“Ah, yes. I had a feeling my phrase was deformed, but I was not certain in what way. Thank you for rectifying me.”
Daldry had dozed off. He barely opened an eye when Alice and the doorman helped him back to his room and laid him out across his bed. He came back to life later in the day and called Alice’s room. When she didn’t respond, he called reception and learned that she had gone out. Embarrassed by his behavior, he slipped an apologetic note under her door asking if she would mind dining without him that evening.
Alice took advantage of her afternoon alone to walk through the Beyo?lu neighborhood. The hotel concierge had recommended visiting the Galata Tower and showed her how to get there, tracing the route on a map. On the way back she wandered down the broad thoroughfare of Istiklal and bought a few souvenirs for her friends. When she was finally too chilled by the cold, she took refuge in a little restaurant and had a bite to eat.
She returned to her room in the early evening and sat at the little desk to write a letter.
Dear Anton,
This morning I met a man who makes perfume like I do, but who is considerably more talented. I’ll try to tell you about his thoroughly original creations when I’m home again, but they’ll be difficult to explain. If you had been with me in the old perfume maker’s drafty workshop this morning, you would understand why I’d feel guilty if I ever complained about the cold in my flat ever again.
When I went up the hill to Cihangir, where he lives, I discovered another side of the city, one very different from the view outside my hotel-room window. In the city center, the buildings are more or less the same as those that have been built in London since the war, but elsewhere there are much poorer, more authentic neighborhoods. Today in the narrow streets of Cihangir I saw children running barefoot in the cold, and later was also very moved by the weather-beaten faces of the street peddlers, standing in the rain along the shores of the Bosporus. The old women hawk their goods, working the crowds of locals waiting for the steamboat ferries.
As strange as it sounds, I feel deeply attached to these strange foreign places and people, to the troubling solitude of the old city squares and run-down churches, to the narrow passages whose worn stone steps lead up and down the hills. In spite of the melancholy atmosphere, the dust, and the filth, the cafés and restaurants are full of life. Istanbul is a beautiful city, a great city. Its people are generous and welcoming, and I love it for its nostalgia here, its crumbling grandeur.
This afternoon when I was walking near the Galata Tower, I saw a sleepy little cemetery behind an iron gate, right in the middle of the city. When I looked at those crooked gravestones, I felt I belonged here. With each passing hour an overwhelming love for the city grows inside me.
Excuse me for writing these scattered thoughts—I know this can’t make much sense to you, but I can close my eyes and hear your trumpet echoing through the streets of Istanbul, coming all the way from some pub in faraway London. I’d like to have some news from Sam, Eddy, and Carol. I miss the four of you, and I hope you miss me too.
Warmest regards, from a room overlooking the roofs of a city I’m certain you’d adore.
Alice
8
At ten in the morning, somebody knocked on Alice’s door. In spite of her shouting that she was in the bath, the knocking continued. But by the time she’d got out of the water and slipped into a bathrobe, it had stopped. A maid had let herself in, left some parcels on the bed, and slipped out. Alice opened the boxes to discover an evening gown carefully wrapped in tissue paper, a matching jacket, a pair of heels, and an adorable hat made out of felt. A note written in Daldry’s handwriting was pinned to the lid of the hatbox.
See you this evening. I’ll meet you in the lobby at six.
Alice stared in wonder at the beautiful clothes before slipping out of the bathrobe. She couldn’t resist trying them on. It was as though they had come from heaven; she felt like she was in a dream.
The dress was carefully draped and fitted at the waist, then blossomed into a full skirt that fell below the calf. Since the war and all its restrictions, Alice had never seen so much fabric go into a single garment. She spun around and watched the skirt billow and float, whisking away the years of sacrifice and rations in a twirl of rustling silk. No more narrow skirts and meager, unlined jackets. The dress bared her shoulders, and defined her figure. The cut of the skirt added mystery and length to her legs, and its curves improved upon her narrow hips.
She sat on the bed to put on the shoes. When she stood again, she felt as though she towered over the room. She slipped on the long jacket, adjusted the hat, and then opened the wardrobe door to look in the mirror. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
She carefully hung everything in the closet for later in the evening. The concierge called and said that a driver had arrived to take her to the salon.
“I’m sorry, you must have the wrong room,” she said. “I didn’t make any appointment.”
“Miss Pendelbury, it says here that you’re awaited at Chez Guido in twenty minutes. When you are done there, we’ll send somebody to come and get you. Have an excellent day, madam.”
The concierge hung up, and Alice stood with the receiver in her hand, stunned at the way her day had begun.
After the assistants had shampooed her hair and given her a manicure, Alice was presented to Guido, whose real name was Onur. He had taken classes and picked up his Italian nom de guerre at a beauty school in Rome. Guido/Onur explained that a man had come to the salon earlier in the morning and had given him instructions to put her hair in a clean chignon that would “hold up under a hat.”
The appointment lasted about an hour, after which the driver came to take Alice back to the hotel. When she walked into the lobby, the concierge told her that Daldry was waiting for her in the bar.
She went in and found him sipping what looked to be a lemonade and reading a newspaper.
“Ravishing,” he said, rising to his feet.
“I don’t know what to say. I feel like I stepped into a fairy tale.”
“I’m glad to hear it. You need to make a good impression this evening. There’s an ambassador to seduce, and I don’t think I’m the man for the job.”
“I don’t know how you managed, but everything fits perfectly.”
“I’m a painter. Proportions are an important part of what I do.”
“Well, you made an excellent choice. I’ve never worn anything so beautiful. I’ll be very careful with everything. You rented it, I assume.”
“It’s a French model called the ‘New Look.’ They might not be much at the art of war, but I have to admit that the French have an undeniable genius for dressing women and fine cuisine.”
“Well, I hope you’ll like the look of the ‘New Look.’”
“I’m sure I will. And I like your hair that way too. It shows off your neck. Quite charming.”
“The neck or the hair?”
Daldry handed Alice a menu. “You should eat something. Party buffets are always a battle scene, and I’m afraid you won’t be in combat gear.”
Alice ordered some tea and finger sandwiches.