Benefit Street: A Novel

By Adria Bernardi

Winner of FC2’s Catherine Doctorow Innovative Fiction Prize
 
A universal story of exile, of the refugee and emigrant, and of all those displaced who can reconstruct a sense of home only by weaving a new fabric of the imagination
 
For nearly two decades, Şiva has met after work on Tuesdays with four friends at a teahouse called the Kafiye. In interrupted conversations, the women explore what it is to live engaged lives inside and outside the home. Amidst joking and complaints, while drinking too much tea and eating too many sweets, they tell of their days: a son’s ninth birthday, the bruise on the arm of an aging parent, soldiers stationed outside the school, the funeral of an opposition political leader killed in a mysterious car accident.
 
Set in an unnamed provincial capital of an unnamed country, Benefit Street tells of a wide circle of friends—teachers, lawyers, missionaries, doctors, artisans—in a time of gathering and dispersal. It tells the story of mothers, daughters, sisters, wives, colleagues, and neighbors, as war to the East threatens and constitutional rights are daily eroded by an increasingly authoritarian regime.
 
The ideals of youth, freedom, and coexistence are severely tested with the shocking revelation that the charismatic leader of their group has sexually abused the women under his care. The limits of reconciliation are tested as Şiva makes an arduous journey into the mountains to meet an estranged mother with a genius for weaving complex rugs.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Alabama Press
• Release date: Jul 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781573668996

Book preview

THERE WAS NOT A STRAIGHT STREET IN MY CITY. Mostly they were short streets, and you could not travel very far from a here to a there on them. At the center was an ancient hill with a ring road going all around it. The boulevard shot away from this hill towards the east and out a way dropped south. A few blocks down, three streets came together, not perfectly at one point, there was some jogging involved, and these formed an unwieldy intersection: Kadim, Iskânder, and Kader. There was no open space for congregating; this was no public square, yet, it was all movement and gathering. It was all people, animals, vehicles. Vendors with their carts. It was always, always, pandemonium. It was a holy mess is what it was and travelling through it you had to stay alert to keep from getting jostled. Kader entered from the northwest at a forty-five degree angle, and just after it came into the open space, it stopped and turned abruptly. Changed direction. Headed southeasterly. There was no reason to think of it as an extension of the same street that had entered into the intersection. This is the street where we met. Six blocks away from all the commotion. Calm. Quiet. It was like another world. You sometimes wondered if everyone was asleep. Alleyways and pavement. Buildings and walls. There were no trees. The trees were on the boulevards on the other side of town. We met on Tuesdays in late afternoon. Halfway between the archaeological museum and the Bazaar. Before we dashed to the market. Then dashed again home to make dinner. In a whitewashed building on the right side of the street in a building with two small windows high up on either side of the door. The door was painted blue. The teahouse was called the Kafiye.

WE CAME IN SHAKING THE FRONTS OF OUR COATS, blowing into our hands.

Not one of us carried an umbrella that day. It was an icy rain.

Everyone else has the good sense to carry an umbrella, Miri said. Look at us. Not a one.

It was true: the umbrella stand at the door was full of umbrellas.

Oh, Sidra, your hair looks good, Ana said.

She combed it for once, Miri said.

Laughs all around.

Sidra had wild hair. She wore it well. It was particularly wild that day.

We said quick hellos. A kiss on each cheek. We had to prioritize. Talk quickly. Say what was essential. Time went by so fast. The windows of the teahouse were fogged. A silk half curtain hung on either side of the door. The day before had been warm. There were hooks on the wall for coats. Our table was in back in the far-right corner. It was a low table with floor cushions, like the others. We always hesitated before we sat down, an informal formality; we always ended up sitting in the same places.

Oh let me, I said. I’m feeling limber.

And I sat down and slid to the place in the middle, my skirt getting bunched and twisted. I lifted myself and straightened the skirt. Then I patted the seat next to me and waved them in. Miri settled in on my right and Ana on my left.

Ah, I exhaled. A rose between two thorns.

Miri looked at me, her head moving up and down.

If you’re the rose, I’m sorry to tell you the bloom is off.

Ah, a joke we’ve never heard.

