Zeynep

Zeynep
by Quentin Poulsen

Strange to think now that it had not been what I had wanted. Of those days I had spent in remorseful gloom, cursing my poor judgement. Of the irony in considering my decision so wayward. Of having it all but not seeing it, thinking only of other things.
On a cold rainy day in April I had taken the ferry across to Kadikoy. Zeynep had been waiting for me on the Asian side, attired in a green and pink sapka and long brown coat as she had said she would be. We had communicated only by e-mail and text message to that point, but the sapka was easy to spot even among the crowd. The face that smiled out of it bore a copper hue in the rain. She was coming toward me, having evidently seen me before I had seen her.
"You haven't got a hat!" she declared, once the introductions were out of the way. "Come on, we can get you one like mine."
I glanced at the shaggy, brightly colored garment on her head and chuckled at the presumption. She looked like a psychedelic Tibetan.
She returned my laugh, misinterpreting it. "Really. Let's go. I know where."
We crossed the promenade and headed into the narrow streets. The modern frontier of fashion boutiques, book and music stores, restaurants and bakeries soon gave way to myriad fish markets, fruit and vegetable stands, and clothing stalls. There were shoe-shiners at work on every corner, sesame bread sellers and flower displays. Scarved women plodded along with weighty bundles on their shoulders. The air was heavy with the smell of raw fish, pide bread, and roasting lamb from the doner stalls. Every moment someone knocked into me. Every moment some over-zealous hawker tried to accost me. I spent half the time fending off the peddlers, the other battling through the inattentive hordes.
Zeynep stopped at a place which sold nothing but sapkas. I perused their motley color schemes with amusement. Some were crowned with pompoms, others with wild mohicans. Their sides drooped down like bloodhounds' ears. Zeynep entered into a brief discussion with the vendor, and before I knew it she had purchased one for me. It was a more conservative design, brown and white, but still looked foolish to me.
"It's okay, I paid for it," she told me, eyes twinkling, not comprehending that I found the hats outlandish.
I no longer had the heart to tell her. I pulled the thing on over my rain-damp hair. "Listen, I gotta pay you for this. You just met me!"
"It's a gift. It looks nice for you."
"It's certainly warm," I conceded grudgingly. "But I feel like a Himalayan skateboarder!"
She doubled up in front of me, so that people stared curiously as they passed by. Did she laugh so easily? I was beginning to wonder if the girl was quite normal.
I had from the outset experienced doubts about coming here. I had already seen a one-bedroom place in Cihangir, more expensive than I had in mind, but right where I wanted to be, near my work and friends. Kadikoy was said to be a nice area. That may have been, but what if there were a storm, or if I missed the last sailing back after a late night out, as I was bound to do from time to time? The taxi fare, via the bridge, would be astronomical. I gazed around at the bustling mass of humanity among the rickety stalls, heard the cries of the vendors which I could not understand, felt the rain pattering down on my sapka and shoulders, and contemplated moodily that I was wasting my time.
My woe was compounded when I discovered Zeynep's apartment was on one of the darkest, narrowest little streets I had ever laid eyes on. I was on the brink of telling her to forget it, right there and then. Only it would have been too rude. I might at least have a look inside now that I was here.
She smiled cheerfully as we rode the elevator up. Reaching the eighth floor, we entered an apartment which was surprisingly spacious and bright. It was also warm. We removed our coats, sapkas and shoes and went through to the living room.
Zeynep gestured at the two ruby-colored sofas that were positioned adjacent to one another. "You can lie down."
I felt awkward, but when she herself stretched out on one of them, I followed her example. The sofa was large and firm, the curved arm made a comfortable head-rest. And in this manner we lay about talking for half an our or so. At one point Zeynep got up to make coffee. The big room, the warmth emanating from the radiators, the strong coffee, Zeynep's pleasant nature: The overall effect was such that I began to revisit my objection to moving in. The rent was low and she required no deposit. I could do worse.
Nonetheless, it was the Cihangir apartment I favored as I weighed my options that night, back at the Beyoglu hostel. What it was, therefore, that inspired me to call Zeynep next day and accept the room in Kadikoy, I could not say.

The first morning there I set out for work in the rain. I left an hour earlier than I would have on the European side. My surroundings remained unfamiliar. Yet out there across the hostile grey waters of the Bosporus lay the bridge over the Golden Horn, the Beyoglu hills, and the high-rises of the business district beyond. Those were the places I knew well. My territory. I had lived there over a year. What had possessed me to move to the Asian side upon my return to the city? I must have been mad!
