Seray Şahiner

Basil

Sibel got out of the shower, entered the kitchen drying her

hair. She turned the light on, and checked the time on her cell phone;

it was almost 6. She wrapped the towel around her hair and wrung it.

Although it would have been better if I had my hair straightened at the

hair dresser, he may not show up, then there is no need to torture myself

and get wrapped up in the preparation process, besides the pain of

being stood up. She drew the kitchen shades. The sun was still up, but

the building faced the airshaft. No matter what I do, it is always dim. It

doesn’t get any sunlight. The smell of eggplant coming from the oven

reminded her that the dinner was almost done. She filled up a glass of

water from the sink, and poured it gently on the basil pot sitting by the

window, which from the look of its faded leaves was near the end of its

life. She caressed its leaves, smelled the scent on her hand. This basil

faded too. Basil doesn’t survive in my house; I tried so many times!

Even though I give it plenty of water and keep it by the window, it fades

and drops its tiny little leaves. Not long ago it bloomed all of a sudden.

That, I guess, was its final attempt to say “Look I am here”. A sudden

blooming of the basil is never a good sign...

 

The oven beeped. Huh, the eggplant is done. Murat likes it a

lot. Her hand got stuck on the handle of the hot oven while opening it.

She spit on her fingers and poured water on them. She looked at her

finger, the fingerprint was burned. She didn’t worry too much. It would

ache a bit and go away. She took the tray out of the oven with one of

the cotton pot holders. She hastily dropped the tray on the ceramic tiles

because of her aching hand.

 

She entered the living room. She switched the places of two

books that looked unorganized on the bookshelf. She arranged the CDs

they would listen to that night. The time they had to spend together was

already limited. She didn’t want to waste it with dilemmas like, “Oh, what

should we listen to, what should we eat”. Her life was very much like

a lovers’ modified version of the phrase working mothers use to ease

their conscience: “What matters is not the quantity of time spent with

the child, but the quality of it.”. With one difference; making their time

worthwhile was not the responsibility of the side with limited time, but

hers. I am willing as long as he comes. My God, don’t test my strength!

Should she give him a call to say “When are you coming?” He already

said “I will come,” what’s the point of pressuring him and making myself

look desperate? Afterall nobody is forcing him to come. He is coming

because he feels good when he is with me. Or should I have said when

he is with me as well?

 

She brought the appetizers she prepared yesterday, when

you make them the day before, the flavor of the olive oil really comes

out. Pilaki1, dolma2, Russian salad... Then she set the table for two.

I shouldn’t sit where I face the mirror, I would keep staring. Even if

it’s me in the mirror, I don’t want to see two women by Murat’s side.

She stepped back and looked at the table. It looked fine. Should I put

candles? Hah! Build a fireplace too, place down a bearskin and make

love on it. How romantic! This habit of assuming life to be what we see

in the movies... Should I have moved the house up on a mountain top

as well? The woman, with her youthful body, is frozen in the snow, the

man finds her and brings her to his hut, lays her on the bearskin by the

fireplace, removes her trousers, massages her to increase the blood

circulation. When the woman feels his hands on her thighs, she wakes

up with fear, “Oh no, he will notice my cellulite!”. In the meantime, she

doesn’t fail to regret, “I wish I used the cellulite cream I saw an advert

for.” When she opens her eyes, she sees the love of her life. They drink

wine and make love. The room is dim. The candle light sets the mood.

There is no problem until the sunrise reveals the cellulite... You don’t like

the romanticism in the movies, but you still want the men in them. No

wonder your life is upside down.

 

It was 7 o’clock, she called Murat. Nobody answered. He is

probably driving, didn’t hear it. What if he doesn’t come... No way! I am

not being negative. He said, “I will come”, he will come. What if he calls

and says “I forgot that I had promised my girlfriend, I am going to her”...

If he does, he goes and I will ruin them both. Like hell you ruin them!

