Page 9 of The Book of Heartbreak

Among all the lands I have traversed, Konstantiniyye holds a unique allure. The city is a spell in the mouth of the sea, ensnaring every mortal who passes through its gates with a curse, for they will never erase its memory from their minds.

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

I arrive in Istanbul on a sweltering Sunday afternoon in July, having indulged in a perilous quantity of millionaire’s shortbread on the flight. Leaving the airport, I feel queasy in the intense heat of the Turkish summer as I scan the throngs of people for the promised chauffeur.

I spot the driver in the sea of suits, holding a sign announcing: Sare Sila Silverbirch . I dislike the word Sila , which means longing . When you consider that Sare translates to pure , my name becomes a fucking joke. Pure longing.

I approach the black suit, waving to signal who I am.

He introduces himself as ‘Gokhan, Mr Gümüshus’s driver’ and guides me and my luggage to a waiting grey Mercedes.

I have nothing but a suitcase and my favourite of Daphne’s paintings – the one depicting the tower – carefully wrapped.

Munu protested that I should leave it, but I couldn’t.

It was the first thing I saw every morning, a habit – I hope – that will soothe me in this foreign place. A small piece of my old life.

As the car slides out of the airport and Defne’s Istanbul wraps its arms around me, I leave my worries behind. The warm breeze strokes my cheek. It will be okay, it says. Everything will be okay.

After an hour of weaving through traffic, between towering skyscrapers that rise above sprawling slums, we reach a bridge that opens up to a breathtaking view of the shoreline.

The maps of Istanbul must be illusions because the Bosphorus isn’t some mere lake surrendering to the land.

The sea seizes this city between its blue claws.

I lean out of the window, eager to absorb as much of the view as possible.

On one side, the domes and minarets of Hagia Sophia ascend like the throne of a forgotten king, and on the other, the solitary Galata Tower stands proud, its conical peak a spear against the concrete jungle.

This is a view Daphne recreated so many times in her paintings – and just one glance makes me grasp why she could never let Istanbul, Konstantiniyye or Constantinople go.

The city of seven hills, many names and sovereigns is built on top of long-lost stories, and it imprints itself on you.

When the car skirts the coast, my gaze is drawn to a white tower standing in the middle of the sea, with gulls circling it like whirling dervishes.

The Maiden’s Tower. My heart skips a beat.

It’s even more beautiful than Mum’s painting depicted.

Lifted straight out of a fairy tale, like a box full of stories waiting to be discovered.

Once upon a time , Daphne’s voice rustles in my mind as I recall the story of this tower, when the fleas were barbers, the camels were town criers, and emperors ruled instead of sultans, Istanbul was called Constantinople.

In that city lived a wealthy man. He had a dozen sons but only two daughters.

The youngest of the girls was as beautiful as a pearl, and she had a pure heart . . .

Nestled in my bed, listening to this sad tale, I would hold my breath each time the headlights from a passing car illuminated the painting on my bedroom wall, still naive enough to imagine that the soaring minarets could pierce the sky.

Munu, however, would express her displeasure, criticising Daphne’s choice to fill a six-year-old’s head with tales far grander than her imagination could fully grasp. But I devoured them.

One day, a seer predicted the girl would die a terrible death when she turned eighteen. The desperate father built the whitest tower in the middle of the sea, so neither Death nor its spectres could find the girl . . .

I close my eyes, unable to bear thinking about the ending. Why must stories be denied happy endings, when life itself is already rife with sorrow?

We drive along the seafront, veering into a slender street before ascending a hill, and soon the Maiden’s Tower vanishes from view.

The memory of Daphne sizzles in my chest. The car finally pulls up to the kerb.

Just before I step out, Munu appears with a loud crack.

I’ve been longing for her since I hopped on the plane, but she must have been busy again.

‘I’m sorry, canim, been chasing bloody leopards all day. The buggers have been eating red pandas,’ she explains, still catching her breath. ‘And these red pandas, like you, must survive.’

The driver shuffles outside, plucking the suitcase and Daphne’s painting from the boot of the car.

‘Is this it?’ I poke my head out of the window.

‘This is it,’ Munu says, with a deep sigh.

