Free The Bastard of Istanbul by Elif Shafak

beamed a ray of pure rage at an oblique angle. That, indeed, was the third most common side effect of postmarital chronic resentment: It not only made you talk to yourself and be obstinate with others, but it also made you quite irrational. Once a woman felt justifiable resentment, the world turned upside down, and unreason appeared perfectly reasonable.
    Oh sweet vengeance. Recovery was a long-term plan, an investment that paid off over time. But retaliation was quick to act. Rose’s first instinct was to do something, anything, to exasperate her ex-mother-in-law. And there existed on the surface of the earth only one thing that could annoy the women of the Tchakhmakhchian family even more than an odar : a Turk!
    How interesting it would be to flirt with her ex-husband’s archenemy. But where would you find a Turkish man in the midst of the Arizona desert? They didn’t grow on cacti, did they? Rose chuckled as her facial expression changed from recognition to one of intense gratitude. What a lovely coincidence that fortune had just introduced her to a Turk. Or was it not a coincidence?
    Singing along with the song, Rose moved forward. But instead of going straight on her route she veered to the left, made a full U-turn, and once in the other lane, sped in the opposite direction.
    Primitive love, I want what it used to be,
    In next to no time the ultramarine 1984 Jeep Cherokee had reached Fry’s Supermarket’s parking lot.
    I don’t have to think, right now you’ve got me at the brink
This is good-bye for all the times I cried . . .
    The car moved in a semicircle, then maneuvered crosswise, thus reaching the main exit of the supermarket. Just when Rose was about to lose any hope of finding the young man, she spotted him patiently waiting at the bus stop with a flimsy plastic bag next to him.
    “Hey, Mostapha!” Rose yelled, cocking her head from the half-open window. “Wanna ride?”
    “Sure, thanks.” Mustafa nodded and made a frail attempt to correct her pronunciation: “It’s Mus-ta-fa. . . .”
    Inside the car, Rose smiled. “Mustapha, meet my daughter, Armanoush. . . . But I call her Amy! Amy this is Mustapha, Mustapha this is Amy. . . .”
    While the young man beamed at the sleepy baby, Rose studied his face for signs of recognition but couldn’t find any. So, she decided to give him another hint, this time a more revealing one: “My daughter’s full name is Amy Tchakhmakhchian.”
    If the words had inspired any negative recognition, Mustafa’s face didn’t show it. So Rose felt the need to repeat, just in case it hadn’t been understood the first time: “Armanoush Tchakh-makhchi -an!”
    It was only then that the young man’s hazel eyes flickered, though not exactly in the way Rose had anticipated.
    “Chak-mak-chi-an . . . Çak-mak-çı . . . ! Hey, that sounds like Turkish!” he exclaimed happily.
    “Well, as a matter of fact, it’s Armenian, ” Rose said. Suddenly she felt insecure. “Her father—I mean, my ex-husband—” She swallowed hard as if trying to get rid of some sour taste. “He was, I mean, he is, Armenian.”
    “Oh yeah?” he said nonchalantly.
    He didn’t get it, did he? Rose wondered to herself as she chewed the inside of her mouth. Then, as if breathing out a suppressed hiccup long welling up in her throat, she let out a whoop of laughter. But he is cute . . . very cute. . . . He will be my sweet vengeance! she thought.
    “Listen,” Rose said. “I don’t know if you like Mexican art but there is a group exhibition opening tomorrow night. If you don’t have other plans we could go to it and grab a bite afterward.”
    “Mexican art . . . ?” Mustafa paused.
    “People who have seen it elsewhere say it’s really good,” Rose said. “So what do you say. . . . Would you like to come with me?”
    “Mexican art . . . !” Mustafa echoed with confidence. “Sure, why not?”
    “Awesome.” Rose cheered up. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mostapha, ” she said,