Virginia Woolf in Manhattan (40 page)

‘Tourist?’ asked the officer, serious-faced, getting ready to put a stamp on my passport. I had the £10 in my hand, no problem, but a little devil made me say something else. ‘No, I’ve come for the conference.’

‘Conference? What conference?’ He frowned crossly. His stamp hovered in mid-air. ‘You are tourist, yes?’

‘The
International
Conference.’ Surely he would know. Then I could ask him where I had to go. But he’d lost interest, his stamp came down, he took my money and the queue moved forward.

As soon as I got into an internet café, I googled ‘Istanbul’ and ‘international conference’.
Fuck, there were thirty-one million hits
.

‘The whole world is in Istanbul, Gerda.’

How, in a whole new world, would I find her?

93

In the street outside Tash Konak, Ahmet had put his arm briefly around my shoulders, light as a leaf brushing my arm, the merest declaration that he would protect me, that I was with him –

And yes, I was. I was with a man. He walked like a dancer or a weightlifter, as if every step was slightly sprung, and his pleasure in my company was like a cloak of finest cashmere keeping me warm.

‘What shall I call you?’ he demanded, as we walked up towards the Hippodrome, passing a restaurant with globes of coloured light like a bunch of illuminated glass balloons. Everything was weightless as a children’s party, for this one evening I would be someone else, a new person with different rules, and the breeze on my face felt deliciously cool.

‘Ginia?’ I said. ‘It was my childhood nickname.’

‘Pretty,’ he said, ‘very pretty name. Pretty like you, Mrs Room 15. From now on, I call you only Ginny.’

‘No, Ginia,’ I repeated.

He nodded, and then, with careful lips, said ‘Ginny. This time I got it right!’

What did it matter? I was laughing. ‘Ginny.’

We were veering up left past the carpet shops, which were still open, their soft dusty golds and faded roses spread out over crooked walls. I ate those colours with my eyes.

‘You want?’ he said, ‘I can get discount,’ but I shook my head.

‘Ginny, you can take home with you.’

For one split second I was piercingly sad. No, I had no home to go to. I wanted this evening to move more slowly. If every moment could release its twin to shine in the mirror,
again
,
again
… my temporary glory of looking-forward, the wavelet-crests of this shiver of excitement – each flamingo plume of sunset light which made even the broken pavement lovely – the rose-grey sand by the blue-grey cobbles – each circle of stones with its own tinct of blue, each last ray of sun touching differently – oh everything fresh & new & alive – I loved it so, could I not stay longer?

No, it would all shine on without me.

‘Where I must go, I can take nothing with me.’

‘Why not?’ he asked, suddenly concerned, looking deeper in my eyes than the words suggested, ‘they will roll up, pack it beautifully, Ginny. I will ask them now!’

‘Slow down,’ I said. ‘
Tout va bien
. Let’s not hurry with anything, Ahmet.’

Of course, he was eager to choose a restaurant, his friend was the cook, ‘All the fish is fresh,’ but I said ‘Let’s wander,’ and we wandered on, down towards the sea as the sun sank beneath it and the clouds, which were peony-pink, turned black. Night was coming, and the things of night, secret things, intimacies. As the birds settled to their night-time roosts, my arm began to feel right in Ahmet’s, and our pace became companionable, though what I felt as his hip pressed mine was not entirely companionable.

Every couple of paces, it seemed, he stopped. ‘You are beautiful, Ginny,’ he said, once again. His breath was sweet; his eyes intense. He was staring at me as if he would eat me. Yes, once again, things were going too quickly, he was pressing too close, it was going too fast.

‘There is something I want to do,’ I said. I was surprised to
hear myself speak. It had always been hard for me to say what I wanted. Men’s wishes were so strong, so immediate – but I refused to slip back into the past. ‘It might be too late – perhaps it’s too late – but you said – right back at the very beginning – you said you might take me to Kiz Kulesi. I would love to see it. Is it possible?’

No sooner said than he was leading me back in the opposite direction, towards his car. ‘Of course I do this. Of course, for you.’

His car was parked on a perilous slope, so getting into it made me giggle, and after that, I relaxed again. ‘Nice car?’ he asked, as he drove me, expertly, through honking traffic to a massive bridge that carried us high over the water. ‘Bosphorus Bridge,’ he said. ‘Nice driver?’