I get out gingerly. I don’t know how I imagined my new home when I agreed to move in with Muzaffer, but it certainly wasn’t this.

The house stands on a slope that slants everything like italic letters, crouched between two seven-story buildings.

The steep angle puts strain on my ankles as I shuffle along the pavement.

It’s a miracle that the Mercedes doesn’t slide down the hill.

I gaze up at the house, separated from the road by a metal gate and a meagre front garden that leads up to a tiny porch.

The flayed walls are washed with the brazen yellow light of summer, revealing layers of plasterwork beneath the chipped paint, shabby and unloved.

It’s a fucking wreck. Three storeys, two balconies, tall windows with sealed shutters.

What kind of people keep their windows closed on a day as hot as this?

‘Looks like it needs a good renovation,’ Munu says, drifting behind me like a miniature shadow.

If only it was just his house that needed a revamp, but the whole neighbourhood brims with neglect.

A smell of rubbish wafts from bins as stray cats linger, searching for scraps.

Graffiti is emblazoned across the taller buildings, their balconies connected by wires with laundry flying on them like bunting.

Curtains billow from windows, wafting out voices and the canned audio of TVs.

The sea is the only calm in the chaos. It churns below the incline at a seemingly impossible angle, unperturbed by the city.

When the driver pushes at the metal gate, the hinges groan as if waking from a hundred-year sleep.

He carts in my stuff and I fall in a few steps behind him and unwrap the mint humbug seeded in my jeans pocket, but the sticky heat has got to it first. My fingertips lose the fight and, without any bins in sight, I stuff it back into my pocket.

‘You can’t possibly want to stay here. It’s an absolute shambles.’ Munu flutters into my path as I head to the porch, as if she can block me. ‘Perhaps this is your sign to head straight back to the airport and catch the first plane to the UK.’

‘It’s not that bad.’ I ignore her and climb up the steps to the entrance. ‘There’s magic in chaos, after all.’

‘You’re young and full of dreams.’ Munu rushes to keep up. ‘But I’m ancient, and I recognise a nightmare when I see one.’

The front door towers over me, twice my height, with one wing ajar.

My luggage and the driver have already vanished into the darkness inside.

Just as I’m about to follow, a brawny man sporting a dense moustache emerges on the threshold.

With his hair slicked back with pomade, he wears a crisp polo shirt and an overpowering cologne, which could probably make a squad of soldiers smell like a bouquet of roses.

I hesitate. If it wasn’t for the driver who brought me here, I’d think I arrived at the wrong address, because the man looks at me with a frown, almost a mask of shock, as if he didn’t expect me on his doorstep. But when he speaks, he dispels my doubt.

‘Sare?’ He rests his burly fingers on his chest.

I blink at him.

‘Y-You . . .’ The man examines me, as if I’m a piece of spacecraft proving alien life is real. ‘Mr Gümüshus was right, Allah is my witness, you look so much . . . like your—’

‘Who the hell is this?’ Munu barks in my ear at the same time.

‘I don’t know,’ I snap at Munu stupidly, interrupting the man. I’m so used to chatting with Munu, it’s hard to shut up when there’s an audience.

‘Oh.’ He looks at me with a hint of confusion. ‘I am Azmi, Mr Gümüshus’s assistant. Welcome home.’

‘He’s inappropriately informal for an assistant,’ Munu mutters, circling around the unsuspecting Azmi. ‘Scowl at him, so he knows his place.’

I shuffle inside, doing my best to ignore Munu’s opinion on Azmi’s manners.

The house is cold and dingy – a shock after the blazing summer heat outside.

The entrance hall is wide, with two doors on either side and a metal staircase that spirals above us to ascend into more darkness.

Large oil paintings in gilded frames cover the peeling wallpaper as if ashamed of their surroundings.

A tattered rug rots on the wooden floor.

A console with carvings stands to the side, gathering dust. A museum, more than a house.

A ginger cat lies on the hard floor just a short distance from me, her tail swishing like a whip.

‘This is Bocek.’ Azmi gestures at the animal. ‘Mind you, she is scratchy to everyone but Mr Gümüshus, so best to leave her alone.’

‘An overly chummy butler, and now a cat?’ Munu shrieks with frustration. ‘Devils be damned. Is this an old man’s house, or a parade? What’s next, seven dwarfs?’