The misery continued to gnaw at me during the rough crossing. Standing room only below decks. Holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, gripping a rusty pole with the other, I watched the rain merge with the spray of the waves beyond the grimy windows. The bus ride from Besiktas offered little more comfort. The traffic was chaotic, as it tended to be on wet Istanbul days. Honking horns, flashing headlights, yellow taxis gunning for gaps. It seemed an eternity before we were among the soaring glass structures of Gayrettepe. It had, in fact, taken little over an hour from apartment to academy, and that was on a bad day. I could afford to leave thirty minutes later in future.
The elevator was not working. I hiked the five flights up to the teachers' room, there to encounter the curious spectacle of my colleagues preparing lessons in their overcoats. There was a problem with the heating. And now, even as I stood there in the doorway, strange noises began to emanate from the photocopy machine.
"Bollocks!" cursed Helen, who was endeavouring to use it.
"Try the bottom tray," I suggested. "Top one's been playin' up lately."
"It worked perfectly well ten minutes ago."
Glancing up at her pallid, youthful features, I realized my error.
She pulled the top tray out and frowned at me. "It's empty, that's all."
I walked across to the stationery cupboard. "No more paper either."
"I s'pose I'll 'ave to go and get some then, won't I? I mean, somebody's got to do it."
She paraded past in her yellow mac, gazed fixed on the path ahead, like a soldier marching resolutely into battle.
A fresh realm of paper proved no solution, however. I went and sat down at the computers. Fat Sally was occupying the most efficient of the three, as was her custom.
"Mornin,' Sally. Do we have Internet today?"
"Slow but workin.'"
"Well, that's something."
I set about accessing my e-mails and favorite news site. My fingers, numb with cold, were ponderous on the keys. The pages took an eternity to come up.
"How was your weekend?" I asked Sally while I waited.
"Wonderful. I went to Sultanhamet and had a look around the Ayasofya and Blue Mosque. Oh, the Ayasofya is a visual masterpiece!"
"Really? Never been in it."
Helen exclaimed behind me: "Never been inside the Ayasofya? Nigel and I did that our first week 'ere."
"Guess I'm not the sightseeing type. Never been inside the Dolmabahce or Rumeli Fortress either."
"But don't you ever do anything cultural?"
Sally laughed. "Too busy checkin' out the inside a bars!"
"You ought a try it!" I chuckled with her. "What's a better cultural experience than getting laid by a local?"
"No, thank you! Those joints are shameless meat-markets."
She leaned into her screen and resumed typing on her favorite chat board. The news site finally appeared on my computer. The headlines told of an air strike on a crowded Gaza street. A suspected militant had been killed, along with his family and some passers-by. Rain slammed into the windows, driven by fierce gusts of wind. They buffeted the building, threatening to bring the whole thing crashing down.
Dumpy had entered the room behind me. He called me over and led me into the DOS's office. I felt slightly indignant, following the large, overweight frame of a colleague several years my junior, as though I were his lackey. The DOS was away, and it irked me further to see him sit down behind her desk and gesture at the seat opposite.
"I need you to take over Levent Bey for me," he said, adjusting the knot in his tie. "I'm teachin' a new group at that time."
"Does the DOS know?"
"I e-mailed her and she told me to hand Levent onto you, since you're not teaching Friday mornings. Now, here's what I want you to do -"
"Dude," I interrupted him, getting back to my feet. "You just fill out the register. I'll take it from there."
He stared up at me in silence as I walked out, a flash of annoyance in his eyes.
"Hell!" I muttered to Sally as I joined her again at the computers. "They want me to work Friday mornings now. I'm already doin' five evenings and two mornings."
Another Helen exclamation behind me: "I'd say that's about wot everybody does."
I swivelled around to face her. She had climbed up on a chair by the bookshelves and was trying to bring something down.
"Really? And I'd say this school is full of first and second year teachers like yourself."
"Oh, but you're special because you've been teaching longer than the rest of us."
"Actually, it's got nothin' to do with the rest of you."
I had risen to my feet and said this somewhat angrily. As a gesture of reconciliation I went over and offered to help her. She huffed and turned away. And I still couldn't see what it was she was trying to bring down.

