GROZDAN

‘Thank you, sir,’ says the petite woman in her canary-yellow uniform when I present my passport at the gate. And then ‘Thank you, sir,’ to my boarding pass. She has a slight accent. I notice her name badge: Burcu. She has cool brown eyes; the rest of her face is hidden by the mask. 

I offer my PLF. Passenger Locator Form. We’ve become familiar with all the jargon during these plague years, haven’t we? Back in Greece there’s KEP for the office I go to for information about my Covid jabs. AMKA is for the number I need to get medical procedures. And because I’m not Greek I need a temporary AMKA which is, satisfyingly, a PAMKA. 

‘Thank you,’ again as she gives them back to me after scanning them. This is all routine by now, a palaver which is annoying but necessary. 

‘Thank you,’ I repeat. 

Finally, I’m about to head down the sloping tunnel to the plane. Good, I’ll soon be home. Well, home in my temporary address in Athens.

This whole trip is a mind-boggling nonsense. My visa was expiring yesterday so, after consulting two embassies, local police, border force, several solicitors, the Bureau for Aliens and an online forum for Brits abroad, and getting conflicting advice, I made the decision to leave Greece, stay overnight near the airport in Istanbul and return the next day. Out in the evening, back the next morning. Crazy but apparently it’s the easiest way to avoid being fined or imprisoned or whatever. It’s all part of the post-Brexit bureaucratic dystopia. 

So yesterday it was the metro to Athens airport, an hour by plane to Turkey and then shuttle bus to a flashy hotel in a grim neighbourhood of concrete shacks and stray dogs ten minutes from the terminal. The only other person on the minibus was an older woman. She looked dignified and sad; she avoided my eyes. This morning I was up at 7, I showered and took the minibus back to the airport. The sad woman was there again. I offered a smile but she stared out of the window or down at her hands all the way.  

I waited, queued and waited and queued, shuffling forward to feed my small bag and jacket and belt through an x-ray machine. I waited some more. There was nowhere to sit. The concourse was heaving with travellers; an air of panic held at bay. I looked at my phone: my last message to Jennifer an hour earlier had been received and read. But there was no reply. Not a good sign. 

My flight was called and I strolled to the gate. When we were ‘invited please to board’ I joined the queue and edged forward until finally here I am, giving my documents to Burcu in her yellow jacket. The last piece in this ridiculous, pointless trip. 

‘And your PCR?’

I glaze over for a second. ‘Ah, the PLF?’ That’s on my phone. I scroll through. Any minute I’ll have it. There’s a line of people behind me. I’m not anxious. This will all be fine.

‘No. Not the locator form, sir. Your PCR test.’ 

‘Oh. A PCR?’

‘Polymer chain – ’

‘Yes, I know,’ I snap, ‘I don’t need a PCR test; I have proof of three vaccinations.’ I’m trying to sound confident but there are notes of entitled British arrogance. It’s a voice I’m not proud of. 

‘You need PCR test to fly,’ she says very simply. ‘Proof of a negative test within the last 72 hours.’ 

‘No, I – ’

‘Or you cannot get on the plane, sir.’ She sounds bored; I’m messing up her efficient system, slowing the procedure. 

‘But...  I...’ I’m floundering now. ‘I only left Athens yesterday evening and now I’m going back. It was an overnight stop because my visa – ’

‘Wait there.’ No sir now. She indicates a row of plastic chairs behind her desk and I sit on one, confused. This can’t be happening. Any minute now she’ll turn and nod with her cool half-smile and the day will unfold as I’d planned. The silly side-step will be completed and in 90 minutes I’ll be back at the flat in Athens.  

I’m only feet from the open mouth of the tunnel. The thought flits across my mind that I could dash down it, find my seat and huddle there in 17A by the window. Or would security guards drag me off the plane, followed by worse? I’ve seen ‘Midnight Express’. 

It's only a few minutes until another woman, in a similar yellow jacket but even smaller than Burcu, comes over, clutching a bundle of papers and a phone. She has an air of authority. Good, she’ll sort this out. She sits next to me and listens to my explanation. ‘... three vaccinations...  PLF...  left Athens last night...  purely for visa purposes...’

‘Yes,’ she says very seriously. ‘I see. I do understand.’

Hoorah.

