Tolga’s fingers relaxed and started tapping again. “So you’re a jazz fan,” Cavidan Hanım said, in an attempt to make conversation. Tolga looked at her for the first time, smiled, nodded, and then turned his attention back to the road. “If you drop me off in front of Akmerkez, I can walk from there.” A sudden gush of wind rattled the windshield, and shook the car even, or so it seemed to them.
“With all those bags? Out of the question! I’ll drive you to your door.”
The young man’s polite, soft-spoken manner emboldened the woman. “I love going to the shore and watching the sea during the lodos. How about you?”
Oh no! thought Tolga to himself, wishing to rein the conversation back in. But he didn’t let on. “I don’t know, I never have.”
As a veteran school teacher, Cavidan Hanım knew a thing or two about human psychology. This young man was clearly a victim of politeness, one of those poor souls incapable of saying no. “I’m an English teacher,” she continued. “Could I possibly have had you in my class? You look familiar.” She didn’t mention that she was retired. She had read somewhere that the word “retired” immediately killed any spark. It reminded one of the smell of dust, wool underwear, weatherproof socks, dentures leisurely soaking in a glass at night...”
“Oh please, I really don’t think you’re old enough to have been my teacher!” So she was a teacher; he should be more respectful.
Cavidan Hanım’s tiny giggle drowned out the sorrowful notes coming from the radio. “Thank you, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.”
They were in front of Akmerkez now. Tolga slowed down. A brass band was playing a merry dance tune. Post Brass Band was written on their red jackets. Was that what encouraged Cavidan Hanım? “How about going to the seaside? If you have time, that is.”
The young man thought he must have misheard her. Cymbals were clashing, countless sticks were banging on drums, and a trumpet blared proudly, as the band battled the bellowing of the lodos. Is that what confused Tolga? “Do you have a certain place in mind?”
Cavidan Hanım gladly shut the door she had been reluctantly holding ajar. “Yes, drive straight ahead; let’s go down the Bebek Slope.” The jolly tunes of the brass band gradually faded away. “Cavidan,” she said. It was a strange meeting, but she didn’t care; she extended her hand.
“Tolga,” he responded. It would be rude not to shake her hand; he realized his palms were sweaty and felt embarrassed.
The car jerked and jolted, making slow progress in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Etiler, with its colorful, bright cafés, restaurants, and stores lining the avenue, was drowning out even the noise of the lodos.
“Would you stop at that corner?” Cavidan Hanım hopped out with the agility of a young girl, ducked into a liquor store, and returned with a black plastic bag full of beer cans.
Surprised, the young man remained optimistic. Maybe she’s planning on drinking them at home tonight, he thought. Maybe she’s expecting guests. He made a left turn and drove down the slope. If he hadn’t turned, he could have seen his girlfriend buying flowers from a stand by the corner one street down; after all, their place was just a stone’s throw away. The slope was completely dark, except for the headlights of passing cars and the blinking New Year’s ornaments on the walls of the houses.
Cavidan Hanım took the sights in with a happy smile on her face. All kinds of fantasies played out in her head as she watched the dark retaining walls flow by. All things considered, she thought, I’m lucky to live in this city.
Tolga was uneasy. He had gone beyond the call of courtesy, and besides, what would he say if his girlfriend called? He could turn off his phone and tell her something like, I was in Akmerkez, the reception was bad, but that was hardly believable. His inner voice nagged away at him. (He was right, his girlfriend was worried. She had called his office, and they’d told her he’d already left. She’d thought about calling his cell a few times, and she almost did, and in the end, she would certainly call. Where would a grown man disappear to for so many hours?) And as if all that weren’t enough already, Ella Fitzgerald had launched into another song: “Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home?”
They hit traffic again once they reached the shore. The car slowed down. “Turn left, toward Aşiyan.” Cavidan Hanım seemed to be in total control now. She cracked open a can of beer for herself. “Sorry, you’re driving.” At that moment, the young man felt certain this was all just one big nightmare. His knuckles were visibly white, even in the dim light. Truth of the matter was, though, this was only the beginning — he had no idea what was in store for him.
The car obediently cruised forward toward their destination. The young man turned and stopped in front of Bebek Park. Just like every evening, the Bebek meatball vendor was setting up his stand in his white minivan, in spite of the contrary weather. Cavidan Hanım took advantage of their time in stalled traffic to look around, and she did so with gusto. It was crowded, as usual; even in this weather, all the benches in the park were occupied. Cavidan Hanım took a sizable sip from her beer; it had a sour, acidic taste, and she shivered a little as she swallowed. She reached for the bags on the backseat and took out a package: fresh walnuts. She silently congratulated herself; a prescient last-minute purchase, as it were. This time she offered some to her companion. The traffic stirred a little. They barely made it past the taxi stand in front of the Bebek Café when they had to stop again. The lodos did not seem to have impacted the hotel or the seafood restaurants here one bit. The valets were constantly stopping traffic to make way for the cars of customers coming and going. Tolga was quietly eating the walnuts Cavidan Hanım kept offering to him, after removing their delicate shells. She was sure no one had skinned or shelled or peeled anything for this boy and handed it to him, ready to eat, since he was a kid. Now he was smiling too. Finally, the valet impatiently motioned for them to drive on through. “Dear listeners, how about another tune from Ethel Waters? The woman says it ain’t her fault — she’s just living her life! That’s right, Ethel Waters here and ‘Don’t Blame Me’...”
They passed Bebek Hotel, Starbucks, Divan Bakery, and then the grocery store. Even if the whole world were to go haywire, the colorful fruit-packed trays of that grocery store would be enough to restore the illusion that everything was A-OK. Cavidan Hanım, turning to her right, pointed to the olive oil specialty shop and asked: “Have you ever shopped there?”
“No,” said Tolga, laughing.
Brightly lit windows, the headlights of standing cars, people going in and out of restaurants and liquor stores on both sides all blended together into one big blur; a single, gigantic organism quivering in the wind. They stopped again, where the waterfront houses ended and the sea began. The coats and the scarves of people crossing the avenue were flying in the wind. An old man laughed as he pressed down on his fedora. Now that’s a retiree, Cavidan Hanım thought. She was happy, giddy; she’d never felt younger. The whistle of the lodos blew in one window and out the other.
An increasingly contented Tolga pointed to a man selling fish on the shore. “Beautiful, isn’t it? How bright and colorful they are, even in this weather... Do you like fish?” he asked.
Cavidan Hanım looked at the round wooden trays on the stand and the neat rows of pink, white, and silvery fish displayed on them. Lamps and bundles of garlic suspended from the poles above the vendors’ carts swung to and fro in the wind. The fish seller was sprinkling water on lettuce, garden cress, radishes, and lemons. “Yes, I do. I like it a lot, in fact. And how about you? Do you like snapper soup? Red snapper? I should make it for you someday.”