Just don’t beg like, “don’t ditch me, ditch her!” You loser!

 

The man will pop in any moment, and I still have my pajamas

on. She put on her burgundy blouse. Should I wear jeans or a skirt? If

he doesn’t show up, I might get upset for having dressed up. She stood

before the mirror. A herd of geese passed by the corner of her eyes and

left their footprints.

 

There were mirrors everywhere in her house. It isn’t out of

arrogance; she is one of those women that speak to themselves. It’s

hard to tell whether there are as many mirrors in even the largest of

the “Kastamonu Pide House” as in Sibel’s house. She applied the

foundation on her face carefully making sure not to make it look like

freshly poured asphalt. Should I play up the eyes or the lips today? She

liked to draw attention to herself by accentuating one area on her face

and on her body. It was one of the few aspects of her life in which she

managed to be frugal. Today the focal point were the breasts. Well, we

already moved past the mystery of showing the cleavage to hint at the

tips... She applied black eye liner and mascara on her eyes. She put lip

gloss on her lips. She looked in the mirror, noticed that the five years of

art lessons she’d taken weren’t in vain.

 

My name is Sibel. I have lived long enough to know that making

love is not as splendid a thing as they make it out to be in the movies,

that I will not kiss a gorgeous man simply because I chew mint gum,

that simply because I use Axe perfume, a random guy is not going to

give me flowers, that I will not turn into a tall volleyball player on a beach

wearing a white bikini simply because I have on a good quality pad.

As a publicist, I will not attempt to explain what this knowledge means.

10 years ago people used sweet words such as “fresh”, “lively” to

describe me. Five years ago they said “young lady”. Now they think they

compliment me by saying, “God bless! You don’t look your age”: I am

30 years old; The number of pencils that can be held under my breast

is one, number of girdles to hold my hips in shape is five, number of

padded bras is unknown.

 

She joined her hands together on the table and leaned her

breasts on her arms in order to rehearse whether her cleavage showed.

It was moderate cleavage. It was almost 8 o’clock now. She called

again. No answer. Pig, why not call to say “I will be late”? He must be

stuck in traffic, should be here soon. What if he calls and says “I can’t

make it.” Yeah right! Something bad must have happened to him, that’s

why he is late. What the hell am I saying! God forbid. She was startled

with the message alert of her phone. Where is my phone, she checked

on the couch, under the lace pillows. Not there. Huh, it is by the window.

Murat must be right outside, asking if he should buy bread. As she was

heading towards the door to buzz him in, she read the message: “20

calling credits have been added to your account.” Damn the phone

company! I will sue them for emotional compensation. Is there such an

article in the Turkish Criminal Code as, “giving false hopes to women

anticipating a call”? If only we were living in the “Ally McBeal” tv show...

I got my hopes up thinking he would say “should I buy bread?” Stupid

me. This isn’t his home to bring bread to!

 

She entered the living room. She fixed the pillows. It’s a good

sign that he didn’t call. If he were not coming, he would call to make

excuses. She looked at the ice on the table that was beginning to melt.

He will come before the ice melts, I know. Maybe he is fighting with the

girl. She may have found out about me, for instance, when I went to

his house I combed my hair with her comb. A few strands of hair might

have been left. I haven’t done anything to purposefully break them up.

But there has to be some penalty if your favorite Barış Manço3 song is

“Kol Düğmeleri (Cufflinks).” Using her comb weirded me out a little, but

even more it did to share a lover with her. Ok, yes I forgot my tootbrush

in the cup as well! Her hair is auburn, I saw some hairs left on the comb.

She definitely looks like a guidance counselor, I know she is a nice girl.

Men can’t leave the nice ones. Of course, like I am bad! It’s not that, but

men don’t like the type that can take risks. The man never hid anything.

The men that seduce women by hiding their lovers are outdated now.

Nowadays they say it as it is and avoid the guilt. It’s kind of the “if it suits

you” mode. One doesn’t need to be a semiologist in order to see these

things. “I am thinking of shaving my beard, what do you say Sibel?”