‘But nobody can fly without a recent negative PCR test. You cannot fly,’ she repeats, looking me in the eye. Hers are green and professionally disengaged. She readjusts her mask, lifting it a centimetre and pinching it across the bridge of her nose.  

‘I’ve only been here overnight.’ I can hear myself pleading. 

‘That may be, sir. But nevertheless. However, you have no need to worry. There is a test immediately. Here in the airport. Your airline will certainly transfer your ticket, no charge.’ 

‘But I thought - ’ 

She gets up. ‘Return to the desk. Speak there, sir.’ She walks away and is swallowed up in the throng. The rest of the passengers file calmly down the ramp. The plane will take off without me. Someone in 17B will be grateful they can move across to the window seat. 

I head back the way I’ve come, against the tide. People scurry, clutching children, pushing big bags on wheels and pulling small bags on wheels. They sit on benches and on the floor, eyes on their phones and then glancing up to big screens. Everyone is either bored or anxious. I am the only one without an agenda. This is not a disaster; it’s a delay. I just need to get this conundrum sorted. 

At the airline desk I speak to a man behind a Perspex screen, bending low to communicate through a hole at waist height. His eyes are hooded, disinterested. He listens as I explain. He nods and waves a hand. ‘Wait. There.’ I wait. When I approach the desk after ten minutes he instructs me with another gesture: ‘Wait.’  After half an hour he emerges from behind his desk, summons me and leads me through doors, gates and security systems. I follow in silence. I feed my bag and belt and shoes through scanners and then I am exactly where I was hours before. ‘Rapid Covid Test’ is a sign I hadn’t seen earlier because I hadn’t needed to. I walk briskly to join the short queue  and feel a flow of confidence return; I’m taking charge again. 

I check my phone. No message from Jennifer. I hate being helpless, at the mercy of the whims of others. She calls me a control freak but doesn’t everyone feel the same? I’ll message her later once I’ve got through this mess. It won’t affect her, back in Durham, but it would be odd not to keep her in the loop. 

I’m not sure we’ll make it. Some days I feel close to her but then one of us will say something that really pisses the other off and I realise we’re incompatible. Or is that the reality for any couple?  All this ‘soul mate’ crap. Real life’s not like that. It’s a fucking struggle of compromise and disappointment. And for what? We’re all going to die; it’s only a question of how we fill in the time.  

A man beckons me forward. I go to the booth and slide my passport under the bottom of the Perspex screen. The manufacturers of Perspex have done nicely out of this pandemic, like the makers of hand-sanitiser. He tells me how much the rapid test will cost. It’s a figure spoken in broken English, through a screen and it’s given in Turkish lira, which means nothing to me. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘That’s fine.’ I hold my phone against the machine to pay. 

I’m sent along the line to another booth and another screen; this one has a circular hole cut into it at chest height. 

‘Remove mask. Forward. Open mouth.’ 

I do as instructed and the woman on the other side puts her hand through the hole and shoves a swab down my throat until I gag and then, in the now familiar routine, up my nose until I think she wants a sample of brain tissue. 

‘Wait one hour,’ she says as I splutter. 

And so I do. I become another of the milling thousands, killing time. I get a coffee with a taste-free bun. I check on the news in the UK and then wish I hadn’t. Do only corrupt people go into politics in order to fuck things up? Or do they have good intentions and do the fucking up by accident? Either way, Brexit stinks. Getting a visa for Greece to do research for my PhD was tough enough; but if I wanted to live or work in Europe or if my children wanted to study there, forget it. Actually, forget the idea of me having children. Not now, not with Jennifer anyway. We have some good times but they’re mostly fuelled by pills or coke. In between feels too ordinary. She was going to come out to visit but now she says she’s too busy with exams and can’t spare the time and what with Covid and everything blah blah blah. 

She’s seeing someone else, that’s what I think. Someone more...  Someone less like me. Not so academic, more sporty. Fair enough. We met through Tinder and have tried to make a go of it but did we ever think it was the one? I didn’t. These few months in Athens will put the kibosh on it, I’m pretty certain. I wonder which of us will be the first to sidle up to the matter. ‘You’re terrific but you deserve more than I can give you...’ 

It's happened before and I got over it. I’ll get over it again. But it will be another nail in the coffin of any optimism I have about life.  

