He could have been a writer. "That's why he wanted so much for you to pass your final exams."
Exams? Always a moral.
She's fallen behind in her studies, but she can't let anyone know. Three more years of school would be torture. Her one notable talent is foreign languages. She likes reading, even in English. Her mother warns her about this too: "Don't read too much, those books are like a virus. Trashy novels rot your brain. They're not real, they'll infect your mind." As if Aysel's history were the only real one.
Özlem stretches out her toes towards the tap. Two taps, left and right, hot and cold. Two histories and two fathers, she can choose. A hairy one, who was beaten to death, a jet-black fairy tale. And one who is still alive, but a shadow, since there are no photographs. She can't make sense of it. The past must stay behind a curtain, like the thick net curtains that prevent passers-by from seeing into the front room. The only thing common to the two stories is their ending. Grandfather had claimed Aysel from the men. There were rules and customs for these kinds of things. He had the right to avenge the affront to his good name. They gave her up reluctantly, half-naked and as wet as a kitten. That same day grandfather fled to Europe with her. Seven months later, Özlem was born, the end result of all this. The one souvenir of the world behind the curtain.