Black Milk Part 14

I don't know about the baby, but these sounds are starting to p.i.s.s me off. "Birds chirping in an Australian rain forest seem like the perfect sleepless aid if you ask me."

"What do you want to listen to, then?" she asks.

"Punk, postpunk, industrial metal. This is the kind of music I always listened to while writing my novels. I could use a dose of Pearl Jam, Chumbawamba, Bad Religion-"

"No way," she says, scrunching up her face. "Forget all that vulgar noise. You are not making a novel. You are making a baby."

So the entire week, Kuzguncuk-one of Istanbul's most peaceful, oldest districts-reverberates with the sounds of cows mooing, ducks quacking, owls hooting and French arias.

Week 18 I don't cry as often anymore, but now everything smells strange. Like a hunting dog that's been released into the woods, with my nostrils flaring I spend the day trailing scents: a pinch of ginger in a huge pot of vegetable soup, the whiff of seaweed even when I am miles away from the sh.o.r.e, the odor of pickle juice on a store counter five blocks away. I walk around like Jean-Baptiste Grenouille in Patrick Suskind's Perfume.

Of all the scents there is one that makes my stomach turn and has me running in the opposite direction: coconut.

Who would have ever guessed that Istanbul smells of coconuts! It's like the city was built on a tropical island. Coconuts and their cloying aroma are ubiquitous: the sachets that dangle from the rearview mirrors in cabs, the liquid soaps used in public restrooms, the little white flakes that adorn the tops of bakery cakes, the heavy-scented candles decorating coffee shops and restaurants and the promotional cookies supermarkets give out to customers. When did Turkish people become so fond of coconut?

Istanbul is one large coconut cut in half. The Asian side is one half, the European side the other. I can't find anywhere to hide.

Week 20 We've found out the s.e.x of the baby. It's going to be a girl.

I am happy. Eyup is happy. Mama Rice Pudding is thrilled.

"It is much easier to dress baby girls, and far more fun, too," she says, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g.

Female babies are dressed in pale pink, dark pink and fuchsia, while male babies are dressed in dark blue, brown and aquamarine. For little girls you get Barbie dolls and tea sets; for boys, Kalashnikovs and trucks. I wonder if I can raise my daughter differently.

"What is the use of worrying your head over such useless things?" Mama Rice Pudding says when I share my thoughts with her. "Even if you dress your daughter in the color of sapphires or emeralds, the minute she starts school she will embrace pink anyway. She will want to dress up the way her friends and all her favorite characters do. Barbie has a pink house, Dora the Explorer has pink shorts, and h.e.l.lo Kitty is actually h.e.l.lo Pink! Why are you trying to swim against the current?"

That same night in my dream I am swimming in a river as pink as cotton candy. I never see colors in my dreams, at least not to my recollection. I find it exciting to have a Technicolor dream, even if it is in pink.

Week 21 I secretly go to see Miss Highbrowed Cynic. There she is, as always, in a city as bustling with ideas as New York, behind an ornamented iron door, her walls still covered with posters of Che Guevara and Marlon Brando. She is wearing another one of her fringy hippie dresses. A necklace with large blue and purple beads hangs around her neck.

"Your necklace is pretty," I say.

"Do you like it? It was made by the villagers living on the outskirts of Machu Picchu. I bought it to support the locals against the juggernaut of global capitalism."

I can't help but smile. I've missed Miss Highbrowed Cynic-the only finger-woman I know who can go from talking about a simple necklace to a.n.a.lyzing corporate globalization in one breath.

"So, how's the pregnancy going?" she asks.

"Good, I saw the baby in an ultrasound. It's a wonderful feeling."

"Hmm," says Miss Highbrowed Cynic.

"But I feel a little empty inside. I'm always sleeping, crying, eating or smelling coconuts." My voice quivers slightly. "The truth is, I long for the depth of our conversations."

Miss Highbrowed Cynic looks down at her feet as if they are culpable for the situation.

"You and I used to talk about novels, movies, exhibitions and political philosophy. You would b.i.t.c.h about everything, chuck dirt at everyone, criticize cultural hegemony. . . . I've been disconnected from books. Except for Little Women, that is."

Miss Highbrowed Cynic lights a cigarette, but seeing my face, she puts it out immediately. She remembers I have quit smoking.

"Did you really miss me?" she asks.

"And how!"

"I missed you, too. We would read together for hours and gossip about other writers. It was fun. We don't get to do that anymore."

She weighs something in her head and then suddenly gives me a wink. "Come, let's read Sevgi Soysal."

"But I can't. She's on the forbidden-authors list," I say uncertainly.

