Maggie Gee - Virginia Woolf in Manhattan

‘Come on, Virginia, that ferry’s leaving.’

ANGELA

I think she was trying to say something important, but I had to make decisions, time was running out. Now the afternoon began to unravel. She wanted to go to Kiz Kulesi — Leander’s Tower, the Maiden’s Tower — but I was sick of fake history, and hadn’t I done enough for her? It was time to focus on the conference, which was coming closer hour by hour: in particular, what to wear. I fancied a sharp new jacket from Zara. It wasn’t hard to overrule her, especially as she didn’t know the modern city — (Kiz Kulesi was less than half-an-hour away!) — so I ushered her on to the ferry to Europe. ‘I really do have to do some shopping.’ She said ‘I’ll see Kiz Kulesi another time,’ but she sounded as though she didn’t believe it.

The seagulls squawked around the ferry, doing acrobatics in the headwind as we curved smoothly towards Pera. I started to feel high-spirited. Of course the paper would speak for itself, but I wanted my clothes to say ‘Young, hopeful’. A flash of orange? Fashionable cobalt?

VIRGINIA

‘So are we going to the Grand Bazaar?’

ANGELA

I realised I had just said ‘shopping’. ‘No, Virginia, just regular shops. You know, clothes shops, Next, Zara.’ Of course, she didn’t know. How could she? I started to explain, as we disembarked, how the same chains were everywhere. In the modern world, shopping was easy. You could find what you wanted in Oxford Street, London, or on Fifth Avenue, or here.

Virginia took on her stubborn look.

VIRGINIA

‘But of course, shops in Turkey should be Turkish. These “chains” you talk about, don’t they imprison you? Why travel, if the whole world’s the same?’

ANGELA

(

puffing — the road up is very steep

)

‘Wait till you’ve seen how nice the clothes are. And why shouldn’t Turkish women have the same choice? Do you want to keep them in national dress?’

VIRGINIA

‘No, though I think there are more covered women on the streets than when I came here last.’

ANGELA

‘It’s the religious government. Erdogan’s own wife wears a veil.’

But most people here, on the tiny road that led up to the main part of Istiklal, were tourists, not a veil in sight, people were buying in English or German from the garish stalls that lined the road: key-rings, cheap jewellery, juices, sweets.

Halfway up, I noticed something. Far more people were coming down. They did not look happy. It was almost a flood. We began to find it hard to make headway. And then I heard the noise, still distant, a vague buzzing muddle of shouts, sirens. Perhaps there had been a traffic accident.

The day, which had started fresh and blue, was heating up: orange, amber. I took off my jacket, pushed up my sleeves.

VIRGINIA

(

pausing on the hill

)

‘Are they hurrying to catch a ferry?’

ANGELA

(

unwilling to stop

)

‘Probably. You’ll enjoy Zara. If you liked Bloomingdale’s, you’ll like this.’

Though would she, I wondered? Zara was cheaper, and Virginia seemed to enjoy spending money.

It struck me she might think me selfish to be buying clothes when Edward needed money. But this was work, after all. Youth, image, they did matter … I knew I could never explain it to her.

Istiklal! Always a festival. Each time I’d seen it, it was never still — buskers and singers, armies of the young, teenagers, arms linked, four abreast — that sense of swimming in a human river, as if the whole city was going out. I loved the mysterious lateral veins, like the deep cut down to the Museum of Innocence, half a mile below, beside the sea, or the small dark opening to the silver market, where last time I’d bought wonderful jewellery, and yes, why not buy a bracelet for Gerda, to cheer her up when she came home? I looked round for Virginia. There she was, behind me, a stately but incompetent swimmer, chin high, telegramming a smile, but struggling, now, to stay afloat as waves of people buffeted her.

‘Virginia! Virginia! Here! There’s a little silver market, on the left.’

Yes, on the left. I was looking at it.

It all clicked into focus. And then I was worried.

For the traders were almost obscuring the entrance, deep in frowning, arm-waving debate, and then, quite swiftly, the debate ended. No, they were — what could they possibly be doing? It was Saturday, sunny, the usual crowds were out on Istiklal eager to spend money, but the Heliogabalus silver traders were closing up. Pulling the heavy grille across, shutting the door of paradise.

VIRGINIA

A sudden shock — twenty yards ahead of me, men were spilling out of a big white bus: a smashed ink-bottle spurting dark stains.

ANGELA

There were white buses lined up like ambulances, and dozens of men were pouring out, not doctors or soldiers, yes they were police. Dozens, a hundred hard-faced men in navy-blue uniforms with bulging holsters, guns and coshes, and I heard the shouts, just out of our sight, and felt the tension, drawn tight like a string, as people stood in doorways and waited. Dark people, both resigned and nervous, talked to each other in low voices. Others were indignant, hands jabbing. All of them were Turks, I realised, not tourists, this was their area, they had to know, they would stay and watch and learn the worst, but the tourists were leaving as fast as they could.

On the other side of Istiklal’s hill, maybe fifty metres ahead of us, were enraged or suffering human voices, and now I could no longer ignore them.

‘What’s happening? Speak English?’ I asked a fat man with beads of sweat on his forehead, outside a café, frowning at the sun. At first he didn’t hear me, he had other fish to fry, he didn’t want to bother with the nosy tourist, but then he said, briefly, ‘They stop us selling alcohol. They stop a lot of things. Religious people.’

‘Who?’

He didn’t answer, straining to see what was happening. Then ‘Government’.

‘Ah, thank you. Stop you selling alcohol? But it’s a tourist city.’

‘Yes, thank you, you are right,’ he said. ‘But religious people, they are crazy. They think everything is sin. They try to stop everything. No demonstrating. No discussing.’

‘Dangerous?’ I said, gesturing around me.

‘Danger-ous?’ he said, then understood. He laughed. ‘Not for you, I think. For us, maybe. For the students.’

‘Virginia, we have to get out. There’s the conference tomorrow! I can’t get arrested!’

‘But look,’ said Virginia, ‘It’s exciting.’

The police had lined up in a tight phalanx across the mouth of a small side road to our left. It was higher ground, which would lend them impetus. Their helmets were on, and their riot shields raised. A wall of faceless, shining plastic.

VIRGINIA

There was something in the air, something sour, I could smell it. A harsh male smell; badness fermented. Then my excitement changed to fear, a switch as sharp as milk turning. The police were covered in plastic & metal — no longer human beings at all — hiding their eyes, hands, faces. They had made themselves into a giant fist, pulled back taut to gather power. Still the angry, youthful, passionate shouts yelled on over the hill, out of our sight, behind the crowd — & the sun was too hot, and the sky overcast, a lid of thin cloud that kept the heat in. They were poking the ants, those brave, fierce voices. My anxious heart begged them to stop.

ANGELA

‘We’re going, Virginia.’ I took her arm. She was staring at the police, eyes fixed, immobile. I pulled her away and we hurried back along Istiklal Avenue together, struggling to push our way through the crowd.