Maggie Gee - Virginia Woolf in Manhattan

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.