The rain continued all week, reflecting my dark mood. I did not grow accustomed to the arduous journeys to and from work, the rocky boat-rides, the crammed buses, the insane traffic. Neither had familiarity lessened my distaste for the neighbourhood I had moved into. I wanted only to turn back time, reverse my decision, and find myself living in Cihangir.
By Sunday the weather had cleared up. It was Zeynep's day off and perhaps she had some inkling of my despondency, for she offered to show me around. The city was not new to me, but the idea of seeing it with her somehow appealed. Besides which, she insisted on it. We ate breakfast in one of the numerous cafes along Bagdat Street; pide bread, goat's cheese, baby tomatoes and black olives, strong coffee and thick peach juice; then took a stroll along the coast. The water was faded blue and placid, teeming with yachts and all manner of shipping. Beyond lay the Princes Islands, four large green mounds, slightly overlapping from this angle, there in the sea linking Europe and Asia.
"They are like villages of old Turkey," she told me.
"I've been there," I replied. "No cars, just horse-drawn carriage."
"Did you see the monastery and the Greek orphanage?"
"No. I haven't been to Buyukada."
"Really? You should go there. The monastery is from the sixth century, you know."
"Byzantine?"
"Greeks were there for long time. Demitrius, king of Macedon after Alexander, had one fortress on Burgazada. Even in Ottoman times, the islands were for Christians."
From Bostanci we took the ferry to Sirkeci. Braving the chill, I stood out on deck with Zeynep and watched her toss hunks of sesame bread to the gulls. Her delight when they caught them made me laugh. I snapped her several times with my digital camera. The breeze ruffled her hair, her smile was clear and white, the waves shimmered in the sunlight behind her. I would scan those pictures into my computer for keep's sake.
Once on the European side, we hiked up to Sultanahmet. This tourist-infested hilltop suburb was where Byza and Antes had founded their Greek colony two thousand, six hundred years before, Zeynep informed me. It would later become the Constantinople of Byzantium, the Eastern Roman Empire and the Eastern Orthodox Church. First we visited the Hippodrome, site of the ancient chariot races, with its Egyptian obelisk, spiralling three-headed Greek serpent and decaying monument to Constantine, then took a walk around Topkapi Palace, the Ayasofya and the Blue Mosque, observing them from close range, though without venturing inside. Of more interest to me, Zeynep correctly surmised, was the Archaeological Museum. Several hours we spent wandering among its ancient artifacts, viewing relics of the Hittite, Lydian and Persian eras, of Troy and Byzantium, and of the Ottoman age itself. For some time we stood gazing at the fragmented tablet of the Treaty of Kardesh, inscribed three thousand, three hundred years before to seal peace between the Hittites and Egyptians.
It was early evening by the time we emerged from the museum. The orange sun was low on the hills above Fatih. We made the six o'clock sailing for Kadikoy. Zeynep pointed out Haydarpasa Railway Station as we drifted into port, with its giant blue eagle and red star and crescent. It had been a gift to the sultan from the German kaiser one hundred years before. Now they were building a tunnel to connect the European side by rail. On Kadikoy Quay we stopped for durums. The Call to Prayer began echoing out of the Iskele Mosque in splendid, warbling Arabic. The voice of the Islamic world. Zeynep bade me listen in silence as we ate.
Afterward I asked her, "Why do they persist in a language the people don't understand?"
"We understand Call to Prayer. Don't Christians understand Latin in their churches?"
"I don't think it's used anymore. Only Bibles I've ever seen were written in Old English. Even that's Greek to me!"
She shook with laughter, presumably at my ignorance, but it was delightful to see how easily she was amused.
Two women approached in long black carsafs. The garments covered all but their eyes, yet Zeynep clearly recognised them, for she rose to kiss cheeks with them. I watched them exchange greetings, listened to them babble in that Far Eastern language with a softer Middle Eastern accent; they in their black carsafs, she in her white polo-neck and jeans.

The rain returned during the week. Thursday evening we were stuck in traffic coming back from AmeriCola. Dumpy was up front with the driver, smoking a cigarette. I was in back with Esra. The heater poured hot dry air into the car, straight from the engine. It was stuffy and smelled of damp leather. Water streamed down the windows outside. The cross-traffic was refusing to give way, forcing the cars in front of us to battle their way through. Horns blasted. Headlights flashed. Tyres squealed.
"Look at these jerks," I groaned. "If they'd just follow the rules we'd be through all this by now."