I check my watch; it’s too soon for the result. I go outside and stand in strong sunshine, my head titled up. Everything is better with sun. But it’s too bright and I have to blink and look down again. That’s when I see a half-familiar figure on a bench in a shaded corner across the other side of the wide area where taxis, buses and cars collect and deposit people in a constant flurry of activity. The woman from the hotel bus stands out in the whirl of commotion as she, like me, is still. There’s that cloud of despair hanging over her, seeming almost to emanate from within. For a moment I’m tempted to cross over and ask if she’s all right. We were only staying at the same hotel but that fact creates a loose, temporary kinship. 

A large vehicle parks, blocking my view of her and my good Samaritan moment passes. When it moves, she’s gone. I go back inside, have another coffee, read some boring emails and delete a lot of spam. No  message from Jennifer. I go the to the gents’. I wash my face. 

It’s time. At the booth where I paid, I show my passport again. The wait feels ominous. If the result is positive, what then? Quarantine in Turkey? I can feel sweat trickle down the small of my back. 

The man returns with a piece of paper, which he pushes at me. No words. He doesn’t do words; it’s not his job. His attention turns immediately to the person behind me, holding his hand ready to receive the proffered document. 

I move away, scanning the sheet of paper too fast to find what I need. I bump into a waste bin and feel foolish. Random words catch my eye: Ministry of Health... Sabiha Gokcen...  Supervisor Yüksel Akkasm...  Reference Value...  Where the hell is the actual - ? Negative. There it is: Test result - negative. 

Thank fuck for that. 

Well, of course it is, of course. I can sit back with relief. And I can get a flight to Athens. 

I wait in another queue to speak-shout with another person in a yellow uniform through yet another Perspex screen. 

This young woman has a touch of Jennifer about her: sexy but distant. Her eyes are also blue. Her mask covers mouth but not nose; nostrils naughtily visible. She repeatedly hooks a lock of hair behind her right ear and it keeps falling forward. Like the others, she is efficient and implacable. 

‘Yes sir, we can give you a seat at no charge. On the flight at 1645.’ 

‘I glance at my watch. ‘That’s – ’

‘Tomorrow.’ 

‘Tomorrow? Not today? This afternoon?’

‘Tomorrow. There are no other seats available.’

I don’t believe her. She’s lying to me, why? My pressure makes no difference. Don’t be stupid; don’t waste your energy. Accept and withdraw.  I manage a chilly, ‘Thank you’.  

What now? It’s twenty-four hours until I need to return for another  attempt to take that one-hour flight. Athens has never felt so distant or inaccessible. 

I sit for a while considering my options. Take a bus into Istanbul? See sights, buy stuff? No, trying to shoe-horn entertainment into this barren day is pointless. It’s a pragmatic trip, getting out of Greece for twenty-four hours. Forty-eight, now. I will save energy like a hibernating mammal, maintain a low profile until I am finally allowed to walk down that concertinaed tunnel to my escape. 

First things first. I reserve a room for a second night at the hotel I checked out of this morning. I book their shuttle bus again; it will pick me up in half an hour. 

I wait inside the terminal near a shop selling nuts, halva and Turkish delight. The waft of sweet aromas is a sickly addition to the stale air. Then I go outside into the sun to wait some more. I glance across the tarmac at the bench where the woman had been sitting, half expecting to see her. She’s not there, of course. 

The bus arrives and I’m one of four passengers this time. We are all silent on the ten-minute journey. Last night when I arrived it was dark; this morning I was watching the sad woman. Now I take in the reality. After five minutes on a dual carriageway we drive into a grubby suburb of concrete low-rise structures and garish signs. The hotel, next to a giant petrol station, stands four-square like a poor imitation of something Georgian. The name Emir Palace glares out in giant letters under a crown logo that blinks. Deliberately or from faulty wiring it’s impossible to know. 

At the desk in the lobby I check in again with the pleasant man who has some English and a luxuriant, droopy moustache. He wears his mask under his chin like a sling. He’s around my age, thirty-ish, I reckon. It’s hard to tell. The facial hair ages him. Perhaps that’s the effect he wants: more authority. He wasn’t on duty when I checked out a few hours earlier so he shows no surprise at my return. I’m given a room on the fifth floor, at the back. It has walls covered in dark green hessian and heavy wooden panels over the bed. I make myself a cup of instant coffee with powdered ‘milk’ and lie on the bed. 

