Page 12 of The Book of Heartbreak

To those for whom the past whispers as a dear friend, recollection brings solace. Yet, others, haunted by their memories, find foes in their bygone days. Who might cast judgement upon them? The act of remembering is a path these souls would forever avoid if only they could.

Excerpt from The Book of Revenge, Müneccimbasi Sufi Chelebi’s Journals of Mystical Phenomena

That first night, sleep eludes me, despite feeling physically and emotionally exhausted from the long day.

I’ve met more people today than in the last few years, and being scrutinised takes a toll on my stability.

I don’t go to dinner and instead sprawl on my bed with my phone and a packet of lemon drops.

The floorboards above groan despite the hour. Muzaffer won’t let anyone upstairs into his quarters, so it must be him drifting between the rooms. I wonder why he can’t sleep. Maybe it’s grief that keeps him awake.

Don’t be daft, Sare, I scold myself. Muzaffer doesn’t even let me in Mum’s room. His arbitrary rules are probably more important to him than the daughter he’s lost.

It’s 4 a.m. when the grumbles of my stomach become unbearable – the result of eating nothing but sugar since I arrived in Istanbul. Hunger pulls me from my bed and I scramble out of the room. No floorboards have creaked in the last hour, no singing taps – so Muzaffer must be asleep.

A slice of light leaks from the half-open kitchen door as I hurry silently downstairs.

‘Hello?’ I whisper as I push it open. There’s no answer.

The sharp odour of disinfectant blends with the faint remains of dinner.

I slip inside. The cupboards are spread out symmetrically in a U-shape and a kitchen island rises up in the centre, with various pots and pans dangling off a metal grid above it.

An aga sits proudly between the cupboards.

I wonder if there are any crisps in those cabinets, or crumpets, or waffles?

But I don’t want to ransack them and risk making a noise, so I sneak to the fridge and pull open the double doors.

Under the white fluorescent light, I scan the shelves.

Just an array of leafy vegetables. Nothing sweet or interesting.

I grab a cheese container in one hand and a loaf of bread, elbow the door closed, and that’s when I spot Muzaffer.

Looming by the door frame with the ginger cat nuzzling between his legs.

‘What do you want?’ he asks, and I shrink back.

Does he mean right now, here in the kitchen?

It sounds like an accusation, as if I’m trespassing or robbing him of something.

We stare at each other for several agonisingly long seconds until I escape his gaze, unable to bear the thought that he may be questioning if I’m worthy of being under his roof.

‘You missed dinner.’ Muzaffer states the obvious and the cat shoots into the hallway. ‘I assumed you were tired.’

‘I fell asleep.’ The lie comes easily. Why he cares about my attendance at dinner remains a mystery.

‘Yet here you are, snooping around for food.’ He grunts. ‘Set an alarm next time.’

A pang of annoyance hits me hard at the unfairness of it all. He buried a daughter he hasn’t seen for years, and here he is lecturing me about mealtimes as if he’s my landlord or head teacher.

‘I’m not used to eating with company, or having a routine.

’ My voice sounds strange. Defensive. ‘I mostly ate alone back at home, whenever I wanted. Daphne wasn’t really the maternal kind.

’ I seek the politest way to describe how shit my mother was at parenting.

‘She’d never set a table unless it was for a boyfriend. ’

‘Well, whatever you grew up with is irrelevant here. This house does have a routine.’ He evades my remarks; I could be speaking to a wall. ‘You can’t eat at random times.’

Fuck your routine , I want to tell him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say instead. It’s true, though – I’ve never felt sorrier.

Muzaffer’s fingers fumble on the door frame, searching for a handle to cling on to. ‘I can’t wake Azmi now to feed you. The poor man is up at five o’clock every day.’

‘I— It won’t happen again.’ My anger slips away as quickly as it appeared, challenged by the threat I pose to the kind housekeeper’s sleep.

‘Good,’ Muzaffer says, and I hope that it is, already breaking the promise I made to Munu and myself to not get involved with Daphne’s father.

What is wrong with me? Why do I care what he thinks of me?

Muzaffer approaches. The lines of his frown deepen. By the time he towers above me, my pulse beats in my mouth. What follows occurs almost in slow motion. He attempts to pluck the container from me and I recoil. It slips out of my hand and smashes into a million pieces across the floor.

I brace myself for being kicked out of the kitchen, out of the house.

Instead, Muzaffer gestures at the squeaky-clean island. ‘Sit.’

Why does everything he says sound like an order?

I perch on a bar stool beside the island.

The glass crunches under his slippers as he shuffles around the kitchen.