“I think it’s nice this way,” “My girlfriend says so too.” Unfortunately I

have had enough second woman experience to know what it means to

mention the girlfriend out of the blue, or to know that he will not suddenly

break up with her.

 

She went into the kitchen to get the pack of cigarettes. She

caressed the basil as she walked by, smelled her hand. I think the basil

is hapless. That’s because it can be handled easily. It endears itself

right away, you fondle it and it leaves a scent on your hand. However

it gives in so quickly that nobody feels the need to go back and caress

it. The scent on your hand dissipates in five minutes. Nobody sends

their lover basil, either a rose with thorns or an arrangement of flowers.

Ostentatious wreaths are sent to weddings, even to funerals. Basil

knows its destiny, knows that its magic will be lost at the first touch. It

is still determined to give it another chance. As soon as it sees the sun

it blossoms tiny flowers, it offers whatever it has, at the end it faces the

nakedness that results from giving everything away at once. It doesn’t

have much left to offer. It withers. It still doesn’t feign reluctance, it gives

in knowing what’s to come. Sometimes the need for affection gets rid of

the luxury of caprice.

 

She lit a cigarette, separated the curtains to look at the street.

She called him again, even though it rang, she couldn’t reach the

person she dialed. He will come, he promised, she looked at the mirror,

has her make-up run? No, it’s fine. But the ice has melted long ago.

She dipped her burned hand inside the cold water in the ice bowl, it felt

good. It is 9 o’clock. If only he would leave her and marry me... He is not

Alevi though, my parents would not approve. My mom would start, “Aaa,

you are marrying that scamp!” Yes mother, and I will name my child

Muaviye! She placed one of the cd s she’d prepared into the cd player.

She poured a glass of rakı4, this is like urine now. She took a bite of the

eggplant stew. It tastes good. She called Meral. At least friends answer

at first call.

- Hello... He didn’t show up...

- How do you let him do this to you? We knew what he was about from

the beginning, the sooner you get out of this the better, he should fuck

off, was the gist of the speech she listened to.

- Why does it always end up like this? Nobody chooses me, was all she

could say.

- My dear, this has nothing to do with you, the man is innately bad. No

offense, but if he loved you wouldn’t he have left the other girl already?

- I am hanging up, maybe he will call.

 

She received an information alert. She checked, full of hope, to

see if the number was Murat’s. My mom called twice, that’s all. Damn it!

They don’t even give me the chance to hope: “Maybe he called when I

was on the phone.”

 

She looked in the mirror. It’s not difficult to accept anymore, I

am Sibel, the second woman. In the mean time it is nine thirty. But this

is not the beginning, I have been the second woman ever since... Is he

dead? Should I call his friends? If he is not dead, he will be upset that I

call them. She called Meral again.

 

-     Hello, Meral, what if something happened to him...

-     Don’t be ridiculous Sibel!

-     He would have called if he weren’t dead!

-     If we go with the logic “if he doesn’t call, he must be dead”, then

           he must be a reincarnation marvel. Don’t worry he will come

           back to life again.

-     If he is dead, with which title am I going to attend the funeral?

           You can’t send a wreath saying, “from the illegal lover, with

           love”...

-     Isn’t it a prayer afterall, it will get there where ever you are. Let

          me come if you are not feeling well.

-     No, he may come. I am getting off now.

 

It was almost 10. The song reached the most touching part with

the most kanun and violin. She looked in the mirror. Her eyes teared.

 

The lipstick you put on in the evening, staying unsmudged

at the end of the night can sometimes be a sign that your end is

approaching. Moreover: The chance of the satin underwear you bought

the day before being on you the morning after you wear it, and earrings

that are not removed and placed on the night stand.