Jennifer will be in lectures now or maybe working in the library. I don’t expect a long conversation. Even so, I send a message with some detail about my situation, adding some slightly humorous comments (the swab up my nose to my brain, that sort of thing)  and appropriate emojis. When I get the reply, ‘Oh dear’ I feel cheated. Two words. I wanted sympathy, curiosity, connection. 

Oh dear.

Better to face up to this reality than pretend otherwise. Yes, I have a girlfriend but...  But we’re treading water. But it’s not The One. But she’s seeing someone else. Probably. 

Turkish television holds no charm for me. I flick through the channels for a while, pour the coffee-flavoured-drink down the basin and head outside to see what’s what. 

It’s a bright winter’s day. I can only imagine, but would rather not, how this landscape appears in rain, without the bleaching qualities of sun. If Athens is the city of stray cats, here it’s dogs. Not aggressive but a mixture of curious and wary. As if they’ve suffered and learned to hang back, hopeful but ready to scarper if threatened. Every fifty yards there’s another, skinny and watchful.  On the grass along the central strip of the road a ginger mutt is lying. It watches me. I wonder if it's ill or dying of starvation. It might have been hit by a car and need help.

I walk on. Not my problem. 

A smaller road leads downhill. I follow it and am suddenly staring at a tall minaret, thin as a pencil, decorated in pale green tiles and geometric shapes. I stand there, admiring the sculpture, the only beautiful thing I’ve seen in this country. The call to prayer begins, leaking out of twin speakers near the top. It’s odd to my ears, a tinny alien wail, but curiously comforting. It bubbles along, bouncing off nearby buildings. When it stops the echo hovers in the air for an extra moment, like the scent from the sweet stall earlier. Through a window of a ramshackle building I can see two men taking off their shoes. 

High walls capped with curled razor wire run along the left side of the street. Opposite is a depot of some sort, rusty metal crates and iron girders stacked precariously.  

A group of lads comes down the road towards me. I check to see if I’m afraid. I’m not. Another check: should I be? No, they are heading to work, a late shift in a factory perhaps, not looking for trouble. Life here is tough but not violent, I decide. None of them is wearing a mask. They walk past, arguing loudly, without making eye contact. I’m invisible. 

I walk further, checking to see the hotel sign is still visible behind me. An area of burned-out cars, more dogs prowling, one tethered with a length of rope, barking. Some desultory-looking shops with empty windows, a stall selling trainers and, I think, a taxi firm where half a dozen men stand around smoking and spitting. A woman bustles along with a buggy; in it is a child of indeterminate sex who looks too old to be sucking on a dummy. There’s a restaurant with large windows exposing rows of empty tables and a quartet of tuxedoed waiters waiting. Not waiting on customers, waiting for some. One of them sees me and straightens up, hoping that I might be about to enter. I look away and hurry past.   

A small supermarket has some fruit outside. I put some bananas in a bag and go in to browse the shelves. I am the only customer. I find some biscuits, a bag of pistachio nuts and a carton of pomegranate juice; these will keep me going for a while. I pay at the check-out with my phone; no words are exchanged.   

As I leave the shop a siren screeches and a police van dashes past, blue light flashing. There is no traffic to warrant its urgent swagger; nothing has to make way. 

I walk on. I pass the spot where the ginger dog was lying; it’s gone. 

I cross the forecourt of the petrol station and I see the police vehicle outside the hotel, silent now but its blue light still whizzing round. I’m not sure if it’s OK to go past it into the building; will I be stopped, questioned, asked for papers I don’t have? I have a few words of Greek but no Turkish at all.  

I hang back, trying to look casual, not suspicious. 

From the wide, slowly revolving door of the entrance comes a policeman garlanded with the usual heavy weaponry and next to him is a hunched figure. It’s the sad looking woman from the bus journey and the bench. The policeman puts a hand on her elbow; is it to restrain her or support her as she negotiates the steps? Some words are exchanged between them but the tone is impossible to tell. Is he explaining that she’s under arrest or reassuring her? If men with guns are helping you into a van, it’s not a parking ticket, is it? He gets in the front, starts the engine and drives off, past me.