"Not much chance of that," said Esra, whose own father was Turkish. "Every man for himself is the only rule they follow here."
"It's crazy!"
"Just way too much traffic, and this city is not equipped to deal with it. We're talking about a metropolis which has grown from one million to about fourteen million in the last four decades."
A yellow cab swerved by, making use of the emergency lane.
"Those guys are the worst," I said. "And so rude! Overcharge you, abuse you, even assault you! The amount a times they get lost -"
Dumpy yawned loudly. "Sounds like they're talkin' about the genocide trial on the radio. This guy's goin' down."
"That Mickey Mouse show?" said Esra. "He was our ally at the time. Who supplied him with the weapons and know-how?"
"Not to mention what's goin' on now," I said, suppressing my annoyance at the interruption. "President ought a be up on trial himself."
"Absolutely," Esra agreed. "It's a man-made humanitarian disaster."
Dumpy chuckled at us. "The president is only a front man. He doesn't know anything about politics. He doesn't even know where the Middle East is."
"Aw come on," I argued. "His whole family's in politics. Course he knows what's goin' on."
"My family's ranchers. But I wouldn't know a steer from a heifer."
"Either way," said Esra, "someone's gotta be held accountable."
"By who?" Dumpy stared back at her. "Like it or not, they got away with it. They even won another election. Gotta hand it to 'em."
"Like a serial killer who got away with it? Does that make it any less a crime?"
"Nobody's buyin' all that garbage they feed us," I added. "Hell, they must think we're stupid."
Dumpy twisted around and blinked at me. "Gee, where would they get an idea like that?"
Esra laughed, and Dumpy puffed on his cigarette contentedly. A moment later his chubby face peered around again. "Say, you never did finish your degree, did ya?" he said, exhaling into my face.
This drew another laugh from Esra, who laughed at anything. Dumpy sucked on his cigarette, blinking like a big blond teddy-bear, as though expecting an applause.
The driver revved the engine, evidently under the impression this would magically open a path before us. But we remained stuck in the same old spot, going nowhere. Hot, dry air flowed into the car. Dumpy's smoke filled the interior. A blue light flashed in the darkness outside, blurred by the rain on the windows. The cops had arrived to clear the mess.

It was past ten when I got to the Cadde Bar. Toby was there, just back from London, telling about his new CD. He was at pains to point out that it was 'anarchistic rock,' as opposed to punk. It did his head in when people accused him of playing punk. If I knew Toby, he screamed a lot and hammered his guitar in whatever manner came to mind, call it 'anarchistic rock' or anything else. His hair, dyed red, was plastered up in a faux mohican with vast quantities of gel. His Sex Pistols T-shirt featured a large Union Jack torn diagonally in half. A different look here, normal enough where he was from. Brad and Corbin were there, the pair of them in leather jackets and jeans, the former with Munife, a peroxide-blonde in a baggy Giants sweater.
"Hey anyway, man," Toby grinned across at me, "really good to see you again. But what's with the stiff's suit?"
Impulsively I removed my tie and undid the top buttons of my shirt. "Came straight from work. Traffic's hell out there. You know what they're like here when it rains. Instant chaos! I haven't even -"
"Whoa!" he protested. "Too much negativity for me, man."
I slumped back into my seat. "Bad day. That's all."
"Well, you always was one for making mountains out of mole 'ills."
The others had started a discussion among themselves, evidently related to the the song playing at that moment.
"He was born in Zanzibar," Brad was insisting. "Southern Africa."
"Sure, but his folks were Persian," Munife replied, affecting a stronger American accent than her year at Washington State could have given her.
"Persia ain't even a country any more!"
Corbin laughed. "Nor will Iran be if it continues to pursue its nuclear program."
"Persia, Iran, call it whatever. That's where his folks were from," said Munife. "Like, even his real name was Farsi."
"The prodigious moustache should a been our first clue!" quipped Corbin. "Not a bad song either. Used to play this at our college football games, whenever we won, that is."
"Course, you do realize it's satire," Toby put in.
"It's what?"
"Come on, man. They didn't believe in all that 'We are the champions, who clap the loser' rubbish. They was taking the piss."
Corbin squinted as he drew on his cigarette. "Not sure what planet you're on sometimes, pal."
"S'pose he weren't gay either!" Brad guffawed, and Munife laughed with him. "Lay off the pills, dude!"
