Page 25 of The Book of Heartbreak
‘Your mother made some . . . decisions. And then instead of facing the consequences, owning her mistakes, she chose to escape. She abandoned me, and I chose to move on. What else can you do?’
‘What did she do?’ I ask. I can almost hear Munu in my head. Do you really want to know, Sare ? Why do you care?
‘It’s been eighteen years,’ he exhales. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. You have a whole future ahead of you. Don’t dwell in the past.’
‘Easy for you to say.’ I gather my art supplies and rise from the bench.
‘I know you’re grieving,’ he says. ‘I can find her photos, if you’d like. If you think it will help.’
‘I don’t know,’ I confess, suddenly frightened. I stand across him for a couple of awkward seconds, unable to express my feelings. ‘It’s okay,’ I say at last. ’I don’t need anything.’
Perhaps I should move on too.
In the evening, I go back to Sufi Chelebi’s journal. His entries become shorter, more frantic.
18th August in the year 1502
Theodora arrived again after three more days of hunger.
‘My own desire destroyed me,’ she said, her voice hollow. ‘I am my own ruin. My heart shall remain forever fractured.’
Jealousy surged like a storm within me as she uttered names – Azylios, and then Lazarios. I almost replied to enquire who these men were – but she will leave me forever if I converse with her, so I stopped myself.
‘You see the depths of my soul. You forsake sustenance just to see me, and my hunger for forgiveness,’ Theodora uttered, unaware that she has become the sole nourishment for both my spirit and body. ‘Yet, your love remains. Will you help me, Chelebi? Will you set me free?’
May Allah have mercy on my soul, I will do anything for her.
22nd August in the year 1502
Today, as I cleansed myself for morning prayer, Theodora appeared as a reflection upon the water’s surface.
‘Only in your presence do I feel pure again,’ she whispered. ‘Help me, Chelebi. The curse haunts me – it flows through our bloodline like a river racing to the sea. Perhaps you can set us free.’
A few more repetitive, short entries, some are frantic and unreadable, and then I arrive at the last page. It’s lengthy, and harder to read.
10th September in the year 1502
Theodora, the warmth in my chest, the rhythm of my heart, cursed by her own flesh, who this day finally trusted me with her sin. Perhaps because I have become so frail, wrought by fasting to behold her, she pitied me.
Like a beggar, I spent the night under the fig tree on ?amlica Hill, as Theodora overwhelmed me with a torrent of memories.
I know everything now. It was her sin. My dove, my angel, my beautiful, has sinned the gravest of the sins to her own flesh and blood. And it has wrought generations of heartbreak and suffering.
‘Forgive me,’ Theodora whispered as she took me through her past, and I wept for her.
I wept for myself, for I misunderstood everything.
My dove . . . She wasn’t . . . She was not innocent!
I was a fool. But I love her still.
In a moment of clarity, I saw what needed to be done to end this curse and stop the suffering. It’s the cruellest of the curses, repeating the cycle of abandonment.
I had to forgive her. I had to speak the words, and in so doing sacrifice my own craving, my own love and desire to break the curse. There was no other way without severing the delicate thread that bound us. I had to abandon her to set her free.
‘I, Sufi Chelebi, the third son of Mehmet Emin Efendi, once chief of the müneccims for the sultan and now a servant of your love, I forgive you, Theodora of House Doukas,’ I declared. ‘For what you have done to them and what they have done to you.’
Then, to my great despair, my beloved let out a joyous sob, followed by a deafening, rattling sound.
‘It’s gone, Chelebi,’ she cried, once the silence of the night enveloped us again. ‘You saved me. And now, I shall wait for you in the halls of eternity.’
Then she faded away, leaving in her wake a void. As if she was never there.
I remained awake until dawn caressed Konstantiniyye, knowing Theodora would not return.
Can I endure her absence? This, I cannot say. Perhaps this love has become my curse.
What have I wrought upon myself?
I stare at the final page, my head heavy with a storm of emotions.
Despair, for Sufi Chelebi’s fate.
Frustration, that he left the origins of the curse unwritten.
But more profound and dizzying is the shock. Generations of heartbreak.
I’m unable to peel my eyes from the words.
I read the last entry, over and over, not one bit less confused each time. Could the curse that runs through me be the very same one that haunted Theodora?
My eyes drift to Daphne’s painting of the Maiden’s Tower across the room.
If only I could understand why the curse would reawaken after Sufi stopped it.
The letters replay in my head. I can almost hear Sufi muttering, his obsession, the transformation of his insatiable desire for knowledge to a cureless love for Theodora. His despair crawls through centuries, weighing on my stomach like a stone. I close the book and set it aside.
Love is a disease , Munu always says, and isn’t she right? Poor Sufi Chelebi.
I cover the book with a blanket to put it out of my sight. Perhaps there’s another reason why Leon wrapped it up before passing it to me. Perhaps, like me, he wishes he hadn’t ever set eyes on it, but also, like me, he’s helpless against the desire.
I lie awake all night, thinking about Theodora. The way I look like her. The way she said, ‘ My heart is cursed ,’ to Sufi Chelebi. Did she too die of a broken heart? But then why did she need forgiveness? What did she do ?
The monster who cursed your heart, Sufi Chelebi had said. Her sister, Eudokia.
It’s unsettling to think that one person can curse another, that something so malicious can originate from human intent.
So who cursed me? I have no answer. The call to prayer starts outside. A chorus of Arabic words wash the city like a tide. I close my eyes until the echo of the imam’s voice diminishes between the buildings.
In my dream, Sufi Chelebi lies lifeless under the fig tree.
The curse demands a sacrifice , Theodora says. And it’s still hungry.