Deccan Herald, India
Sept 30 2007
Scorched roots
by Sonya Dutta Choudhury
The book scores because it comes up with a story that is deeply
discussable, but it is disappointing in the clunkiness of its
writing.
Turks may deny they massacred Armenians in the Genocide of 1915 but
this enmity still impacts lives, says Shafak’s novel. She explores
this theme through the story of two girls, in different continents
and yet deeply connected.
There’s Asya, the girl with no father. She’s born to beautiful Zeliha
and grows up in Istanbul in a houseful of women where the men are all
dead (of the evil eye?). Asya hates her history with the same fervour
as she hates her ballet lessons, bunking ballet to hang out at the
Café Kundera.
Then there’s Armanoush, the half-American, half-Armenian girl with no
history, or at least a desperately muddled one. She has an Armenian
father, only he’s divorced and lives on the West Coast. Mom `Rose’
has remarried, neatly and nastily, the primeval Armenian enemy – a
Turk. It’s like giving a half-Jewish child a Nazi step-father and
Rose has well and truly had her revenge on her estranged Armenian
husband.
Armanoush may live in America but she is preoccupied with her past.
At the online chatroom she hangs out in, she signs in as `Madame
My-Exiled-Soul’ and exchanges exiled Armenian angst with `Baron
Baghdassarian’, `Lady Peacock’ and `Miserable Co-Existence’. It is a
preoccupation that will eventually lead her to Istanbul and to Asya
and her family.
But once in Istanbul, she finds no memories of Armenian annihilation
seem to survive. Instead the young trade `dead end nothings’ with
each other as Asya hangs out at Café Kundera with `Dipsomaniac
Cartoonist’, the `Closeted Gay Columnist’ and the `Exceptionally
Untalented Poet’. The Turks, it appears to the angry Asya, massacred
the Armenians and have now forgotten all about it.
Elusive happiness
Can the under-the-Turkish-carpetness of things make for happiness?
Clearly not says Shafak. As if history could be denied. Happiness of
a sort only comes in the novel after a drastic denouement of
betrayals and guilty secrets.
The book scores because it comes up with a story that is deeply
discussable, drawing on very real historical events. But it is
disappointing in the clunkiness of its writing. Shafak veers between
an effort at witty, chick lit and an attempt at exotic magic realism.
Neither takes off.
At the opening of the book for instance, when Zeliha goes to the
doctor’s office for the abortion-that-never-happened she reflects,
`The Copper Rule of prudence for an Istanbulite Woman: When harassed
on the street, you’d better forget about the incident as soon as you
are on your way again, since to recall the incident all day long will
only further wrack your nerves.’
Years later rebellious daughter Asya will reflect similarly, `Article
Eight: If between society and self there exists a cavernous ravine
and upon it only a wobbly bridge, you might as well burn that bridge
and stay on the side of the Self, safe and sound, unless it is the
ravine you are after.’
But a Marquez, Shafak is not, despite obvious comparisons in passages
like this one where Armanoush who is visiting Istanbul in search of
her history, describes host Asya’s family to her online friends –
`There is something surreal here. Irrationality is part of the
everyday rationale. I feel like I am in a Gabriel Garcia novel. One
of the sisters is a tattoo artist; another sister is a clairvoyant;
one other is a national history teacher; and the fourth is an
eccentric wallflower, or a full-time cuckoo.’ Colourful certainly,
much like most of the novel, and yet contrived and often overpowering
in its expose-the-Turks agenda.
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