 

She ate a piece of dolma. They were sitting in oil by now- You

can’t even imagine how tragic a plate of dolma can be. She sipped the

rakı. Strained yoghurt sprinkled with dill is deadly. Green beans cooked

in olive oil, brain salad, chopped tomatoes can’t be a ‘meze’ to “the

person you have dialed cannot be reached at the moment message.”

Sliced white cheese could be an omen sometimes. If only you knew

how hard it is to look at eggplant stew and not cry... “It is he who hath

let loose the two seas, and hath placed between them a bar, and a

bound which cannot be passed. (The Holy Qur’an – Chapter 55: Ar-

Rahman)”5 I wish that my tears and the water which insists “I was ice in

my previous life” would imitate these words of God and not blend into

one another..

 

It is my earnest desire that you never know what it is like

when, even though he is reachable and available, the person you dial

doesn’t answer. Cleaned windows, newly washed curtains can fill one

with a desire to be blind. Scum on marbles cleaned by knives, tiles

scrubbed with Cif are more sorrowful than you can imagine. If you have

sent a message saying “Where are you, I am worried?” to the person

you have called and still have not heard anything back, there is a

bigger chance that you can understand how I feel. A newly waxed body

(even worse if it is full body), a perfume that is in tune with the scent of

your skin can make you feel horrible.

 

There is a high probability that you are my sorrowful soul mate

if you know what it means to believe in parapsychology and stare at

the phone to make it ring. I am Sibel. The second woman... If you can

more or less guess what’s buried in those three dots, next ‘hıdırellez’6

I will make a wish for you to break free of your destiny. I am speaking

as a person who read “You Can Heal Your Life” without believing in

it, looked in the mirror (at this stage I believed it) and said “I approve

of myself, everything in my life is whole and complete”: When you are

the second woman, it can be difficult for you to be the primary force to

save yourself.

 

Don’t you waste your time trying to find Freudian solutions;

yes, I had a troubled father-daughter relationship. Everybody says to

me, “why do you accept being the back up?” And I have always asked

myself why I fall in love with men that have girlfriends or wives, why

they always find me. I don’t know, it has been 24 years since I have

moved beyond the Freudian developmental stage.

 

We all console ourselves believing that we will find the love

depicted in the movies. Until I was 25, I waited, hopeful, for the most

wonderful man in the world, however he couldn’t find the time while

acting the lead roles in various Hollywood movies. I was the second

woman even for my first lover. At first you blame yourself thinking “this

is not fair to the other woman.” Attempts of breaking up with the man,

erasing his phone number. But if there is love involved, it ends up with

the cycle of looking up the persons phone number in the directory and

calling him. Indifference settles in you so much that you give everything

you have to offer to any man that radiates a little bit of light. Then there

isn’t the opportunity to use time efficiently like the other girls. Something

tells you “This is your chance, offer everything you have got while you

have the attention, you better impress him and win him, or he won’t look

back at you again.” Just like the basil, all your flowers bloom as soon as

you see the light, and end up stark naked. I still believed that one day I

would meet a man who wants to settle down with me, who I am in love

with as well, and even if he has a girlfriend, he will leave her to be with

me.

 

There was this guy I liked. This time, I was going to play hard to

get. I didn’t sleep with him right away because I feared that he wouldn’t

want to see me again if I did. We finally slept together and as soon as

it was over he said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this to you.” Right

then I said to myself, “Sibel, you are not ‘the woman’ for any man.” You

know those proud, free spirited kind of men, who pretend not to believe

in love. Then one day they say, “There is love, I found that woman.”

In the life of a man, that woman is the woman. Or the one that gives

the illusion of being the one... Although I am not one to talk about the

correlation between love and illusion. When he apologized, I wasn’t

upset about loosing him. Nor did I bemoan the fact that I could have

seen him again if I hadn’t slept with him that night. What happened

was worse than loosing him. If you receive an apology, it means “I lost

control and slept with you, but there can’t be anything more, no offense.”

Then there is the line “I don’t want to break your heart,” which is code

for “don’t get attached to me” meaning, “we’ll sleep together but I won’t

recognize you the next day.”

