Elif Shafak is one of Turkey’s most acclaimed and outspoken novelists

Kerra 
KONYA, OCTOBER 22, 1245
Beyond the closed door, Shams and Rumi were talking fervently about God knows what the 
other day. I knocked and entered without waiting for a response, carrying a tray with a plate of 
halva. Normally Shams doesn’t say anything when I am around, as if my presence forces him 
into silence. And he never comments upon my cooking skills. He eats very little anyhow. 

---

Sometimes I have the impression it makes no difference to him whether I serve a fabulous dinner 
or dry bread. But this time as soon as he took a bite from my halva, his eyes lit up. 
“This is delicious, Kerra. How did you make it?” he asked. 
I don’t know what came over me. Instead of seeing the compliment for what it was, I heard 
myself retort, “Why are you asking? Even if I told you how, you couldn’t make it.” 
Shams locked a level gaze into my eyes and nodded slightly, as if he agreed with what I’d said. I 
waited for him to say something in return, but he just stood there, mute and calm. 
In a little while, I left the room and returned to the kitchen, thinking the incident was left behind. 
And I probably would not have remembered it again, had it not been for what transpired this 
morning. 
I was churning butter by the hearth in the kitchen when I heard strange voices out in the 
courtyard. I rushed outside, only to witness the craziest scene ever. There were books everyplace, 
piled up in rickety towers, and still more books floating inside the fountain. From all the ink 
dissolving in it, the water in the fountain had turned a vivid blue. 
With Rumi standing right there, Shams picked a book from the pile—The Collected Poems of al-
Mutanabbi—eyed it with a grim expression, and tossed it into the water. No sooner had the book 
submerged than he reached for another. This time it was Attar’s The Book of Secrets. 
I gasped in horror. One by one, he was destroying Rumi’s favorite books! The next to be hurled 
into the water was The Divine Sciences by Rumi’s father. Knowing how much Rumi adored his 
father and doted upon this old manuscript, I looked at him, expecting him to throw a fit. 
Instead I found Rumi standing aside, his face pale as wax, his hands trembling. I couldn’t 
understand for the life of me why he didn’t say anything. The man who once had reprimanded 
me for just dusting his books was now watching a lunatic destroy his entire library, and yet he 
didn’t even utter a word. It wasn’t fair. If Rumi wasn’t going to intervene, I would. 
“What are you doing?” I asked Shams. “These books have no other copies. They are very 
valuable. Why are you throwing them into the water? Have you lost your mind?” 
Instead of an answer, Shams cocked his head toward Rumi. “Is that what you think, too?” he 
asked. 
Rumi pursed his lips and smiled faintly but remained silent. 
“Why don’t you say anything?” I yelled at my husband. 

---

At this, Rumi approached me and held my hand tightly. “Calm down, Kerra, please. I trust in 
Shams.” 
Giving me a glance over his shoulder, relaxed and confident, Shams rolled up his sleeves and 
started to pull the books out of the water. To my amazement, every single book he took out was 
as dry as a bone. 
“Is this magic? How did you do that?” I asked. 
“But why are you asking?” Shams said. “Even if I told you how, you couldn’t do it.” 
Trembling with anger, choking back sobs, I ran to the kitchen, which has become my sanctuary 
these days. And there, amid pots and pans, stacks of herbs and spices, I sat down and cried my 
heart out.