If I’m telling you all this, it’s not just to talk about myself (although I’ve got quite used to that), but also because I’d like to know how your own work is coming along.
Since we’re business associates, it’s out of the question that I should be the only one with my nose to the grindstone. Unless you’ve forgotten the agreement we made in that lovely restaurant, you will recall that your duty was to paint one of Istanbul’s most beautiful intersections. Tell me what you’re focusing on among all the things you sketched on our last day together near the Galata Bridge. I haven’t forgotten a moment of it, and I hope you won’t have forgotten any of the details. Think of it as a written test, and don’t roll your eyes, even though I can practically see you doing it now. I’ve spent too much time in schools lately.
Maybe you’d rather think of my request as a challenge. When I come back to London, I promise to bring you a perfume. When you smell it, you’ll immediately be taken back to all of the places we visited together. I hope that when I arrive, the painting will be done as well. They’ll have something in common because both of them will tell something of the time we spent together between Cihangir and Galata.
Now it’s my turn to ask you to forgive me for this convoluted way of telling you that I’m going to stay here a little longer than I initially planned. I feel both a need and a desire to do so. I’m very happy here. I think I’ve never felt so free, and the sensation has become addictive. That doesn’t mean that I want to continue living off your inheritance. I don’t need or want to keep living in such luxurious conditions. Can has been tremendously helpful and has helped me find a pretty room in a house in üsküdar, not far from where he lives. One of his aunts is renting it to me. I can’t tell you how excited I am. Tomorrow I’ll leave the hotel and start living the life of a real native of Istanbul. It will take me about an hour to get to the perfume maker’s house in Cihangir every morning, and a little longer to come home in the evening, but I’m not complaining, quite to the contrary. Crossing the Bosporus on a vapur isn’t nearly as wearing as descending into the depths of the Tube in London. Can’s aunt has even offered me a job as a waitress in her restaurant, where her husband is the chef. It’s the best restaurant in üsküdar and there are more and more tourists, so it’s helpful for her to have somebody who speaks English. Can has explained the menu and taught me the Turkish for the different dishes. I’ll work there three days a week and my earnings will be more than enough to pay for what I need. Though the conditions will be far more modest than those we shared, I was quite used to living modestly before I met you.
So there it is. Night has fallen on Istanbul and it’s my last evening in the hotel. I’m going to make the most of it and enjoy one last night in this vast bed. Every evening when I walk past the room you stayed in, I wish you good night. I’ll keep doing so from my window when I’ve moved to üsküdar.
I’ve written my new address on the back of the envelope. Write back soon. I hope you won’t forget to list all the things you’ve put in the painting.
Take care of yourself.
Yours truly,
Alice
Dear Alice,
Since you asked, here is the list . . .
The tram: Wood-veneer interior, slightly worn floorboards, a partition with a violet-tinted windowpane separating the driver from the passengers, the iron gear lever, two flickering ceiling lamps, the rest of the interior a shade of cream, paint chipping here and there.
The Galata Port: A roadway paved with crooked paving stones set with the tracks of two tramlines. Uneven pavements, stone parapets, a pair of wrought-iron crash barriers rusty in places and corroded where the metal is inserted into the pavement. Five fishermen are leaning against the railing. One of them is a boy who ought to be at school. A watermelon vendor standing behind his little cart with its red-and-white-striped canvas canopy. A newspaper vendor with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder, his cap on crooked, a plug of tobacco in his cheek (he’ll spit it out soon). A souvenir peddler looking out across the Bosporus and wondering whether it wouldn’t be better to just throw away his merchandise, drown himself, and call it a day. A pickpocket, or at least a dodgy character. Across the street, a disappointed businessman wearing a dark-blue suit, a fedora, and saddle shoes. Two women walking side by side, probably sisters. About ten feet behind them, a man who knows his wife is cheating on him. A bit farther along, a sailor is going down the steps to the water’s edge.
And while we’re on the water, there are two docks with a number of colorful little boats tied up, some of them are painted with indigo stripes, one is daffodil yellow. On the dock, five men, three women, and two children are waiting for a ferry.
On the street that winds up the hill, if you look carefully, you can see a series of shopfronts: a florist, a stationer, a tobacconist, a grocer, and a café. The street bends just beyond the café.
I’ll spare you the color variations in the sky . . . You’ll discover them for yourself. As for the Bosporus, we’ve both looked at it with sufficient frequency for you to imagine the play of light across the water’s surface.
In the distance you can see the hill of üsküdar, houses perched on its sides. I’ll pay closer attention to them now that I know that you’re living in one of them. There are also the minarets, not to mention hundreds of boats—dinghies, yawls, cutters—gliding across the water.
I admit that this overview is a bit scattered, but I think, in all humility, that I’ve managed to meet your challenge with success.
I’ll send this letter to your new address and hope that it makes it to you. üsküdar was one of the neighborhoods that I never had the opportunity to visit myself.
Your ever-devoted
Daldry.
P.S. Please don’t feel obliged to pass on my greetings to Can, or his aunt for that matter. I also forgot to note that it rained Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday. The weather was mixed on Wednesday but very sunny on Friday.
Dear Daldry,
I can’t believe it’s already the end of March. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to write last week. Between the days spent up in Cihangir and my evenings in the restaurant in üsküdar, I often fall asleep as soon as I come home. You’d be proud to see how handy I’ve become—I can now carry three plates on each arm, and I haven’t dropped one in nearly a week. Mama Can, as everybody calls Can’s aunt, is very kind. If I continue to eat everything she puts in front of me, I’ll come back to London as big as a house.
Every morning, Can picks me up at home for the walk to the ferry. It takes about fifteen minutes, but it’s pleasant enough, unless the wind is coming from the north. Strangely, during the last few weeks it has been even colder than during the time you were here.
Crossing the Bosporus remains a great pleasure. How funny it is to work in Europe and return home to Asia! When Can and I get off the ferry, we take a bus, and when we’re late, a dolmu.
Though it eats up what little I earn in tips, it’s still cheaper than a taxi.