Page 30 of The Book of Heartbreak

It’s often observed that individuals within the same family bear striking resemblances, passing down features such as the curve of a mouth or the hue of hair, even the warmth of a smile from one generation to the next.

Curiously, though, mortals very rarely inherit the memories of their ancestors.

This absence of memories makes it all too simple, at times, for one to overlook or disconnect from their heritage, as if the threads of lineage and legacy can be easily loosened by the passage of time.

And the essence of one’s forgotten heritage continues to flow within each person’s veins like poison.

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

I don’t know how I manage it, but that evening I present myself at dinner.

‘You’re having nightmares?’ Muzaffer doesn’t seem to be enjoying the pasta dish before him. Our plates remain almost untouched. ‘I heard your screams last night.’

It takes me a moment to understand what he’s talking about. Of course, last night’s dream, and how I woke screaming that I’m not Theodora.

‘Azmi says you’ve not left your room for days.’

I roll my eyes. The way he highlights that it’s Azmi paying attention to my whereabouts, as if it’ll cost him dearly to say, ‘ I’m worried about you,’ gets under my skin.

Why is he so scared of caring? Does he have no heart?

Perhaps I’ll be like him when I turn eighteen and the curse makes its claim.

And then we’ll both sit here with flat faces and hearts of stone. We’ll be best friends then, I’m sure.

‘Sorry if my screams woke you,’ I sulk. ‘Besides, why are you suddenly so interested in my welfare?’

He looks taken aback. He dabs his mouth with his napkin before speaking again.

‘I care about you, Sare. I want you to be well. You’re the only one I have.’

‘Am I?’ Under this roof, I feel like a problem, or a responsibility.

‘I found a good school for you,’ he says, changing the subject. ‘It’s not long until September now, and being busy will help.’

‘I’m not going to any school.’ I set my fork aside. A string of spaghetti drops to the table in a faint, as if it can’t handle the tension between us. ‘I’ll be eighteen in December, so you won’t have to worry about me any more after that.’

‘You’re all I have,’ he says again. ‘I will make sure you have a good life.’

For a moment, a small part of me wants to comfort him, to let him in, let him help.

But while this curse remains unbroken, I need to ward my heart against such weakness if I want to survive.

I have no more heartbreaks to spare. Munu’s lectures from my childhood are deeply rooted, etched into my mind.

They flood all at once. Families are minefields.

People always hurt you. They leave. They ignore.

They neglect. It’s the ones closest to us that inflict the most painful wounds.

I swallow hard. I’m all by myself .

‘I wish you did the same for Mum. Checked on her, made sure she was well. Then perhaps she’d be alive now,’ I mutter.

It’s a low blow. I hate myself as soon as the words leave my mouth.

I know we had a house and a comfortable life in the UK because of Muzaffer’s funds, but money wasn’t enough.

It couldn’t have been enough – not for Mum who needed him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he fumbles, shrinking in his seat. ‘We all made mistakes. But your mother . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘She is the one who abandoned me. I can’t change the past.’

Muzaffer looks like he’s going to say more, but instead slams his hand on the table. I flinch as the porcelain jumps, bracing myself for his rage. But instead of yelling at me, he calls for Azmi.

What have you done, Mum? What happened in this house?

‘Azmi.’ Muzaffer bangs on the table again, his face red. ‘Azmi! Where’s my raki?’

A flustered Azmi appears at the door. ‘But . . . the doctor said no alcohol—’

‘To hell with what the doctor says,’ he retorts. ‘Bring my drink.’

I stiffen as we both wait for Azmi to serve his booze.

‘There is no peace in the past,’ Muzaffer says when his raki is brought in and he’s taken a long, hard sip from the glass. A waft of aniseed washes over me. ‘Don’t look back. Look ahead.’

By half past ten the call to prayer urges Istanbul to sleep, yet the city defies this guidance. Sleep proves impossible and I turn to Netflix, hoping for a solid scare, something to shake off the very real horror show of the week. Though even jump scares seem quaint compared to my life right now.

There are footsteps upstairs, accompanied by the dreamy voice of a Turkish singer from a gramophone.

Halfway through the second movie, I feel a movement under the bed.

My body tenses with alarm. Something is, quite possibly, terribly wrong.

When the desk across the room begins swaying left and right, I worry that I’m facing another heartbreak.

But why? I’m not even fluttering. I don’t feel anything .

Suddenly, it hits me – this isn’t the curse, it’s an earthquake.

A real earthquake.

