Page 38 of The Book of Heartbreak

But my hands aren’t ready to let go. I hide the book behind my back.

‘How about,’ Azmi says with the tinge of fake cheer, ‘I order a new one—’

‘You don’t understand,’ I protest, my voice shaking with desperation. ‘I want this one. It’s Mum’s.’

‘It will upset your grandfather.’ Azmi’s perkiness deflates like a balloon. ‘His health is fragile.’

‘Fragile? He was drunk last night. He wouldn’t mind me borrowing one book, I’m sure.’

‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I must . . .’ Azmi’s brow furrows. ‘Your grandfather . . . is sick.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’ I’m exhausted from feeling sad. Constantly, limitlessly, incurably sad. Please don’t answer me, Azmi , I pray silently. Please just stop here. I can’t contain another drop of sorrow.

‘Kidney failure,’ Azmi replies.

‘Is he going to be okay?’ My voice is flat, distant – like someone else speaks the words.

No tears shall fall, Munu recites in my head.

‘It’s not a curable condition,’ Azmi says. My heart sinks low. ‘But Mr Gümüshus is strong, and he has the best care. That only leaves him to be careful. He must not be stressed.’

‘Am I stressing him?’ The words slip out in a whistle.

‘He has been through a lot,’ Azmi says at last. ‘Don’t get me wrong, your arrival brought him joy, but there’s also sadness. The way you resemble your aunt . . . isn’t easy for him.’

‘Azmi,’ I ask, with caution, ‘you know why my mother left Istanbul, don’t you?’

For a moment, Azmi looks like he’ll say something. I’m afraid to even breathe, afraid to discourage him, as I watch his thick eyelashes flicker.

‘It’s not my place to speak of family matters.’ Azmi takes a deep, exasperated sigh before speaking again. ‘I guess one can say that Mr Gümüshus feels deeply upset about the circumstances that caused your mother to leave. But there’s no use in disturbing the past, for everyone’s sake.’

Why does everyone keep telling me to leave the past alone, when I can’t?

‘Now may I?’ Azmi gestures at the book I still cling to.

But I’m not going to give it up, just because Muzaffer regrets whatever he’s done to mess up my mother’s life. I recall how, when his tongue loosened, Muzaffer called me Iris. How he cried for Iris, but never once mouthed my mother’s name.

‘I’ll keep Daphne’s book,’ I say, defiant. ‘Tell Muzaffer that I’ll return it if he needs it.’

Once in my room, I lock the door, and Daphne’s book feels as if it’s ablaze in my hands.

For a few minutes, I fear the fluttering will be back, followed by the burning pain.

The book might grow larger until it fills the room and triggers an earthquake that will then lead to another heartbreak.

I shut my eyes. But when I open them again, I don’t feel anything unusual, and the book remains unchanged.

My room, in contrast, feels shrunken, its air growing increasingly stifling.

I’m frightened of myself after what happened in the tower. How ready I was to give up everything, how ready I was to die. What if Leon hadn’t been there? Would I be dead now?

The truth might hurt you , I hear Munu’s warning again. Stop seeking it!

In dire need of fresh air, I fling the curtains wide and swing the balcony door open. Outside, morning matures with a gentle breeze that’s warm on my skin.

I withdraw to my bed, beneath the canopy, and place Daphne’s book on the sheet like a sacrificial offering. When I finally find the strength to leaf through the pages, a slip of paper falls out. I translate it using my phone.

My love,

Why can’t we just leave? I want to escape and never return. It feels foolish to wait. Baba will never give us his blessing.

Everything fades away in your presence, but when we’re apart, I’m drowning in guilt and longing. Only when we’re alone together do I feel alive.

You are my hope. You’re the sun, the moon and the stars. Without you, there’s only darkness.

Don’t ever leave me . . .

D

I read it. I read it again. And again. The paper is light as a feather in my hands.

It holds no weight, yet it presses down on my chest. It’s in Mum’s handwriting – the unmistakable, passionate, impulsive intensity of Daphne in love.

Did she have a boyfriend here? I’m not surprised that she never mentioned a love interest in Istanbul, when she kept even her family a secret.

I frown with confusion, shocked by Mum’s disdain for her home – proof that she was miserable. Daphne wanted to get away from Istanbul.

Was it her father who she couldn’t tolerate? Was it Iris?

I close my eyes, imagining a young Daphne under this roof. Was Muzaffer as strict then as he is now? Did he really favour Iris, driving Daphne to abandon everything?

I want to escape and never return.

Except that, no matter how far she ran, Mum could never escape.

I, the spitting image of her sister, would always drag her back.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I open my eyes, the clock points at noon.