By the time we left the car, the sun had gone down. He had driven me from Europe to Asia! The last stage of the journey was a tiny boat that threw us hard against each other as we rocked wildly across the waves, we were laughing as the spray blew in my face, I shrieked once and then he copied me, Ahmet didn’t mind playing the coward, we were both mock-whooping with fear and laughter as the magical tower grew bigger before us, Kiz Kulesi, shining white, tipped with light, pitching forwards, backwards as we righted ourselves –

The boatman tied up, staring strangely at us. Ahmet took my hand and helped me disembark. Close up, Kiz Kulesi lacked mystery; everything had been modernised. The floating fairy tower was no more. Inside, it was a tourist place, really – a little shop, a restaurant, a café. I did not need to be afraid of it: I had not needed to long for it.

‘You know story of tower?’ Ahmet asked me. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Hero and Leander.’

‘Hero?’ he said. ‘No, no hero. About princess, Turkish story.’

‘Ah, another one. Tell me.’

‘This, I promise, is real story. Poor – princess. King’s daughter, yes? He try to keep her from any lover. He keep her here, in this tower. Many father here the same! Very bad!’

‘Yes, Ahmet. But if you had a daughter – ’

‘No, I promise, I am not married.’

‘Never mind. One day I think you will be. Then you will have to think about your daughter. Go on with the story.’

As he told the story, we were climbing the stairs, dark wood, narrow, to the upper floor.

‘So he do it, like he wish, and only he visit. Then when she about to be woman, he bring her a basket of fruit in her birthday. He think “I have done it! She still, what you say, safe!” Then snake that hide itself in basket come out and bite it – bite her – until she die.’

‘Very interesting story,’ I said, out of breath, ‘but I don’t like the ending, Ahmet. Better to have a lover than be killed by your father.’ (Those sad elders with their terrible needs, the flickering snake pressed down in the basket – )

But I wasn’t going to think about that
, I was a free woman who had skipped across the water, I was with a man I had chosen myself.

This was not the lighthouse. Getting here had been easy. We were noisy, the journey took less than ten minutes. This was not the Statue of Liberty, the light-bringer, the life-giver – I no longer cared about my father or my mother. We were here and now. I would live this day.

Yes, upstairs it was just a café, with a little bar and hanging lanterns, but we went outside on to the balcony and the fresh sea air shivered my skin and hair, and all round us extended the marvellous city, bank to bank and side to side, the Golden Horn, the Sea of Marmara, the bridges and boats that joined Europe to Asia, and everywhere lights were just pricking into being, golden networks connecting the living, along every
street they would be blossoming, couples and groups going out for the evening, clusters of faces on the dark like bright petals, and I thought ‘How incomparable it is to be here – ’

‘Coffee?’ he said. ‘Or maybe wine?’

‘Coffee.’

‘Tell me honestly,’ he said, with a smile, ‘which is best story, Turkish or English?’

‘The story of Hero is very old,’ I said. ‘Not English, in fact – Greek.’

‘We don’t like Greek.’

‘To be honest, I don’t like either story. In both the stories, the woman dies. In the Greek story, the woman kills her lover, maybe accidentally, maybe not, then jumps in the water and drowns herself. In your story, the father kills her. Couldn’t we have a story where the woman lives? I think I think – only life matters.’

‘I never think about this,’ he said, dashed. For a moment, he looked genuinely grieved. Then ‘
This
is story,’ Ahmet said, with a sudden smile as he took my hand, my cool white hand in both of his. ‘Now, tonight, we make new story. You will see, Ginny. Woman – LIVES!’

And he burst out laughing, throwing out his hands to encompass the lights, the sea, the city, the glittering ferries going back and forth. ‘The life is beautiful. We will be happy.’

Yes, he was very different to Leonard. Yet also similar, it struck me, as competently, coolly, he drove us back across to Sultanahmet, coming to a halt in the same steep road. Surely the car would run downhill backwards – but no, we were safe, the brake was on.

When we finally looped back to the restaurant he liked, he chose a table in a private corner: a potted palm tree protected us.

He told me he liked my eyes, my lips. ‘Are you married?’ he asked, adding, a split second later, ‘Of course you must be married, it doesn’t matter.’

‘My husband died,’ I said.

‘Oh, sorry, dear.’ He did look sorry. He looked long across the table, grave and tender. I admired his cheeks, round as a child’s. They reminded me of toffee apples, of sweetmeats. I wanted to pinch him, I wanted to eat him, I felt that we could play together, and he would let me make up the game.