Miss Highbrowed Cynic flushes scarlet with rage. "You've got to be kidding," she bellows. "That mama-woman doesn't know her limits. No one can ban a book."

I agree.

Opening a random page, Miss Highbrowed Cynic reads, and I listen to the lullaby of her voice.

Tante Rosa believed that the day would come where an apple would be an apple, that a father would be a father, that a war would be a war, that the truth would be the truth, that a lie would be a lie, that love would be love, that to be fed up would be to be fed up, that rebelling would be rebelling, that silence would be silence, that an injustice would be an injustice, that order would be order and that a marriage would be a marriage.

Week 22 I don't know how Her Majesty the Queen found out that I had visited Miss Highbrowed Cynic, but she did. Contrary to my fear, she doesn't throw a fit.

"So you missed reading books," she says with a sigh, as if the thought has tired her. Then she pulls out a box from inside her coat.

"What is this?" I ask.

"I bought you a present," she answers. "I thought you might enjoy this."

When I open the package a book falls out: My Baby and Me. Apparently it has been read first by Mama Rice Pudding. Some sentences are underlined, some chapters are starred: "Preparing the Baby's Room," "Fabulous Mashed Food Recipes." I thank her and put it down. I'll read it sometime.

My lack of enthusiasm doesn't escape Mama Rice Pudding.

"All right," she concedes. "I might have overreacted when I banned your books and burned all the paper and pens in the house."

I remain silent.

"You are someone who is used to expressing herself through writing. So I have a suggestion for you. Why don't you write to your baby?"

Smiling, I nod. That is the best advice I've ever gotten from Her Highness.

Week 25 Dear Baby (Since I don't know your name yet, I hope you don't mind me referring to you like this.), This is the first letter I am writing you. I once read that some

traditional tribes sustain the belief that babies got to pick their

parents. I had laughed at the idea, but now it seems plausible.

I imagine you sitting in the sky with angels, skimming through a huge, leather-bound catalog that contains photographs of potential mothers. Under each photograph there is a short description. The angels turn the pages with utmost patience. You look at all the candidates with a buyer's eye.

"Not this one," you say. "No, not this one either-"

Doctors, engineers, housewives and businesswomen pa.s.s before your eyes. Even though there are many highly eligible candidates, women who do their jobs well and are very accomplished, you ignore them.

Just then the angel turns another page and my picture pops up. It is not a very good photo of me, my hair is a mess-again-and my makeup is slapdash. I'm wearing my onion-clothes. Under my picture is a description: Head pickled, chaotic personality, p.r.o.ne to moments of irrationality, has yet to find herself, is actively searching for answers. Loves telling stories. Writer. Columnist. Litterateur.

Pointing your tiny little finger at my face you remark, "This one could be fun. Let me take a closer look at her."

I don't know why you ended up picking me out of all the potential mothers in the universe. Maybe you are a crazy kind of girl. You find the idea of a perfect mother boring. Or you already know me better than I know myself. Maybe you see the potential in me. Maybe you want to help me overcome my shortcomings. You can be my guide, my best teacher.

Like I said, I don't know why you chose me, but I want you to know that I am honored. I hope I will never make you regret your decision and say, "Of all the moms in the universe, why did I pick this one!"

Your loving mom who looks forward to your arrival, Elif Week 28 Mama Rice Pudding insists that I go to prenatal yoga. She says I have to learn breathing techniques.

"I can breathe very well, don't worry," I say.

But she is persistent. She wants the birth to be as natural and wholesome as the ones she thinks our great-great-grandmothers had in the past. I don't point out that our ancestors were hardly poring over yoga sutras before going into labor.

Week 29 There are ten women in the yoga course. Nine of them have their bellies against their noses. Either they are close to the end of their term or this course makes you puff up like a hot-air balloon. Maybe in her attempt to teach us breathing techniques the instructor is filling us up with heated air.

The only woman in the room who isn't pregnant is our instructor: an athletic and joyful Brazilian with long, curly brunette hair. Her pearly-white smile greets me as she introduces me to the group.

"Let us welcome Elif and her baby into our circle of love," she says and closes her eyes, already drifting away.

"h.e.l.lo," I say to the group, but their eyes, too, are shut.

"First we shall cleanse our chakras. We shall fortify our personal energies. Then we will practice the Pranayama breathing techniques. We will feel the rise from the Sushumna toward our head and then unite with Sahashara."

Having no idea what we are supposed to do but copying the others all the same, I sit cross-legged on the floor, close my eyes and try to concentrate on this new language.

