* * *
I spent the whole next day at the hotel. There was a pool in the basement, with an elaborately painted sky on the ceiling so you looked up at white fleecy clouds as you were swimming on your back. There were artificial trees and flowers beautifully arranged in large beds, and the bottom of the pool was decorated with a blue mosaic. It all looked very authentic, even the people lying there as though sunning themselves in lounge chairs around the bar. I stayed a long time in the sauna. I dunked my body down in the cold water right after. Large red splotches spread across my thighs, and my skin received a shock. And that's exactly what I needed. A shock. The wounds on my stomach and chest became soft and turned white from the water and heat. The gash on my hand swelled up. It was certainly good for the healing process, and I sighed with contentment: soon the traces on my body would disappear like dew in sunshine.
* * *
I had a good lunch in the restaurant and drank half a bottle of wine. As I was wiping my mouth, I felt a light touch on my shoulder. It was the Englishwoman. Now wearing a blue suit. I invited her to sit down, and she did so without any hesitation. We ordered coffee. In the daylight I could see her face clearly, the thin lips, greenish eyes, lightly freckled skin with more wrinkles than I had noticed in the dim evening light. She talked about her daughters, one was a nurse and the other a teacher. She showed me a photo of her grandchild, a stout, fair-skinned four-year-old boy. "And you," she asked, "do you have any family?" "A sister, a brother, and a sea of nieces and nephews," I answered. She let out a short sparkling laugh. "That sounds delightful," she said, "a sea of children!" And she threw her arms open wide as if she were about to embrace this sea of children and laughed again. A gold tooth glimmered deep inside her mouth. Then she asked me if I wanted to join her sightseeing in the city, but I declined, saying that I unfortunately had some work to do. Without hiding her disappointment, she asked what kind of work I did, and I got the idea to say that I was writing an article that I needed to finish by the evening. "Oh," she said, "You're a journalist?" And I got the idea to say that I was a writer and I was writing a series of travel articles on the Middle East and Turkey. Her eyes opened wide with enthusiasm. "How exciting!" I smiled and did my best to look both flattered and modest. She gathered up her things, wished me luck with my work, and left. But when she reached the door, she turned and came back. "I just realized, I never introduced myself," she said. "My name is Ellen Parker." She put out her thin hand and let it rest for a moment in mine, light as a baby bird and cool as the white sheets on my bed. I walked back to my room. The wine had made me drowsy and I slept like a rock for two hours.
* * *
The next morning I woke up early and felt uneasy. It was clear that I couldn't stay any longer in this city. And since I had no desire to meet Ellen Parker again, I left the hotel without having breakfast and wandered around the city for a few hours. Even though it was warm, the air was fresh at that time of the day, and I watched people one after another slowly opening their stalls and stores, I watched the sun slide higher in the sky while the children walked to school with their books in their arms, and the traffic became louder, the heat more intense. The city's awakening made my brain work faster and more directed, the feelings that had driven me out of bed and onto the street receded, making it possible to get an overview of my situation. On the one hand, I still wanted to rest and store up energy for the long journey home, on the other hand, Ellen Parker was a problem. I had tempted fate with my lies and had a feeling that she would seek me out again and try to force herself on me. I feared that she sensed I was keeping a secret, and that she, without really realizing it, had the urge to reveal it. I feared she had a sense about me.
I sat down on a low wall and looked out over the valley. I thought things over. And decided to make a compromise: I would stay, but only one more day, and I would avoid contact with the Englishwoman.
In the afternoon I returned to the hotel. I asked the young man at the front desk to reserve a plane ticket for me, and went upstairs to my room. The window was half open, the maid had made my bed and brought fresh flowers. As I was changing my clothes, I noticed a white envelope on the dark green carpet. Someone must've pushed it under the door. The letter was from Ellen Parker, of course it was. Her handwriting was large and looping. It was a polite invitation to dinner at an "exclusive restaurant" not far from the mosque. I sighed and crumpled up the letter. I sat down on the bed, suddenly too tired to put on my clothes. I lay down and closed my eyes. I began running my hands over my body, a strong desire surged up in me. I lay on my side for a long time watching the thin curtain billowing a bit even though there wasn't any breeze to speak of. Ellen Parker had green eyes and attractive hands. Strange how this could move me so easily. Maybe it was simply because I hadn't talked to anyone for more than two minutes in such a long time. I dozed. And woke with a start. The telephone was ringing. My first reaction was to let it ring, but then I remembered the receptionist, maybe there was some information about my ticket, so I answered it. And it was Ellen Parker. "Oh," she said, "I hope I didn't wake you." She wanted to know if I would accept her invitation. I said I couldn't spare the time to have dinner unfortunately, the work was giving me problems and it was taking longer than expected, and she said that I would need to eat in any case, but we could meet at the hotel restaurant instead to save me the trouble of walking up to the mosque. How did that sound? Eight o'clock? I said that I was thinking about having some food sent up to my room, and she said that that sounded cozy, and would I like to have some company, she would leave as soon as we were finished eating because she understood quite well that I had work to do, of course she understood that I had important things to take care of, and she would in no way disturb me, but it is after all rather boring to eat alone. And that was that. Even worse than I imagined it would be. Ellen Parker, not just in a neutral place, but here — in my room, next to my bed. I immediately put away all my personal belongings. I looked at myself in the mirror. Turning my face so that I could almost see my profile. Then I filled the bathtub. And just as I got into the warm water, the phone rang again. It was the receptionist. The flights were all booked. I asked him to reserve a seat on the next available flight. In four days. Sitting on the edge of a chair, naked and dripping wet, I tried to accept the fact that I wouldn't be leaving for four days. It wasn't until I began shivering that I got up and went back to my bath.
* * *
I considered walking out. I considered moving to another hotel. But it was likely that I would run into Ellen Parker somewhere, sometime, and the prospect of facing an awkward, and no doubt dramatic situation like that seemed too great. And, in my confusion, I had already reserved the room for four more days when I talked to the receptionist on the phone. The room was expensive. I was depressed and angry. If I had previously found the situation comical, it now seemed grotesque, and I wasn't laughing.