 

I won’t try to justify myself. I also used to call the second

women “bitch”. Did all men catch a virus, what do you want from a guy

in a relationship? A home wrecker can’t have a home... Over time the

logic became, “If the man fell in love with someone else, the first woman

should just get out of the way.” I used to believe that the man had this

unbreakable bond with the first woman and that’s why they can’t break

up; like a business passed over to the wife, a child, or a lover that can’t

live without him. Then I realized that these are excuses that the second

woman uses to silence her pride.

 

Those of you who pity the girl because they think I am

contributing to the adultry by waiting for my lover or whatever he may

be, listen: every holiday, new years and vacation spent alone. Official

holidays are spent with the official lover. I am illegal. I am not in any

of the photographs in my lover’s house; the one hugging him in the

birthday picture, deciding where to put the furniture, choosing the

linens isn’t me. In his house I am nothing but a few strands of hair left

in her comb and a toothbrush already thrown out. I am waiting for her

to recognize my existence and leave him, even if he doesn’t know my

worth in his life.

 

A phone message came, I won’t check. I don’t want to know

how much credit I have left. She poured another glass of rakı, the bottle

was almost empty. For instance, in a movie a man is making love with

a woman, the door opens, the leading woman enters, says,”how could

you do this to me!” She leaves before he has time to say, “I can explain.”

As soon as he can get himself together, he runs after victimized proud

woman; nobody thinks about the woman left behind. The leading woman

pulled her man out of bed, but the man has already forgotten about the

woman in bed. I wonder if there is anyone besides me who feels bad for

the woman left in the bed.

 

The second woman doesn’t have the confidence of a woman

with a guaranteed man. Being ‘the back up’ requires constant vigilance.

The phone is always charged, you take a bath in case you see him, and

to friends it’s always “I’ll be there if nothing comes up.” You always pray

to God that ‘the something’ does come up.

 

She checked the time on her telephone, it was quarter past 12.

Without thinking, she checked the message she received earlier. “I can’t

come. There is something I have to take care of.” Bastard, you waited

till now!? She pressed the “call” button, “The person you have dialed

cannot be reached at the moment.”

 

She walked to the kitchen. The basil caught her eye. The poor

thing is just like me. She put the basil in the shade. So it doesn’t give

everything and fade thinking it has found a place to belong when it feels

that bit of light that comes once in a life time...

 

 

 

 

1 Pilaki is a Turkish appetizer which is a bean dish cooked in olive oil, served cold.

2 Dolma is a family of stuffed vegetable dishes in Turkish cuisine and the cuisines of the

former Ottoman Empire and surrounding regions, including, Albania, Algeria, Azerbaijan,

Armenia, the Levant, the Balkans, Greece, Iraq, Iran and Central Asia. Perhaps the bestknown

is the grape-leaf dolma, which is more precisely called yaprak dolma or sarma.

Common vegetables to stuff include zucchini, eggplant, tomato and pepper. The stuffing may

include meat or not. Meat dolma are generally served warm, often with sauce; meatless ones

are generally served cold. Both can be eaten along with yoghurt.

3 Barış Manço (also spelt Baris Mancho in some European album releases) (January 2,

1943 - February 1, 1999) was a Turkish singer, composer, television producer and celebrity.

He composed about 200 songs, some of which were translated into a variety of languages

including English, Japanese, Greek, Bulgarian, Romanian, Persian and Arabic.

4 Rakı is an anise-flavored aperitif in Turkey. It is the unofficial ’national drink’ and it is

traditionally drunk mixed with water; the dilution causes this alcoholic drink to turn a milkywhite

color.

5 Sale, George. The Koran: Commonly Called the Alcoran of Mohammed. Philadelphia: J.W.

Moore, 1856

6 Hıdırellez is a traditional holiday celebrated on the 6th of May. It is believed that on that day

the prophets Hızır and Ilyas met.