Page 41 of The Book of Heartbreak

But it’s wrong, isn’t it?

He and I, we’re not meant for each other. A boy destined for madness if he loves someone who cannot love him in return, and a girl who’ll perish if her heart breaks once more.

I shrink back and try to compose myself.

‘I’m okay,’ I say flatly. ‘I just—’

I can’t be weak. I can’t let my guard down.

‘I need to find this Arda guy. He might be my . . .’ I can’t finish that thought. ‘I need to go there now.’

‘It’s not the easiest address to get to,’ Leon says reluctantly. ‘Let’s hold off until tomorrow. Let’s look into this person before planning a visit.’

‘Why would I do that?’ I feel a pang of annoyance.

Leon rises to his feet. From the expression he wears, I can tell he’s battling with himself over what he’s about to say next.

‘If he really is your father –’ Leon’s gaze intensifies – ‘then why did your mother conceal his identity? You shouldn’t rush to him without being sure that he’s a decent man.’

‘What?’ I stare at him, taken aback by his insight, shocked that he thinks of me with such consideration.

‘I’m just saying that discovering your heritage is one thing, breaking a curse is another,’ Leon says. ‘Don’t let the idea of a father distract you.’

You are a distraction, I think silently. Rage is a distraction. A father is not a distraction.

But Leon doesn’t understand how with each piece of information I gather, the darkness around me lifts a little.

‘I’m not interested in this . . . A.’ I hesitate, not used to speaking from my heart. ‘Not in himself. I just have to find out why Mum left Istanbul, why she lied to me. Perhaps then . . . it will make sense, and then I can forgive her. It’s exhausting, being so angry.’

I surprise myself with this confession. And then I panic. Why is it so effortless to talk with Leon? Why am I blurting out my feelings like an idiot?

‘Listen.’ Leon sits next to me. The bed squeaks under his weight and the unstable headboard bangs against the wall, tearing a fragment of the wallpaper.

‘I can’t fully comprehend what you must be going through, but I’ll offer a piece of advice, if you’ll accept it.

There’s no use in holding a grudge against the dead. ’

I rise to my feet, pacing the room. My pulse drums in my ears as I consider his words.

‘Plus,’ Leon says cautiously, ‘it’s obvious your mother had a hard time in Istanbul.’

‘Arda must know something,’ I say. ‘We have to go there.’

‘Even if we leave now we won’t arrive till the evening – your grandfather won’t be pleased if you disappear all night.’

‘He won’t be pleased if I go next week, or next year,’ I say.

‘He doesn’t like me asking questions. Perhaps he was angry with Daphne for getting pregnant unmarried.

Why else would she hide the pregnancy? Why else would Arda worry about Muzaffer’s reaction?

’ A groan of anger escapes me. Is that why they fell out? Could Muzaffer really be so cruel?

I cling on to the headboard for support. Just then, a glimpse of torn wallpaper catches my eye, exposing an outline beneath. My irritation morphs into curiosity as I lean closer to examine it.

‘What is this?’ I press my face closer to the wall for a clearer view. ‘Graffiti?’

‘Hold on,’ Leon cautions as I reach to strip away more of the wallpaper. ‘You can’t stick it back on if you take it off. Your grandfather will know we’ve been here . . .’

‘He’s not been in here in years,’ I say. ‘And if there’s something hidden behind the paper, I need to see it now rather than lose sleep wondering about it.’

‘But—’

‘Now, or never.’

He throws his hands up. ‘Fine.’

He’s silent as I tug at the flayed wallpaper. The initial tear uncovers a larger fragment of writing, urging me to carry on. I pull away piece after piece, revealing letter after letter, tossing strips onto the floor until we’re surrounded by a sea of discarded paper.

When at last I stop, absorbed by the revelation unfolding before my eyes, I can hear Leon swear. The remnants of the wallpaper rustle beneath my feet as we step back to take in the entire spectacle.

Emblazoned across the wall, in black ink, repeated over and over are the words: Yer yarilip seni yutsa bile seni asla affetmeyece?im.

It’s not written in pen or marker and the script is erratic, the lines varied in thickness, with blotches and smears disrupting the flow. A crime scene Muzaffer tried to hide from me.

‘I-I will never forgive you, even if the earth splits open to swallow you.’ Leon’s forehead creases. ‘That’s what it says.’

Even before he told me the meaning, I felt that it was an ill wish. It reeks of desperation and fury.

‘Do you understand what this is?’ Leon asks.

I’m lost. Speechless. Still, I know deep in my bones what the walls are screaming at me.

‘It’s the trigger,’ I whisper. ‘It’s a beddua.’

The sheer magnitude of its repetition is enough to reveal why it was strong enough to awaken the curse.

I stand before it, helpless, unable to take my eyes off the haunting refrain that covers the entire wall.

I have no idea if Iris scribbled this, or my mother, and no idea what it is they swore not to forgive, or if my heart can bear to know it.