This was Sidra saying this. Sidra slid in next to Ana, who was putting her cigarette case on the table. We settled in. We each had a wall to lean against. A low wall behind Sidra separated us from the next table, and there were brass trinkets lined up on it. Little bells, little cups. Coffee pots. A toy iron. The cushions were woven wool and worn at the edges. We’d been coming here for years. We’d all become schoolteachers together. Aminah was late. Aminah was always late.

Am I ready to see you, my friends, Miri said. It’s been a day.

Mine started with water leaking through the ceiling, said Ana.

They fired another teacher, Sidra said. I’ve got nine more students.

Nine?

Nine.

How many did you have before? Ana asked.

Thirty-nine.

I would prefer the leaking ceiling, Miri said. She flicked her wrist for a cigarette from Ana.

Sidra pressed her hair close to her scalp with her flattened hands, then pulled it away from her face. She still wore her hair long; it went down past her shoulders. It was dark black and curled beyond belief; she was just starting to go grey at that place on the scalp just above the ears.

The principal told us it’s only temporary, Sidra said.

Hah, I said.

Hah, said Miri.

The daughter of the owners came to take our order. Her name was Fatma. She had a very soft voice. She sounded younger than her age. We each ordered a glass.

A sweet? she asked us.

No, said Sidra.

No, not today, Ana said.

No, not for me, I added.

We were adamant.

Gabriel turned nine today, I said.

Impossible, Ana said.

Yes, my friends. Yes indeed.

I had known them before I knew Didymus.

Tonight we’re having our little celebration. I still have to go to the shops.

Chocolate?

He was the only child I knew who wouldn’t eat chocolate. I was going to do it up that night.

I had ordered gurabia and sambousak filled with dates to celebrate his birthday. Miri wasn’t listening. She was pressing her fingernail hard against the edge of the table. She kept inserting and reinserting it into a shallow brass groove, rubbing it back and forth in short, sharp jabs. On the wall above her head hung a painting of a peacock. Miri’s eyes were that color blue. The rest of us had dark eyes. Dark like black olives. Dark like coal. She tapped her fingernail on the tabletop.

I’m worried about my Yusuf, Miri said.

He’s sick? Ana said.

He’s home from school? Sidra asked.

He keeps saying: I’m stupid. I’m no good at anything. He keeps getting in trouble.

Yusuf? I said. Yusuf, who could do long division before he was seven? Who taught himself exponential equations?

All of a sudden he pushes away the piece of paper in disgust, the pencil, and says, I am stupid. Stupid. Stupid. No tears falling, but a pool in each eye. His sister is a star. His sister is smart. He’s always in her shadow. We know this. We’re aware of this. He is just as smart as she is. He is just as gifted. She’s not mean to him. She doesn’t berate him. She thinks the sun rises and sets around him.

And being schoolteachers, we each weighed in with an opinion: You must do this. At this age you can expect such and such. Have you had him evaluated? Have you tried this learning method?

Sidra plumped up a pillow, crooked her right arm and inserted it between her back and the wall. She said, We’re much better at figuring out problems when they’re not our own.

Fatma carried over our glasses on a tray. The glasses were shaped like tulips, each with a deep saucer and a small chrome spoon balanced across the rim. She bent over and set down a glass in front of each of us. In the middle of the table, she set down a bowl heaped with sugar cubes. She was the age we were when we had first met each other. She’d been balancing trays her whole life.

We’re expecting one more, I said, looking up.

Fatma wore a swath of kohl at the edge of each eyelid.

I reached for the bowl, took a cube, and dropped it into the steaming tea. I reached over for another. Two. Three. I picked up the teaspoon and stirred. The handle had a slightly raised ridge of filigreed vines twined around each other.

Do you remember that girl I told you about? Ana said, The one who never has what she needs. The one who has always misplaced something. Coat. Homework. Shoes. The one who has lived in three places already this year?

Every classroom’s got at least one girl like this. There was always one who was particularly lost.

Well now her house has burned down.

No.

Yes. I asked her where she was living. She said, The Taç. You know it? The cheap hotel. The windows are broken and covered with boards.

By the stadium?

Other direction. Between the cemetery and the warehouses.

Oh.

So I asked this little girl what it was like staying there. I thought she would complain. Bugs. Or filth. Noise. She called it a