A cacophony erupts outside, dogs barking hysterically, car alarms shrieking in a discordant chorus, and collective screaming that tears through the night.

The clock points to 2.30 a.m.

As the rumble soars in pitch, my mind races, mapping my escape routes: the balcony, the stairs.

But then, as suddenly as it began, the shaking recedes, leaving the city to lull itself back to sleep.

I almost relax, but a boom from upstairs shatters the stillness.

Something – or someone – has fallen, sending rattles through the house.

Muzaffer?

Without thinking, I bolt out of bed, then out of the room, and sprint up the stairs, to the place I know I’m not welcome, tracing the path of the groan that emanates from a slightly open door.

I push my way inside to find him sprawled on the floor, his walking stick on one side and a broken glass on the other.

‘Are you okay?’ I brace myself for a scolding, but when he lifts his swaying head to see me, his face lights up.

‘I-Iris,’ he groans.

‘I’m not Iris,’ I reply.

‘I’m sorry. S-Sare?’ He looks confused now.

I recognise the delayed heaviness of alcohol in him even before the sharp aniseed scent of the raki cuts through me, as I bend to help him onto his feet.

Memory must be my worst enemy, because the smell suddenly takes me back to the UK, trying to wake Daphne in the morning, or cleaning up her vomit.

‘Forgive me.’ Muzaffer staggers as he sits up.

‘Stop moving. You’ll cut yourself.’ I lean down to hold him, glad that I’m wearing slippers. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, why I can’t just leave him in his mess.

He reaches out and, before I can escape, he grasps my hand in his. ‘Iris,’ he whimpers as I lift him up.

I try to slip away when he’s back on his feet, but he lurches forward and grabs hold of me, paralysing me with a hug.

‘Iris.’ His head presses against my shoulder.

He can’t even say my mother’s name, but he chants Iris’s. His favourite .

‘I said, I’m not Iris.’ I attempt to push him away. I’m not a cage to hold Muzaffer’s emotions. I’m not his second chance at being a parent. But he has other ideas, as his arms cling to me with a strength that doesn’t match his gaunt, feeble frame.

‘I miss you,’ he says. It sounds like a prayer.

I wish I didn’t understand what it meant to miss someone gone forever, but I do.

I think of Mum as Muzaffer’s body trembles with sobs, as if he contains an earthquake in his heart.

His sadness seeps into me like damp creeping through a wall.

‘ Her sey burnumun ucunda olup bitmis de ben gorememisim. ’ He switches to Turkish, pulling me to his chest. I feel his tears on my face. ‘ Babaci?im .’

I know the word. Father , he says.

‘What do you mean?’ My voice is a croak. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I miss you so much.’ Muzaffer clutches me even tighter. ‘The house is so silent without you two.’

Does he mean me, Iris – or Mum?

‘Please let me go,’ I manage, quivering. I want to hate Muzaffer – I need to hate him – but I can’t. I’m terrified of getting attached to him, but even more frightened of hating him, of how deeply it would wound me to hurt him.

‘You didn’t deserve any of this.’ His eyes flicker like a lighthouse. One blink and he is sober, another and he’s drunk again. ‘It wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry.’

I manage to release myself from his embrace, uncertain who he is addressing.

What is he apologising for? What the fuck happened to Iris?

‘Sare!’ Azmi appears in the door frame, and I flinch. ‘Are you alright? Mr Gümüshus?’ He hurries into the room wearing a dressing gown.

‘I guess he—’ I gulp with relief that I can leave Muzaffer with Azmi, without worrying if he’ll hurt himself again. I’ve done enough already. ‘He fell.’

‘Iris,’ Muzaffer repeats like a broken toy again. I grab his hands and pass him into Azmi’s care.

‘I’m not Iris,’ I whisper. ‘I’m Sare, remember? Daphne’s. Defne’s!’

‘Sare.’ Muzaffer frowns. A slow, painful expression settles on his face.

‘This way, please.’ Azmi tries to guide him away to a chair, but Muzaffer doesn’t budge.

‘You were right,’ he says to me. ‘I could’ve made things better for her too. I should’ve been around more. B–busy, wasn’t I? Occupied with everything else. And then they were both gone and nothing else mattered. Nothing else remained. I should’ve done something to save them, I should’ve—’

He buries his head between slender fingers. I leave him standing amid the pool of shattered glass, the sound of Azmi’s soothing murmurs in Turkish closing around his whimpers.

I want to reach out, pull him into a hug and tell him everything is okay now. But I can’t.