In the lobby I think I might ask at the desk what’s been going on but there’s a queue of guests waiting to check in so I head up to my room. She looked defeated, broken. Have her crimes caught up with her? Drug dealing? Theft? People trafficking? 

I read my Kindle for an hour. 

I eat some biscuits and try the coffee stuff again. 

I look out of the window. There is a concrete expanse with a pool, empty of water. Next door is a yard where chickens are pecking the ground. 

I fall asleep for an hour. 

Time is being killed. The light is fading as evening falls. I can see the control tower of the airport in the distance.

I text Jennifer with an update – no change – on my weird situation, this bizarre banishment. I don’t bother adding amusing details. Or even the part about the woman being driven away. She’s not online so there’s no reply. Perhaps she’s with him? 

Who is he? A fellow student? A tutor? Someone from the town that she got chatting to in a pub? Is he younger than me or older? Is he wealthy, witty, spontaneous? All the things I’m not? Maybe she’s flirting with a woman, trying out being a lesbian for a change? No, she’s probably writing an essay on the use of language and symbolism in the works of George Eliot.  

I have a shower and, looking down at my pale, naked body, wonder whether to masturbate. I can’t be bothered. 

I forget about the woman and the police. 

Until I go downstairs. 

I head along the gold-embellished corridor and take the gold-trimmed lift into the room off the foyer that’s called the restaurant; it’s more of a fast-food snack bar. It’s functional; no gold here. I can get a plate of something but no alcohol. I sit at a table by the wall and browse the menu, deciding to chance the Pílavüstü Döner, translated as ‘Doner Kebab togged on rice’. The startlingly youthful waiter offers a ‘salaat’ as well. He has one lazy eye and gives the impression of flirting with me. 

 It's only when I’m eating my meal that I notice her, at a corner table, almost hidden by an elaborate display of plastic flowers. She’s not eating, but nursing a glass of something between her open palms, as if it’s comforting her. Now I can observe her properly. She’s maybe late fifties and has strong features with luxuriant but unstyled hair. There would be something of the celebrity about her if it wasn’t for the air of melancholy and a need to be hidden away. What was going on with the police? 

She glances up from her meditation as if aware of my gaze. And the strangest thing happens. I don’t look away. I feel emboldened, brazen. And she holds my eyes as if she’s surprised, then considering something. It’s only seconds but it feels… intimate? Is that absurd? As though she’s looking deep into me, weighing me up. I risk a tiny smile, the sort that means: ‘Hello again, we were on the bus yesterday and I saw you at the airport looking sad and watched you with the police earlier; I hope you’re all right.’  But that’s a lot to convey with a lift of the lips. Her expression doesn’t change. She looks down at her drink again. I am dismissed. 

I read my Kindle while I finish my meal but I’m too aware of the sad woman with big hair over in the corner. Other residents come, eat and go but the two of us remain, as if we’re each waiting for the other to leave first. Why? 

I glance over discreetly a couple of times. The second time she’s looking back in my direction, still with that non-committal expression, reserved and cool. 

I’ve read the same page three times; I have no idea what’s happening in the convoluted plot.  

The waiter comes over and I charge my bill to my room, showing him the key with its heavy wooden fob that lolls on the white paper tablecloth . He moves off, his eye now a sneer of recrimination that he won’t be getting a tip. I’m about to leave but as I dab my mouth with the napkin I become aware of movement nearby. The woman is on her feet and walking across the room. From her corner to the door she can choose one of two routes; she’s opted for the one that passes my table. As she reaches it she pauses. I look up with a half-smile of politeness, ready to respond. She takes a gulp of air and is about to speak but hesitates, closes her mouth and purses her rather generous lips, giving a small shake of her head. Her hair really is magnificent. In that moment she seems like a diva ready for her starring role in an opera: the power, the passion. And the weight of tragedy. 

She is examining my face, scanning my features as if seeking proof or needing to verify a detail. One hand raises an inch or two, fingers stretching as though she’ll reach out to touch me. But she pauses, closes her hand and retracts it with a sigh. Now her eyes flick down to the table - the plate, cup, crumpled napkin and the key fob – and back to me. The softness in her eyes, the quizzical brow and the slightly open mouth...  they could mean anything. I have no idea what she reads in my expression but she makes a tiny gasp, lowers her head as if in apology for the disturbance and walks past me into the foyer. After a moment I risk a look over my shoulder and see her step into the lift. The door slides closed behind her. 

