Honor (9781101606148) by Elif Shafak

‘Despite appearances, he’s not a racist. Because how can he be a racist when he’s anti-fascist, right?’
    Yunus blinked.
    â€˜What I mean is, he likes to pigeonhole people, just to know where everybody stands. His mind works like that.’
    â€˜My sister, Esma, loves words too,’ Yunus cut in, knowing it was a silly comment but saying it anyhow.
    Tobiko smiled. ‘The Captain doesn’t love words. He makes love to them.’
    Envy and despair must have shown on the boy’s face, for suddenly Tobiko pulled him towards her and kissed him on the forehead. ‘Darlin’, how I wish you were ten years older!’
    â€˜I will be,’ Yunus said matter-of-factly, even though he had blushed up to his ears. ‘In ten years.’
    â€˜Mind, in ten years’ time I’ll be a dried prune, old and wrinkled.’ She ruffled his hair – a favourite gesture of hers that he hated, though he could never admit that to himself.
    â€˜I’ll age fast,’ Yunus ventured.
    â€˜Oh, I know you will. You’re already the oldest little boy I’ve ever known.’
    With that she kissed him again, this time on his lips, light and wet. He felt as if he were kissing rain.
    â€˜Don’t you ever change,’ Tobiko whispered. ‘Don’t let the greedy capitalist system get to you.’
    â€˜O-kay.’
    â€˜Give me your word. No . . . wait. Promise on something that matters to you.’
    â€˜How about the Qur’an?’ asked Yunus timidly.
    â€˜Oh, yeah. That’s brilliant.’
    And there and then, his lips quivering, his heart hammering, seven-year-old Yunus made an oath to Allah that he would never ever let the capitalist system get anywhere near him, though he didn’t have the foggiest idea what that could mean.
    ***
    Shrewsbury Prison, 1990
    Finally it has arrived. A poster of Harry Houdini. The man who could not be chained or shackled. Or imprisoned, for that matter. My idol. It’s one of his earlier shots. Black and white, and many shades of grey. Houdini is young in the picture, a wiry magician with a wide forehead and stunning eyes. The sleeves of his tuxedo are rolled up, displaying half-a-dozen handcuffs around his wrists. Not a trace of fear on his face. Just a vague, pensive air to him. You would think he was surfacing from a dream.
    I put it up on the wall. Trippy sees it and breaks into a grin. My cellmate’s name is Patrick, but no one remembers that. Whenever he sees something that grabs his attention
 –
which happens fairly often, even in a place as dull as this
 –
he says, ‘Man, that’s trippy!’ Hence the name.
    Trippy is younger than me, a touch shorter. Sallow skin, hair receding at the top, dark brown eyes, heavily lashed. No matter what a con’s age, his mother thinks he is a good boy corrupted by bad friends. Usually, that’s bollocks. In Trippy’s case it’s true. Nice lad from Stafford, messed with some nasty pieces of work. The funny thing is those prats were able to beat the rap, but Trippy is banged up for ten years. That’s how it is. Nothing happens to jackals. Only the ones who play at being a jackal get caught. I’m not saying we’re any better. Passing yourself off as a jackal is worse than being one, sometimes.
    This I have never told him, but Trippy’s eyes remind me of Yunus’s. He’s the one I miss most. I’ve never been a true brother to him. I wasn’t there when he needed me, too busy fighting the wrong battles.
    Yunus is a big man now. A talented musician. So they say. He has been to see me only twice in twelve years. Esma still visits from time to time, though not lately. She comes to tell me how much she misses, pities and hates me, in that order. Not Yunus. He has cut and run, like he always did. Even Esma’s sharpest words don’t hurt as much as my little brother’s absence. I would like him