He pours a drink, and the smell of booze wafts above me, awakening memories I’m desperate to forget.

Perhaps Daphne left because her father tried to control her.

Perhaps she left because Muzaffer loved Iris more, and she hated Daphne.

Perhaps they both hated Daphne, and that’s why he despises me.

Does he really despise me?

Unaware of the storm of emotions in my chest, Muzaffer sets down his drink, and lays out a butter dish, knife and chopping board.

It takes me a while to grasp that he’s preparing food for me.

Muzaffer, who hasn’t even said ‘Hi’ or ‘Are you okay?’ or ‘I’m devastated that Defne died, and I can’t imagine how you must be feeling’, doesn’t want me to go to sleep hungry.

Gratitude hits me harder than the container just hit the ground.

Muzaffer takes a deep sip from the drink, then another.

His fingers are long and slender, slicing the cheese, skin blotched with brown spots of old age.

The thud of the knife on the cutting board is rhythmic.

He chugs his drink, then lifts his gaze to me.

Does he lack the courage to look at me without getting drunk?

‘She loved this sandwich.’ His hands tremble as he spreads butter on the bread.

Is it Mum he’s referring to, or Iris?

‘Do you like cheese?’ Muzaffer asks.

I nod.

‘Your mother liked cheese. But Iris wouldn’t eat it,’ he says. ‘Hers had to be done with sausage and mayonnaise.’

‘What happened to Iris?’ I ask. And why did my mother never tell me about her?

‘Iris,’ Muzaffer says, a smile withering on his mouth before it blooms again. He blinks at me as if he’s waking from a dream and doesn’t know where he is. ‘Iris died in the earthquake.’

‘Earthquake?’ I can’t keep my mouth shut.

I’ve read about the deadly earthquakes that have hit Turkey over the years, and it shocks me to discover Iris was a victim of these disasters.

I’m dying to find out more about her, and her relationship with Defne.

Was she alive when Mum left Istanbul? Was she really Muzaffer’s favourite?

My head buzzes with a million questions.

But Muzaffer has moved on from the subject. ‘Eat.’ He pushes the plate forward.

I can’t remember the last time someone made a sandwich for me.

‘Thanks,’ I mutter, not sure if it’s too much or too little to say, but my voice would betray me if I said any more. Why do I want to cry? Why now?

Rule number one, Sare. No tears shall fall. Not over some late-night food. Not for a grumpy old man who can’t even say Mum’s name.

I pick up the sandwich. It would be rude not to eat it immediately. Not to mention the fact that I’m starving. Plus, eating is a valid excuse for not talking.

‘You look so much like her,’ Muzaffer says. ‘It’s painful to look at you.’

But I don’t really look like Daphne, I want to say. I don’t have my mother’s feminine beauty, her doe eyes. Even our hair doesn’t match: mine is wild and curly, and hers was smooth and fair. Perhaps Muzaffer is properly drunk now, or he’s forgotten his own daughter’s face.

‘Tonight is an exception,’ he mutters as I take a big bite. ‘Understood?’

‘Okay.’ I nod – there will be more time for questions in the day. And besides, this may be the best sandwich I’ve ever had – creamy cheese, sharp pepper. My ‘thanks’ suddenly feels too dry.

Muzaffer downs the rest of the drink, and shuffles over to the sink to wash his hands. ‘Breakfast is at eight a.m.’ He raises his voice to battle the gushing water. ‘I expect you on time.’

‘Thank you, M—’ I barely stop myself from calling him Mr Gümüshus. I’m not sure how I should address him. Perhaps it’s best not to address him at all. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Leave the light on as you go,’ Muzaffer says, his movements now relaxed, as if he’s processed my existence and concluded that he can tolerate me.

‘Be careful not to step on the glass. Azmi will clean it up in the morning. Goodnight—’ He pauses, as if he too isn’t sure what to call me either. ‘Goodnight, kid,’ he finally says.

He’s gone before I can reply.

I set three alarms to wake in time for breakfast the following morning.

As soon as I slip out of bed, I feel the urge to draw back the curtains and pull open the shutters to let in the sunshine.

The rainbows on the wallpaper are even more intolerable when muted and subdued in the dim light.

But before I grab the curtains, I remember the danger lurking across the street on his balcony.

Leon, and his threats to unravel what’s wrong with me, is reason enough for me to keep everything shut.

When I finally climb downstairs for breakfast, the clock chimes eight. I locate the dining room near the kitchen. Muzaffer is already at the head of the oval table that’s too grand for a crowd of only two chairs, reading his newspaper with an espresso cup in hand.