I change my clothes and dash downstairs. The dining room is empty, but I find Azmi in the kitchen, washing a heap of leafy greens in the basin.

‘Is everything okay?’ I ask.

‘Your grandfather has an appointment,’ Azmi says.

‘Doctor’s?’

Azmi nods.

‘Is he okay?’

‘I hope so.’ He sighs. ‘I pray for him every day.’

Something sizzles in me, but I want to ignore it. I can’t admit how much I care about Muzaffer, how devastated I’ll be, despite myself, if something happens to him.

Why do you care, Sare? I want to kick myself. He mourns for Iris, and ignores Daphne.

‘You’re very loyal to him.’ I lean on the counter.

‘Your grandfather saved me from the streets,’ Azmi responds. ‘He can be strict, but he is a good man.’

‘He was just a crap father, then.’ Why did Muzaffer abandon his own daughter, if he was kind enough to save Azmi? I hate myself for feeling angry, but I can’t help it. Not after last night.

‘Sare.’ Azmi’s head snaps up, his tone sharp. ‘You’re being unnecessarily harsh. Don’t forget, your grandfather raised the girls all by himself. He loved them. He was a good father. And he’s taking care of you despite everything w—’

He stops abruptly. I’m stunned by his defensive outburst.

‘Despite what, Azmi?’ I ask, plucking a peach from a fruit bowl on the counter.

‘It’s just . . . he has been through a lot.’ He shrugs, closing off again.

I squeeze the soft flesh of the fruit in my palm, resisting the urge to snap back. If only he had any idea what Mum and I had been through.

I find myself wandering the seafront as the afternoon wanes, deliberately steering clear of the path leading to the Maiden’s Tower.

The memories of last night, of Munu and Theodora, Daphne and Iris, and how their fates intertwined with the Maiden’s Tower and the curse, is still too raw, too painful to remember.

I veer towards the livelier part of the shoreline, where the pulse of everyday life – people walking their dogs, joggers setting their own pace – offers a soothing normality.

Anything to dispel the misery inside me.

And for a while, I’m lost in the bustle, occupied with people watching, until my peace is disrupted by a voice, unexpectedly familiar.

‘Sare?’

I’m surprised to see Pelin. She wears a baby-blue dress that gracefully highlights her never-ending legs, her hair swept up into a carefree bun, leaving her shoulders delicately exposed. The skirt’s hem dances in the sea breeze, yet her unwavering gaze holds mine with an iron grip.

‘Hey,’ I manage, though my feet itch to flee. It’s nearing 5 p.m. Leon must be nearly finished with his shift at the tower. Apart from a brief ‘Is everything alright?’ message from him, which I’ve yet to reply to, we haven’t spoken since last night.

‘I’m glad I bumped into you,’ she says. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Sure,’ I respond, feigning nonchalance. My mind races with possibilities. Is something wrong with Leon? What could Pelin want to talk to me about?

‘I don’t know if Leon mentioned it,’ she starts, disappointment etching her features, ‘but he’s supposed to go to Peru next week. It was all arranged – an opportunity in Puerto Maldonado, secured with the help of my father. And now Leon is postponing it.’

Leon’s dream to go to Peru is no news to me, but Pelin’s abrupt disclosure of his imminent departure date sends me reeling. Next week sounds painfully soon, and hearing that he delayed it brings no relief.

‘Did you ask him to stay?’ Pelin probes, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

‘Me?’ I gawk. Even if Leon consulted my opinion about this trip, I’d never tell him to stay. Or leave.

‘Sare . . .’ Pelin’s expression hardens. ‘He’s delaying his plans because of the tower. He’s obsessed with breaking that curse, as if such a thing is possible. You need to convince him otherwise, before he squanders his future. There’s so much at stake for him.’

‘I don’t think it’s my place to tell him what to do,’ I say.

Pelin’s words sting, but I resist the urge to argue further.

It’s so clear that she loves him, that she cares for him enough to challenge me.

And perhaps she’s right to insist that the curse can’t be broken – its origin is ancient, shrouded in mystery, and I’m navigating it without a map in the darkness.

‘If you care about Leon, let him go. He has a fresh chance in Peru. As long as he’s close to you, there is only danger here for him.

’ Pelin looks like she’s about to burst into tears.

‘He’s a curse-breaker, Sare. Do you know what happens to them when they fail, or when they fall in love with someone who they can’t have? ’

The desperation in Pelin’s voice shocks me more than her words. I stare at her, stunned. The sound of a ferry horn vibrates between us.

‘Remember Sufi Chelebi,’ Pelin whispers.

‘Look – I’m not Theodora, and he’s not Chelebi.’ I’m miraculously calm and composed. ‘There’s nothing between us.’