It was no more than ten seconds but it feels rich with meaning. What meaning I have no idea.

A minute later I’m in the same lift. It’s lined with mirrors and I see too many versions of myself. There’s a whiff of perfume, I think. Or is that my mind working overtime? She is a good-looking woman. Twenty-five years older than me, I’d guess, but very...  well, very sexy. 

In my room I shower again and sit on the bed in the hotel bathrobe, eat some nuts and drink juice from the carton, leaving a little for the morning. I double check the documents I’ll need, including proof of the PCR and a new PLF. I travelled so light that I won’t have clean underwear; I’ll turn my boxers inside out and the socks will have to do for another day. 

I message Jennifer to let her know the latest. I’m tempted to tell her I’ve met an older woman at the hotel to see if it rouses any jealousy. Although ‘met’ seems an overstatement. There’s no reply. I feel more sad than angry that we’re coasting to a close. 

I clean my teeth, set two alarms and plug my phone in to charge. Tomorrow I will be back in the Athens apartment and can continue my work. 

It’s just as I’m about to get into bed that I hear it. The sound is so soft I almost dismiss it as one of those non-specific hotel noises. Bathroom pipes or a television in the next room. But it happens again, louder, and I realise it’s a rapid knock on my door. The man from the desk, I expect, with some information about the shuttle bus in the morning. Or a message from Jennifer perhaps. 

When I open the door what I see is a shock but makes complete sense. Ah, right, of course. Now I get it. This is what it all meant.

She stands there, head a little lowered but looking up at me, asking for permission. There’s a plea in her eyes, begging me not to turn her away. I give her a smile to show my instant agreement. 

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Come in.’ I step back. Quickly she steps inside. I close the door and turn. She stands there, meek but determined. 

‘I’m Greg,’ I say, wondering if I should offer a hand to shake. She nods and cups both her hands to her chest in a gesture that seems polite and grateful. 

‘I wasn’t sure... ’ I say. ‘I saw you with the police earlier and… Are you all right? Do you need..?’ A thought springs up. Shit, maybe it’s your wallet she wants, not your body. But she shakes her head, waves the words away and mutters something I don’t catch. Her voice is low and resonant. 

‘Would you like a...  coffee? I have some pomegranate...  Or I can order from room service. A glass of...’

She shakes her head and glances into the room, asking my permission. I indicate a welcome with a gesture and she walks across to the bed where she sits down, waiting for me to join her. Neither of us is wearing a mask; should I be worried? I realise I’m in a bathrobe. Well, that’s probably fine; in a few minutes we’ll both be naked. Who’d have thought? The sad woman from the bus, the airport, the police van and the restaurant; she was noticing me and fancying what she saw. That’s the thing about older women, there’s a confidence that girls Jennifer’s age don’t have. The ability to home in on what they want, claim it and move on. This is a classic one-nighter, a shag-and-go, a mucky-fuck. But a classy mucky-fuck, obviously.  

I sit on the bed next to her. She has lines around her eyes and looks tired. Her makeup is minimal. She’s around the age of my mum. Which is a weird thought and I bat it away. She’s striking and curvy. And sitting on my bed. 

‘You are a very handsome woman,’ I say. No, that’s not right. ‘Very attractive.’ I give a smile and look down at her blouse, the shape her breasts make through the fabric. She shakes her head as if disappointed. I say, ‘What is your name?’

She puts her finger to my lips. Before I can kiss it she takes it away and gently strokes the back of her hand down my face from temple to chin. Staring intently into my eyes she takes in a huge gulp of air and sighs it out with a moan. 

And then she begins to cry. Little gasps and whimpers and words mumbled under her breath, tumbling out like a prayer so familiar it doesn’t need to be distinct. One sound keeps repeating like a chorus: grozdan-grozdan. I have no idea what is happening. She holds my face in her two hands, talking to me fast, the words pouring out now urgently in a language I don’t understand. She’s telling me things, asking me things. I look back, uncomprehending and yet wanting to know what she wants, who she is, what this means. 

