“To find out if you have family in Turkey, or whether your parents ever came here.”
“I imagine my mother would have told me about a trip to Turkey. In fact, she always complained about having traveled so little. She said she would have liked to visit foreign countries, and I think she really meant it. She never got any farther than the South of France. She and my father went there on a romantic getaway before I was born, and she always talked about walking along the Mediterranean as though it were the most incredible experience of her life.”
“That doesn’t help much.”
“Daldry, I can assure you that the whole Turkish-family story is a dead end. I’m sure I would have been told about even the most distant Turkish relatives, if I had any.”
They had wandered down a side street that was even more dimly lit than the main avenue. Alice looked up at one of the old wooden houses. The fragile framework of the second floor jutted out over the street and looked as though it might come crashing down at any moment.
“What a pity these old Ottoman houses aren’t better kept up,” said Daldry. “This street must have been superb a hundred years ago, and now it’s all falling apart. They’re like ghosts of their former selves.”
Through the shadows, Daldry could make out the anguish that crept across Alice’s face as she looked up at the charred remains of a house that had been gutted in a fire.
“Is something the matter? You look as though you’ve just had a vision of the Blessed Virgin.”
“I’ve already seen this house. I know this place,” said Alice. Her voice was hushed.
“Are you sure?”
“Maybe it wasn’t here exactly, but I dreamt about a house very much like it. In my nightmares . . . They always finished with me in a little street that ended with a flight of steps leading down to the city.”
“I’d be happy to go farther to see if there aren’t some stairs, but I think we’d better wait until tomorrow. I can barely see my hand in front of my face, and I have no idea whether it’s safe to be wandering around in this alley in the middle of the night.”
“There was always the sound of footsteps,” Alice continued, still remembering her dreams. “People chasing us.”
“Us? Who were you with?”
“I don’t know. I only remember holding hands. But whoever it was pulled me along.” She shuddered thinking of it. “Yes, let’s get out of here. I don’t like this place.”
Daldry took Alice by the arm and led her to the nearest avenue. He hailed a passing tram and helped Alice to climb aboard. They sat on an empty bench, and Alice snapped out of her haunting vision. The other passengers talked amongst themselves. A dignified old man in a dark suit read his newspaper, and three young men at the back sang together. The conductor put the tram back into gear and they rolled forward. During the ride, Alice said nothing, only stared at the conductor’s back through the violet-tinted pane of glass that separated his compartment from the passengers. Soon the Pera Palas came into view. Daldry placed his hand on Alice’s shoulder and inadvertently startled her.
“This is our stop.”
Alice followed Daldry across the avenue and into the hotel. He accompanied her back to her room. She thanked him for dinner and apologized for her behavior. She couldn’t explain what had come over her.
“It can’t be very pleasant to have the sensation of reentering a nightmare, especially when you know you’re awake,” said Daldry, trying to be understanding. “I know you feel strongly about it, but I’m going to try to set up an appointment at the consulate tomorrow.”
He wished her good night and disappeared into his room.
Alice sat on the edge of her bed and let her body fall backward. She looked at the ceiling for a long while and then sat up and walked over to the window. A few people were still outside, hurrying to return home for the night, and they seemed to pull the darkness in their wake. The evening mist had given way to a cold rain, and the paving stones of Istiklal glistened in the night. Alice pulled the curtains and sat at the desk, where she began writing a letter.
Dear Anton,
Yesterday evening I wrote to Carol from Vienna, but I was thinking about you. I threw the letter away when I was done. I doubt I’ll mail this one either, but I still feel the need to talk to you.
Here I am in Istanbul, in a luxurious hotel. It’s the sort of place that you and I have only dreamed about. You’d love this little mahogany writing desk. Remember when we were kids and we used to fantasize about the exotic strangers staying at the Savoy?
I ought to be overjoyed to be here, but I already miss London, and I miss you as well. As long as I can remember, you have been my best friend, even though I know we’ve both had moments of uncertainty about the nature of our friendship.
Oh, Anton . . . I don’t know what I’m doing here, and I don’t really know why I left home. When we took the second plane in Vienna, I hesitated a moment, because I knew it was taking me even farther away from my regular life.
But ever since we arrived, I’ve felt tense—the strange, unshakable feeling that I’ve been here before, that I know the streets and recognize the sounds of the city, even certain smells, like that of the tram I rode in this evening. If only you were here, I could try to explain myself better, and I’m sure that just talking to you would make me feel better. But you’re far away, and something inside of me is glad of it. Carol has you all to herself now. She’s crazy about you, and you don’t even notice. Open your eyes! She’s a wonderful person, and even though I’m sure the sight of the two of you together would drive me crazy with jealousy . . . Well, I know what you’re thinking, that I have everything mixed up and I don’t know what I want. That’s just how I am.
I miss my parents. It’s so lonely not having them anymore, and I haven’t managed to patch over the hole that they left behind when they died. I’ll write to you again tomorrow, or maybe at the end of the week. I’ll tell you about my day, and maybe I’ll even end up sending the letters. Maybe you’ll write back to me.
Thinking of you, from a room whose windows overlook the Bosporus (which I’ll finally see in the daylight tomorrow).
Take care,
Alice
Alice folded up the letter and put it in the drawer of the writing desk. Then she turned out the light, undressed, and slipped between the sheets.
A steady hand lifted her from the ground. She could make out the faint odor of jasmine in the skirt into which she pressed her face. She was unable to hold back the tears that flowed down her cheeks. She wanted to stifle her sobs, but she was too afraid to take control of them.
A streetcar’s headlight sprang from the darkness, and she was pulled into the protective shadow of a stable door. She watched the streetcar roll toward another neighborhood. The screech of its wheels faded into the night and silence returned.
“We can’t stay here,” the voice told her.
She hurried, stumbling over the uneven cobblestones. At one point she tripped, but the hand leading her onward pulled her to her feet.
“Run, Alice. Come on, be brave. Don’t turn back.”
She wanted to stop and catch her breath. In the distance she could see a crowd of men and women being led away.
“Not that way. We have to find another route.”
Exhausted, they turned back, retracing their footsteps. The street ended at an immense stretch of water. The moonlight glittered on its agitated surface.
“Don’t get too close, you might fall in. We’re almost there. A little farther and we can rest.”