"Now let us feel the aura that wraps our bodies like a warm glove," says the teacher. "Can you feel how delicate it is, almost silken?"

To my amazement, I can feel something, a new presence, except it doesn't quite gently cloak my body but rather harshly pokes at my shoulder.

"Let's all say 'nice to see you' to this soft energy of ours," continues the teacher.

"Nice to see you," I mumble.

"Same here," comes an immediate response that jolts me.

The voice is strangely familiar. Suspicious, I open one eye to find Milady Ambitious Chekhovian standing on my left shoulder, staring at me.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper fiercely.

"Oh, nothing. We haven't talked for a long time and I was curious as to what you were doing with your life."

"Well, here I am."

"You must have quite a bit of time on your hands to be bothering with this nonsense," she says. "The last time I left you, you were writing novels. And now look at you."

I don't know what to say to that and wait for her next sentence.

"Come on, you should be writing fiction right now. Stories, ideas, plots, the world of imagination . . . They are all waiting for you. What are you doing here opening chakras, mumbling Indian words you can't even p.r.o.nounce? Oh, I wish you had listened to me when I asked you to get your tubes tied."

Meanwhile, the teacher says zealously: "Yoga means 'to unite' in the Sanskrit language. Our aim is to ensure the unity of the body, the mind and the soul."

Milady Ambitious Chekhovian snorts. "How about the unity of the finger-women? We are suffering under the worst monarchy."

"Oh, please, give me a break," I say. "Your military regime was even worse."

"And now we are going to enter the realm within, where we will meditate on our heartbeat," says the teacher, "and become One with the universe."

"I'm leaving," says Milady Ambitious Chekhovian. "You stay and become One with whomever you want for 250 lira a session."

Oblivious to my attempts to say something, she jumps on the window ledge, gives a commander's salute and leaves. I close my eyes and sit still but it's no use. I can't give myself over to the cla.s.s anymore. Perhaps Milady Ambitious Chekhovian is right. Let alone uniting with the universe, I cannot even unite with the Thumbelinas inside.

Week 32 I go out shopping with Mama Rice Pudding and spend hours in maternity stores. I never knew there was an entire fas.h.i.+on industry for babies, with hip and trendy clothes lines. They're so cute and so expensive, especially when you realize that every designer item will be worn for only about a few weeks, not to mention constantly puked, drooled and peed on.

I wonder how many of these baby products we really need. Plastic ducks that quack in the tub, tummy warmers made of organic merino wool, eco-friendly bathrobes for the summer, eco-friendly bathrobes for the winter, special chimes to attach to strollers, nontoxic brushes to clean the ducks in the tub, dinosaur-shaped door stoppers to keep the doors from slamming shut, glow-in-the-dark stickers in the shapes of planets and stars for the ceiling of the nursery- All this endless bric-a-brac attracts Mama Rice Pudding like a magnet. She runs from one store to another with my credit card in her hand, determined to spend every cent I have on pink, cutesy baby things. She's so lost in the hysteria of shopping I want to run away from her. But where to? Can a pregnant woman steer clear of her maternal side?

Week 34 This week I learn what a huge topic a baby's intelligence is for an impending mother. Your Highness is obsessed with the matter. Omega-3 pills, fish oil capsules and some type of liquid that emits the vilest smell . . . She has been pus.h.i.+ng all of these into my mouth with the belief that if I consume enough of them, the baby will be born with a high IQ.

"Caviar is the best," she says. "If a pregnant woman eats two spoonfuls of black caviar every day, chances are the baby will be born a genius."

"According to your theory the people around the Caspian Sea must be fricking brilliant," I say.

She waves off my sarcasm as if shooing a nagging fly. "You just do what I say," she orders.

I don't understand the obsession with IQ. And it is not only Mama Rice Pudding. In the doctors' waiting rooms, on TV programs, in blogs and Web sites, in the newspapers, everywhere and all the time, pregnant women are looking for ways to increase their babies' intelligence score.

"Let's a.s.sume for a moment that this IQ-caviar theory is true," I venture.

"All right," Mama Rice Pudding says.

"Let's say that Turkish mothers have created this 'superintelligent baby.' What then? The child is born, and when he is old enough to walk and talk it is clear that he is supergifted. Good at music, painting, sculpture, art or mathematics. He loves to read, too, devouring the cla.s.sics at the age of five."

"What are you trying to say?" Mama Rice Pudding asks suspiciously.

"My point is, what will happen to these fish-egg babies in an environment that does not reward individual differences and unusual talents ? What kind of irony is it to desire a clever baby, but not be able to acknowledge a creative child?"