I gesture to her to zip it.

‘Let me take you upstairs to your room.’ Azmi frowns, catching the movement.

I can’t protest. Exhausted and drenched in sweat, I need a shower and a twelve-hour nap.

Part of me wonders where Muzaffer is hiding, but I don’t enquire as to what keeps him occupied at the time of my arrival – which was arranged weeks ago.

I’m not here for a family reunion, I remind myself. I have nothing to share with him.

‘Mr Gümüshus is keen on routines,’ Azmi begins. The staircase rattles as we climb. ‘Dinner is served at eight p.m., and breakfast at eight a.m. Your grandfather expects you to attend at these times. The house has rules.’

As we arrive at the upstairs landing, I’m breathless from keeping up with Azmi’s pace.

‘Your bedroom.’ He points at the door on the left. ‘Mr Gümüshus rests during the day, and the house must remain quiet. Might I remind you to set your mobile to silent? No loud music, or late phone calls, please. You will find headphones in your room.’

There’s a closed door on the opposite side of the hallway. Munu whizzes further down the corridor.

‘The second floor is where Mr Gümüshus resides, and he won’t expect to find you there,’ Azmi says.

I hold my breath. A staircase ascends to the unknown land of Muzaffer’s quarters. A chandelier drapes down from the ceiling with a thousand crystals attached to its brass neck.

‘You’re free to roam downstairs, but please do not move any furniture, or make any adjustments.

’ Azmi sighs. ‘Mr Gümüshus likes preserving everything in a certain order. On this floor, please do not fiddle with any locks. What else?’ He blinks.

‘Ah – I live in the basement flat. I don’t often come upstairs.

If you need anything at any time, please look for me. No need to disturb Mr Gümüshus.’

‘You were right about Muzaffer – he doesn’t seem the paternal type, does he?

And this one . . .’ Munu abandons her exploration of the house to resume her pursuit of Azmi, whose perkiness seems to have waned after reciting the long list of rules.

‘Perhaps he is harmless.’ Munu spins around him.

‘If you resist cuddling that impish cat, this might actually be a suitable arrangement till you’re eighteen.

Maybe coming here wasn’t a bad decision, after all. ’

Is it not, really? A wave of queasiness rolls over me at Munu’s enthusiasm. She sounds convinced that I’ll be lonely – and miserable – here.

Doubt gnaws at me as I scan the walls. No photographs.

No clue if anything once belonged to Daphne, or indeed any sign that she ever lived here.

Suddenly, I’m unsure if moving here will bring me any closer to the answers I crave.

But . . . Daphne must have been here once.

Perhaps she stood right here, on this spot.

Iris , Daphne’s whisper echoes in the dim light.

Somewhere behind these doors, Mum had a room, a sister, a father, a life, a different name. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t imagine her in Istanbul. She’s become a coin with two heads that I toss, looking for answers but getting none. Defne and Daphne.

‘Any questions?’ Azmi asks.

The problem, unbeknown to Azmi, is that I have too many. Why did Daphne lie to me? Why did she tell me Muzaffer was dead? Where is her room?

‘Where’s my mother’s room?’ I pick the easiest of them to start.

‘Locked, I’m afraid. As I mentioned, your grandfather—’

‘I want to see it.’ Agitated, I don’t let him finish. ‘Actually, I want to stay in that room.’

‘You can’t.’ A sharp voice slips into the silence like a dagger.

My gaze travels up the staircase until it finds Muzaffer. He stands tall on the steps leading to the second floor, his grip tight on the railing, knuckles white. ‘Your bedroom is prepared. Azmi made sure you’ll have everything you need. Please refrain from exploring other rooms on this floor.’

Then he turns to Azmi and tells him something in Turkish. I notice the difference in his tone. The smoothness.

They share words and glances that escape my understanding, until Azmi gives what I presume to be a goodbye nod and starts down the stairs. Munu watches Muzaffer with narrowed eyes.

‘You must be tired from your journey,’ Muzaffer comments, thinking we’re alone. ‘Rest now.’ It sounds like an order more than an act of compassion, and he doesn’t linger for a reply before withdrawing to his quarters again, leaving Munu and me sharing an awkward silence.