Toby chuckled, and muttered aside to Munife: "Yanks! Too busy imposing their own values to listen to anybody else."
He turned his gaze back on me. "So, how's the job going, man? Still at the same place?"
"Same place, same ol' grind. Keep 'em happy and that's all that matters."
"Personality prostitution." He nodded knowingly.
"Trouble is, I'm livin' on the Asian side and it's a hell of a journey to work and back. And when I stay out weekends I gotta pay forty lira for the cab-ride home"
"What's the problem?" said Brad. "You're livin' with a hot chick, dude!"
Toby grinned mischieviously. "You snake in the grass."
"Just room-mates," I hastened to point out.
"Oh, sure!" Brad laughed raucously. "You and a single chick. You're 'just room-mates!'"
Corbin puffed on his cigarette and frowned skeptically. "Come on, pal, you must a made a move by now."
I shook my head. How could I explain to them?
"She's a cool chick is all," I assured Toby. "Pretty much everything else sucks though. Don't like the neighbourhood one bit. It was a huge mistake movin' there. I could a had a place in Cihangir, you know."
Toby stared at me for a moment, the grin frozen on his face. "Why do you keep telling me this shit, man? I don't wanna hear about your problems?"
I dropped back in my chair again, caught somewhere between humiliation and anger. It was the second time I had allowed the kid to chasten me in the space of ten minutes. The narrow bar was dim and hazy with smoke. The effect was stifling. The others got talking again, but I did not endeavour to join them. What could I say without upsetting Toby? How could I conform to his standards? The Union Jack shone on his T-shirt in the weak yellow light, intrinsically part of him.

Helen and Nigel plastered notices up around the academy. Their house-warming party was on Saturday. Zeynep agreed to come with me, which was doubly fortunate, for I never would have found the place on my own. The apartment was on the fifth floor of a modern block in Cihangir. The large balcony offered a view of the Bosporus, from the mile-long bridge at Ortakoy to the entrance at the Marmara Sea. We stood there with our drinks, gazing at the lights of the Asian side, watching the cruise ships and oil tankers progressing up and down the dark waters below us.
The good hostess was going about from group to group, welcoming all to her 'umble abode,' kissing cheeks in the Turkish fashion, smiling radiantly. She wore a red plaid gown and her hair was done up in an elaborate bun.
"Nice place," I complimented her when she came over to us. "I'm totally in envy."
"It's a dream. We searched so long to find something like this."
"Can't be cheap."
"More than we wanted, but I've got my private students and Nigel's picked up some extra classes in the weekends. And it's so worth it. I mean, look at this view!"
"It's fantastic," Zeynep agreed, staring away in awe. "I never saw view like this."
It was cold out. We went inside and got a bite to eat. The dining table was piled with savouries, chips, nuts, popcorn, pizza still in the carton, bottles of wine and spirits, cans of beer, and a large bowl of punch in the middle. We loaded our plates and joined a group in the living room, who were sitting around the big Tv screen watching the Oscars, animatedly discussing the merits of the winners and nominees. In this manner we passed an hour or so, squashed among others on the vinyl settee, which was not so comfortable as it looked. Over in the corner Fat Sally typed busily on one of the two laptops on a desk there, a bowl of plastic fruit between them. Dumpy sauntered in from the balcony, flanked by two Turkish women, one of whom was his girlfriend. "First time I ever saw you with a girl!" he chuckled down at me.
I glanced at Zeynep in embarrassment. Neither of us said anything.
As the evening wore on the effects of the alcohol kicked in and the conversation grew more raucous. It was around twelve when we were informed the party was moving to a bar so we could all get 'shit-faced.'
"Wanna go?" I asked Zeynep as we stepped out into the cold night air.
"I think I had too much drink already," she replied.
I couldn't help but smile at her. She'd had a glass of wine and two cups of punch. I could see she was as bored as I was. We caught a taxi back to Kadikoy. Zeynep chatted and laughed most of the way. I felt strangely pleased to be going home with her, to have left the party, to be sharing that spectacular view when we crossed the Bosporus Bridge, side by side, in the comfort of the back seat. Even Kadikoy seemed almost welcoming, Haydarpasa Station, Iskele Mosque, the promenade and the narrow streets that were so familiar to me now. It wasn't so bad after all.

