Seeing her name and her most secret thoughts exposed on the printed page, Suat burst into tears. After telling Nâzım never to poke his nose in her private business again, she ran from the room, slamming the door behind her. But she did submit a story to the next edition of that journal. In the months and years that followed, she became the regular contributor she had never agreed to be, crossing the Bosphorus by ferry to the Sirkeci quarter, in the old city, climbing the narrow lane up to the publishing district of Babıali to deliver by hand her stories and articles to this and like journals. Her confident manner and fashionably modest attire won her a certain degree of respect, though no one in those smoke-filled, men-only offices knew quite what to make of her. If she ever heard the nervous sniggers she may have left in her wake, she was too happy to care.

“I am not ashamed of being a woman,” she once said. “And I take great pride in being a writer. That title is my sole fortune, my single pride, and my bread.” Her aim in life was “to gaze at the stars” without impediment.

Today, almost half a century later, she is known in Turkey as the writer who was erased from the record. But now, at last, her books have been reissued. Symposia have been held, and a fine biography written. She remains a puzzle—the Marxist who wrote steamy romances. The Ottoman daughter who was given the name of the son she was meant to be. The fearless activist who loved a good laugh and a good party. The dissident who spent decades on the poverty line, but who never gave up on the city’s best patisseries. Until her last, she would happily pass up on supper just to share an overpriced éclair with a friend. She never stopped fighting, writing, or hoping. In her life, as in her work, she offers a shining example of what is possible, even at the worst of times, if you set out to make the most of things, just by following your own lights.

“Oh, my queen. My darling wife. No monarch in this world could kiss the ground you stand on. I can’t begin to tell you what pleasure it gives me to show you off. It wasn’t like this before. I didn’t dare take you out. I wasn’t important enough. You’re the jewel in my crown, my darling wife. You’re my life. I live for you, and only for you. I work for you. For the wealth and prosperity you deserve. All I want is to be the one to bring you that fortune. Believe me, Celile. Everything I want, I want for you.”

In ten years of marriage, her husband had not looked as strange to her as he did at this moment; no matter what her mood, she had never wished to recoil like this from his presence; since the day of their wedding, they had got along so well that she had come to think of him as an extension of her own body. She had never seen him as separate, or herself in the company of another, nor had she ever imagined she would one day have thoughts she could hide from him. But now, in this bedroom where she had always felt at one with her husband, she was suddenly aware that he inhabited another body. It amazed her to find herself awash with thoughts she could not share with this stranger, things she could never say. She felt like running far, far away. She wanted to be alone. She needed to be alone; she could not, despite the force of habit, find the courage to look at herself in the mirror as she stripped. She was afraid of seeing the everyday Celile, the Celile of yesterday.

That was why she never crossed anyone. She had nothing to cross them with. She did not become involved in the lives of others, let alone identify with others. Wherever she happened to find herself, she kept herself at one remove, never joining in, never involving herself with others.

But not because she looked down on them.

She placed herself apart because she felt herself separate. She’d done so all her life. If on occasion she was obliged to participate, she became like a branch drifting with the currents in the sea, never resisting. She was ruled by the currents. But they never got inside her. Inside, she remained the same.

Nothing could penetrate her. Nothing could draw her out.

The apartment in Firuzağa began to feel too small. So they moved to a larger and more modern apartment in Talimhane.

They were on the road to happiness, Ahmet told himself, but he still wasn’t happy.

Since Nazikter’s death, they’d had just one maid. Now Ahmet noticed that she was not a good cook. They hired a second maid who did know how to cook, and another who came once a fortnight to do the laundry. But this wasn’t happiness, either…They needed houseboys, and gardeners, and chauffeurs.

Even these would not bring happiness. They were simply signposts, pointing the way.

Celile, meanwhile, acted as if nothing in their lives had changed.

She greeted their new prosperity with her customary calm indifference.

Not once did he see a glint of admiration in her eyes.

Since going into business, he’d never suffered a loss. His profits had risen steadily. And now, at last, the prize was within reach. He would soon be the owner of a beautiful yalı on the Bosphorus, a summer villa on Büyükada, and an apartment in Nişantaşı.

He’d buy them, and then one day he would turn to Celile and say, “Come and see what I have for us.”

And if he caught so much as a flicker of admiration in Celile’s eyes, he would be the happiest man on earth.

No matter how hard she tried, she could not stop herself from comparing her husband with Muhsin. This mysterious new habit troubled her deeply.

Because her husband always came out worse. Morally and materially, he was clearly the lesser man.

Until that night at the gazino, when Muhsin whispered those words, and that wave of happiness coursed through her, while her heart beat ever faster.

Now, for the first time, she could dare. She could open herself up. Leave the world behind, to bask in heavenly bliss.

Even in the privacy and security of marriage, Ahmet had never come so close to her as this stranger now was.

Because Celile had always, always, kept Ahmet from her inner world. Never had she let down her guard.

And now she was handing herself over to a man she knew only by his eyes, his gaze, his silences. Holding nothing back.

And how was he to understand this war going on inside him? Was this obsession? Addiction? Passion?

It was all those things, most certainly. But there was only one word to describe what he felt for this solemn, silent, and infinitely remote woman, even as his mind brimmed with furious accusation.

Love.

Even as he railed against her in his mind for cheapening herself, for conniving with her husband, he could hear its soft lament:

This woman in his arms. This wondrous gift. She astounded him. He was mad with awe.

The way she drank in his words. The way she’d let her body fall into his arms as they danced. The way she looked at him in silence, like no other woman he had known. In her every gesture, she had remained her own mysterious self.

A flower unfurls. Its colors have never before graced this earth. Its fragrance has no name.