be afraid,’ I said.
‘I’m getting used to it. I actually like the feeling. It’s just that I talk a lot when I’m scared. Is that going to be a problem?’
It was hard to hear her over the roar of the engine.
‘No,’ I said.
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a writer.’
‘What do you write?’
‘Novels.’
‘And your name?’
‘You wouldn’t know me.’
‘Probably not. I don’t read much any more. Though I read a lot when I was a kid.’
She paused and then smiled: ‘Everyone you meet probably says that they read a lot when they were a kid. Is that true?’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘I don’t meet many who read any more.’
‘Is that heartbreaking?’
‘What?’
‘That people don’t read your books?’
‘I’m getting used to it. I like feeling disappointed.’
She laughed.
Now I realise it was the way she laughed just then that hooked me. I liked her quick reaction to my joke about her fear.
The plane shook and she grabbed my arm.
In that moment I knew my life would never be the same. It’s hard to explain, how that laugh and then the way she held my arm seconds later was the beginning of it all. I could just feel it.
There are those moments in our lives when we feel that nothing will ever be the same again. In retrospect we say that somehow we could feel the surge, the sudden change in direction, though sometimes it is a false alarm and we forget about the moment altogether.
But this was something seismic.
That moment I knew I had succumbed. I could feel myself being swept away, dragged into an abyss. And I wanted to be taken.
For me, exhilaration is the most dangerous emotion, and I felt it then: the expectation that she would teach me things more perilous than love.
I was drawn to excitement, leaping at any opportunity like an animal taking the bait, though fully aware of the impending disaster.
I thought I was the only passenger on the plane on the evening flight back to town. But drifting off to sleep, I saw her reflection in the window. I turned and saw her standing above me, holding all the novels I had ever written. Otherwise I might have forgotten all about her.
They constituted my Achilles’ heel, pinched by God when he dipped me in those magical waters. My novels, the weakest and most sinister aspect of my person.
I looked at her hands wrapped round my books and the letters in my name between her fingers. I looked up at her lovely face, like an inlaid Seljuk coin. I could almost feel the warmth of her breasts beneath her blouse and cotton jacket, the warmth of her navel and her thighs.
Seeing my books in her arms made me feel pathetic – a forgotten prophet prepared to worship anyone who will follow, building temples, shrines and altars for the few disciples, and drinking magical elixirs.
‘Where did you find those?’ I said, like we were old friends.
‘In a shop that sold books,’ she said, laughing and then sitting down beside me.
‘Do they still sell my books there?’
I had assumed they were out of print. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had read one of my books.
‘I’ll read at least one of them tonight,’ she said.
‘Do you think you’ll like it?’
‘Let’s see.’
‘How about this. You read one and if you like it meet me tomorrow afternoon at the old restaurant near the station.’
‘All right,’ she said, buckling her seatbelt. ‘I’m exhausted. I’m going to sleep a little. Is that all right?’
‘Of course.’
Laying her head on my shoulder, she was asleep within minutes.
She trusted me and felt safe on that trip, and I never would have thought that a woman sleeping on my shoulder would have such a profound effect.
III
Vineyards and olive groves blanketed the mountainside above the town. Pale-green olive leaves, flickering in the wind, blazed like a giant lamp, and a yellowish light from the vineyards fell over the hill. Cypress and plane trees cast long, dark shadows, their wisdom and dignity lending the setting a solemn air.
At the foot of the mountain there was an old, brick-built wine factory with wisteria cascading over the walls. Locals grew contraband cannabis in the fields behind it – everyone around here seemed to smoke weed – and everything in the area bore the faint scent of marijuana.
Below the factory wealthy residents lived in large, two-storey, sand-coloured houses with broad terraces that looked down on the town through flower gardens. The town itself was a cluster of stone houses and walled courtyards veined with narrow streets, built on the plain at the base of the mountains. A row of palm trees ran along the coast where the town met the sea, and between the palms grew oleanders with red flowers that seemed to have been planted by a tasteful gardener. Then there was a golden beach that stretched along the shore.
In the centre of town there was an old train station with a yellow brass roof, but the tracks had been torn up. I always liked that station no longer visited by trains. There were little shops inside, which smelled of tobacco and steel. Next to the station was the Çinili restaurant, with its shaded garden. The tables were covered in white tablecloths – it catered to the grandees in town – and it always smelled of anisette and dried mackerel.
I arrived late one summer afternoon. I’d been on my way to the Taurus Mountains, hoping to find a mountain village where I could live for a while.
Through the heat haze rising from a stretch of highway, I noticed a narrow road, and a piece of wood hammered to a stake. The faded letters on the sign read: ‘sea for sale’.
I turned without even thinking.
I like driving down roads I’ve never seen before. There is almost always an adventure that lies ahead. In the end I usually find my way, but then again, that never really happens, and the adventure lasts a little longer than you expected.
I was hungry and so I stopped in front of a köfte restaurant on the road that ran through the centre of the town. There was no one else there. I sat down under a willow tree in the garden and ordered something to eat.
I was tired and restless.
I had been wrestling with ideas for a new book, a murder mystery, but I hadn’t managed to start. I was wondering if I would ever write again. I needed a miracle to jolt me back to life, and back to writing, something that would stir the creative juices that had grown still in the dark cave of my soul. I was dead to the world, and no one knew. Writing would bring me back to life.
I was served a plate of grilled meatballs, a bowl of hot sauce and a tomato salad. The food was actually quite good.
The proprietor came over to my table and asked me if I wanted anything else. He made me feel a guest in his own home.
‘Thank you. I’m fine,’ I said.
He hovered over the table, a bored look on his face.
‘Where to? Your car’s filthy, by the way.’
‘I’m heading south.’
‘It’s burning up down there.’