On a cool, overcast Saturday I visited Buyukada, the big island, as Zeynep had recommended. It was the last stop, and therefore the point of departure for the return journey. I was able to get a seat in the cafeteria on the way back, and there I sat, resting my feet against the heater, drinking warm coffee and reading Yashar Kemal.
As we left Kinaliada the sun appeared between a break in the clouds. Some passengers went up on deck. I toyed with the idea for a time. The view was much better up there. But what if the sun went away again? Or if it rained? It would be too cold in the open air then, and I would lose my seat in the cafeteria. The clouds spread further apart and more people went outside. I made my decision and followed them.
I found a good spot right at the stern. The engines churned out frothy water below, leaving a turbulent stream in our wake. Gulls wheeled and dipped to retrieve the chunks of sesame bread which had eluded them when thrown by the passengers. The islands were behind us. Ships and ferries passed back and forth.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Brad. "Heard about a place in Taksim. Still lookin'?"
I hesitated, caught off-guard. Was I still looking? I hadn't thought about it for a while. "What's the deal?"
"Single bedroom apartment, fully furnished, only six hundred. Dude, it's a steal!"
"Wow! In Taksim?" It was perfect for me. And so cheap. "What's the catch?"
"No catch. So long as you don't mind the bodrum kat."
"Basement level? No problem. Text me the details, man."
For some time I stood there on deck, phone still in my hand, contemplating this unexpected development. I had grown comfortable at Kadikoy. I enjoyed Zeynep's company. How could I tell her I was leaving, and just a few days before my rent was due? But I had to look after myself, and this was my dream apartment. Close to my work and friends. No taxis, no ferries, no buses, no traffic. And I would have it all to myself. Independence! I had to take it. I simply had to.
The monstrous city spanned the horizon to my left. The faintest outline of the Anatolian plateau was visible in the distance to my right. The yellow tourist balloon was up over Kadikoy. But the sky was growing dark again. The sun slipped away and the rain began to fall. I scrambled below decks with the others and searched for a place to sit. There was nowhere. My former place was gone. I cursed myself as I observed how snug they were, all those who'd had the good sense to stay where it was warm.
I saw the apartment that evening. It was all that Brad had described. The lounge, complete with cable Tv, DVD player and wireless internet service, was practically as spacious as Zeynep's. True, it was basement level and a little dark, but I had no real view where I was anyway. It was offered to me and I arranged to move in next day. Perhaps I knew that, had I paused to consider my dilemma for even a moment, it would have torn me apart. For it were as though I were being carried along by some irresistable force.
The last obstacle was Zeynep herself. I broke the news to her as soon as I saw her, late the following morning. She told me she had been relying on the rent and this would cause problems for her. That was all she said, and I merely apologized. The moment was lost. Even as I packed my things, some part of me hoped she would ask me to stay. Just one word would have been enough. But she didn't. I was leaving. It was my destiny.
I caught the ferry to Besiktas that evening. For a time I stood out on deck, gazing at the Asian side. No more would I endure those crossings twice a day. But a part of my life was disappearing. I was leaving behind a friend.
A ten lira taxi ride completed the journey. Serkat Bey limped out to assist me with my luggage, smiling cheerfully. As we hauled it down the concrete steps I knew this was my very last chance to turn back. But I could not do that to him now. He looked so jovial, this partly-crippled old man. If I had hurt Zeynep, at least I was helping him. I counted twelve hundred lira out onto the kitchen table; a month's rent and a month's deposit as agreed. He whisked it up with surprising alacrity, and a few minutes later he was gone.
I walked around the apartment which was now mine for the living in, and which would be so for the next ten months or more. It was gloomy and had an empty feel about it. Dust rose from the sofa when I sat down and made me sneeze. There was a musty odour about the place. And it was cold. I got up and felt the radiators. They were like ice. I checked the water-heating system. It was functioning, but no amount of tampering with it would bring warmth to the radiators. I tried calling Serkat Bey. His phone was off. What to do? I collapsed back onto the dusty sofa with the grim realization I was stuck in a cold apartment for the time being, and that I was poorly equipped to deal with such problems.
Only then, with my fate sealed, did the full import of my actions hit me. What had possessed me to leave Zeynep's? I must have been mad. If only I could travel back in time, just a few hours, and find myself on the ferry again, staring back at the Asian side, knowing I could still go back there. This was not my destiny. It was the result of a decision that I had made. I alone was responsible. I had traded companionship for solitude, brightness for darkness, warmth for cold.

End
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