What really gets on her nerves at these international congresses is when a paper she presents which she evaluates as ‘not bad’ is praised to the skies. ‘Your paper was wonderful, Mrs Eren. To tell the truth, we didn’t realize that science in Turkey was so advanced.’ Or ‘You probably made these experiments, undertook this research at a research institute in America, didn’t you?’ Or ‘I should like to congratulate you. You are an example of how a person can transcend their surroundings.’ It is the same when she has to speak in her bad German. They say, ‘Ah, how good your German is!’ In other words, monkeys can dance, too! … Applause, applause, applause … At these meetings where you’ve been subjected to positive discrimination, you have received praise you did not deserve and where you have been the centre of attention, you perceive the attempts of the western scientists not to alienate — even to encourage — the others from countries less well known for producing world-class scientists. They treat scientists with dark skins and those from Asia like this, too. Their intentions are undoubtedly good, but the exaggerated praise and positive discrimination crushes the other person even more.
Perhaps I’m being unfair. Mine is the oversensitivity of a person from an underdeveloped country. None the less, at such gatherings we from the east and, to a lesser extent, the people from the Mediterranean tend to group together. We feel closer to each other. Anyway this circuit is coming to an end for now. A few days from now I’ll be in Istanbul.
When she is abroad, Elif likes staying in good hotels but today the hotel room really depresses her. There is something that she cannot figure out, something that makes her uneasy, a bad feeling that keeps irritating her, a feeling of something lacking. Supposing she went out in the street despite the drizzle, walked a little, sat in a café and ordered herself a glass of wine. That’s what they used to do when they lived here. Ömer liked the rainy, misty weather of the north. ‘This weather suits the area. Sea, sun and heat go with our parts,’ he used to say, and then he would add, ‘The weather of the north doesn’t suit Cancerians, but Aquarians don’t complain about it.’
Suddenly she remembers: Today is my birthday … I wouldn’t have remembered if there hadn’t been the association with the signs of the Zodiac. Ömer forgets many things but never my birthday. She opens her inbox. There are three new messages. With her heart in her mouth she presses the keys of the telephone. Please let Ömer have sent a message, even a tiny one! The messages are not from Ömer. They are insignificant texts. There is not a peep from either Ömer or Deniz. With one tiny hope she looks at missed calls. There are none. How impatient I am! The day is not yet over, there is a whole night in front of me. Birthdays last until the twenty-fourth hour.
She looks out of the hotel window. Outside the summer rain is raining steadily. Today I’m fity-two. I’m in Copenhagen. I’m a professor of biochemistry. I’ve been nominated for the European Women Scientist of the Year award. Even if it is not a Nobel, it is a prize not to be scorned. I’m looking out of the window of a hotel in Copenhagen. It’s raining. It is misty and dark. The streetlights are on, although it’s hours before evening. Everything is in order, but I’m depressed. It’s raining. I’m married, and I have a son. I’m the wife of novelist Ömer Eren. My son’s name is Deniz. He lives on a small island in Norway. It’s raining. Raindrops are trickling down the windows. I have a grandson, little Bjørn. I have no daughter-in-law, she died in Istanbul. With the red tulips in front of her and behind her the splendid dome and graceful minarets of Sultanahmet. Her blood spattered on to the tulips and spread over the tarmac, her limbs flew into the air. It’s raining here, soft fresh rain. Ömer and I have been married for twenty-seven years. I’ve never deceived my husband. It never occurred to me and I didn’t feel the need. Recently we have been apart a lot. It’s natural; our work, our spheres of activity, our professional circles are different. However, no one can say that we don’t love each other, that we have become detached from each other, no! It’s the beginning of July, and it’s raining. That’s northern weather for you! No one has remembered my birthday. I’m alone, and it’s drizzling down on Copenhagen.
First she sends a short message to Ömer. ‘Today’s my birthday. Love.’ Instead of a message, I could have tried phoning him. But no, she had promised herself that she would not call him unless he called her. She would keep her promise. Then she remembers that she has made a note somewhere of the phone number of the biophysicist who showed a real interest in her paper at the symposium in Copenhagen. ‘We are researching similar topics. We could share our knowledge and our experiments,’ the man had said. I think he was an Englishman working at the biochemistry or the gene technology institute here. He had given her his phone number and had asked her to call him if she found time. He was between forty and forty-five, a pleasant, intelligent-looking man.
She finds the man’s number in the phone’s ‘contacts’ section. So I did make a note of it! She dials the number. For a moment she is afraid that he won’t answer the phone. She knows that if she cannot reach the man now she will not call him again. He answers the phone almost immediately.
‘I’m Professor Elif Eren from Turkey. I’m in Copenhagen tonight. We could meet if you still think that sharing our knowledge and experiments might be of benefit.’
‘In my opinion, it would be more than beneficial. It’s crucial! When and where shall I pick you up?’
Elif gives him the address of the hotel. ‘I’ll be ready an hour later.’
She switches off the telephone completely. If anyone should call they can leave a note. I’m damned if I’m going to wait by the phone all night long for Ömer or Deniz to call! Rather than spending the night on my own feeling sorry for myself I’ll talk to someone who understands the work I do. And I’ll celebrate my birthday with a glass of wine — no, not just wine, champagne!
She decides to put herself first, to spoil herself. People give you only as much as you ask from them. Especially men. In hindsight I’ve been unfair to myself in being self-sufficient and strong, in not making more demands on anyone, even on my husband, than they gave. There is no one to nurse you if you don’t cry. There are people who know how to get attention. I have not been able to be like them. Yes, not just wine; first champagne and, what is more, the best-quality champagne. I’ll spare no expense, and tomorrow morning I’ll buy myself a birthday present of the bag and blouse I spotted in the boutique of that famous fashion designer.
She takes the tight black trousers that she knows make her look slimmer than she is and the lilac silk blouse out of the cupboard and throws them on the bed. They will go well with my purple silk and linen jacket. I must be smart and well groomed on my birthday. This will be the first birthday for years that I have spent without Ömer, without having flowers from him. Long ago, when we were two penniless students, he used to bring carnations and roses that he had picked from gardens on my birthday; in the first years of their marriage a beautifully arranged bunch of flowers from the florist and with it a book or a cassette that she had been wanting for some time; and in more recent years expensive, exquisite orchids and tropical plants ordered by telephone from the florist accompanied by a valuable piece of jewellery, perhaps an unusual ring designed by a famous contemporary jeweller. As our relationship crumbled amid the gnawing teeth of time, the monetary value of the flowers and other gifts rose. I wonder if I could write the formula for the inverse proportion between love and the value of gifts.