‘And you,’ I said. ‘Are you sure you aren’t married, Ahmet?’

‘Not yet,’ he said, almost scandalised. ‘Too young,’ he added, with a merry smile. ‘Later I will marry. Many times, often!’

We laughed together. I definitely liked him.

Then he said, ‘Of course, I am joking, I marry one time, and love her always.’

So then, naturally, I liked him more.

He asked me about my parents, my family. I told him about Thoby catching cholera in Greece. ‘Very dirty country,’ he said, with vigour. ‘I am so sorry about your brother. If only he visit Turkey instead!’

One of his sisters had five children. I told him that I had no children. (‘Too late now?’ ‘Yes, of course’) – but my sister had two. ‘You see, we were artists. Maybe that mattered to us more than life. I was a writer, actually.’ Of course I could not tell him that I had been ill, the doctors’ edicts, the whole messy saga.

He was a little afraid, I saw it in his eyes, when I said that I was a writer. What man on earth wanted a clever woman?
Only my darling. Only Leonard
. But Ahmet did not need to like me as a writer. ‘I stopped writing long ago.’

The words expanded in my head.

‘Because you make enough money?’ he asked.

‘No, because … that time is over.’

Virginia, you will write no more
.

Somehow, it was enough to be here.

I said, ‘I expect you’re too busy to read?’ I knew modern people rarely read.

‘I have a degree in Tourism,’ he said, ‘from Istanbul University.’ He said it as if it were a private joke, something faintly absurd and yet delicious, he said it with charm and irony – or else, he said it as a simple boast, but because I liked him, I saw what I wanted. I needed him to be lovable because there was love in me, longing to alight. I told him, ‘You’re better educated than me.’

‘You did not go to university?’

‘Alas, no.’

‘It is OK, do not be afraid!’ He was all smiles, all kindness. ‘More wine?’ he said, and filled my glass.

‘You are a Muslim, Ahmet? But you drink wine.’

At once his face became solemn. ‘No, never, except tonight.’

‘I don’t believe you!’

‘Honestly!’ But the smile with which he looked up from his wine glass was so full of laughter that the lie didn’t matter.

Leonard always watched my intake of wine. Like everything else, talking, walking, seeing our friends, going to parties, drink made me excited, only more so. When I talked too fast, or laughed too much, he got worried. ‘Time for a rest, my love.’ I was his love. It was because he loved me, and yet there were rules, and I was unruly.

Ahmet did not try to stop me drinking. Ahmet actively encouraged it. But I did not find myself talking too much. Actually, there was not much to say. We were gazing at each other, content together, savouring the food, which we shared with each other – he fed me morsels delicately, neatly, on a fork (tiny plump roast birds in garlicky butter, saffron rice, buttery spinach the glossy dark green of laurel leaves, tiny grilled tomatoes like ripe soft rubies: I chose a steak, because
I rarely ate it, but it was too big for me to finish it, and he speared the remains and devoured them, boldly, though his eyes were on me, still fixed on me, and his strong white teeth and sweet mouth were waiting, his eyes declared they were waiting for me.)

Both of us knew that something would happen. But where? Much too soon, we were back in the street. The night had come down. Now the street felt chilly. We stood undecided. Ahmet cleared his throat. Once, twice, and then he spoke, as a small cream cat shot across the street, lit up briefly in the glare of some headlights: ‘Would you please like to visit my home, Ginny?’

A second’s silence, and then another. By the third, my hand was in his warm hand, and we turned towards each other, still on a slope so his face was slightly lower than mine, and the kiss, when it came, was not quite conclusive, my lips brushed the salt of his upper lip and almost bumped the tip of his nose, and then he took over, and our mouths met, hot, and two small warm animals licked and burrowed.

I don’t really know if I liked it at first, but certainly he was different from Leonard, different from Clive. More like Nessa! Tender and wet.

I was a maelstrom, a storm of feelings. There were strange tingles underneath my dress. The cobbles seemed harder, the slope steeper as we walked uphill towards his home. He was walking faster than before, as if he had pressing reasons to hurry, and I did too, so I tried to keep pace, though I also wanted to savour each moment: stars through the branches of lemon trees, two pretty girls Ahmet barely glanced at. The thin soles of my shoes meant my feet felt unprotected, yet the heels clutched at my aching tendons. Soon discomfort progressed to pain.