She takes one of my hands and places it against her breast. Is this the start now, the sex part? But it couldn’t feel less stimulating. No, it’s some comment about her heart, I think, and she cries some more. Is she unwell? She puts her own hand against my chest, comparing maybe? Now there are tears overflowing from her eyes and falling down her cheek. ‘Grozdan... Grozdan...’ comes the refrain. 

She opens her arms and invites me into a hug. I lean forward and she embraces me, holding me tightly to her in this awkward sideways twist. Her hair falls over my face and I breathe in the floral sweetness of her perfume. She rocks us gently from side to side and her whimpering subsides. Is this arousing? I ask myself the question. I’m in a loose bathrobe after all so I would know it if was, and so would she. No, not erotic.  Intriguing and confusing. Touching too. I like the warmth, the scent, the hair and the mysterious crooning incantation. I feel comforted at some visceral level, like I did when I was a kid and my pains and panics would be cuddled away. This caring feels maternal. 

I allow my body to slump further. My head is now in her lap and she rests one hand on my neck, the other on my back, holding me safe. Then she pats my leg, indicating that I should lift them up on to the bed, which I do. She pulls me close, reaches to give the duvet a jerk and wraps it over me, protectively, as if to keep me warm. I feel our breathing  synchronise. In... pause... out... pause... in... pause... out...

In this odd but perfectly welcome encounter, my mind is released of all responsibility. It drifts to thoughts of Jennifer and what she might be doing. I am forlorn that we have failed to maintain our first flush of excitement, allowing the mundane to dominate. We have drifted from keen to cool, from laughter to indifference. I despair at the impossibility of truly deep connection. The lies we are fed about love. The fairy-tales of ever after. 

But here, now, this will do. I feel cared for and consoled. I don’t need to understand. The meaning is the feeling. This is close enough to love. It is genuine and, while unfathomable, is uncomplicated. This will do just fine. 

‘Grozdan...  Grozdan... Sssh..’ 

It’s getting light when I wake. I’m wrapped in the duvet, lying sideways across the huge bed with a pillow under my head. I’m alone in the room. I struggle to my feet and go to the bathroom, thinking I might find her there. No. I look around the room. For what? A note? A gift? There’s nothing. Only the faintest scent of violets. 

I get under the duvet properly for another hour until my alarm rings. I’m quickly into practical mode, dressing, checking, packing my few items. At the reception desk the chap with the lugubrious features is on duty. I pay my bill. 

‘How was everything, sir?’ 

‘Fine, thank you. Very nice.’ 

‘Your room? What you need?’

‘Yes. Just right.’ 

‘Thank you, sir. Please,’ he hands me a small card. ‘Next time discount of five percent.’

Next time?  

‘Thank you, that’s very... And the bus to the airport?’

‘In front, ten minutes. Driver Ahmet.’ 

‘Thank you so much. Goodbye. I hope to see you again,’ I lie. 

I sling my rucksack over one shoulder and walk to the main, revolving door. It’s another bright January day. Today I return – in sha’ Allah – to my temporary home in Athens to continue my research. Another couple of months and then back to Durham to work on my dissertation: ‘Kalokagathia as the basic notion of determining ancient Greek values: the correlation between verity, kindness and beauty.’ 

Verity. Kindness. Beauty. Doctorate. Durham. Jennifer.

I take my phone out of my pocket to send her a message. She’s done it first. 

‘How the hell are you, babe? God I miss you so much. xxx.’ 

The sunlight is already strong on my face. I feel lighter. 

The bus is due in two minutes. I go back inside to the desk. 

‘Um... can I ask you something?’

‘Sir. Of course. I can help you?’

‘I’m not sure. There was a woman staying. Last night. Older, hair sort of... Do you know the one I mean?’

‘We have many guests. Woman and man. Child too.’

‘Yes, the thing is... She...  we...  sort of...’

‘Yes?’ He gives me a knowing look and tilts his head.

‘She was with the police yesterday. In their van, out there.’ I gesture to the main door. I see the minibus pull up. 

‘Ah,’ he says. 

‘Is she all right?’ He holds my gaze, eyelids ever so slightly closed as if he’s falling asleep. ‘You probably can’t tell me...’

‘Yes, sir, I cannot tell you.’ The professional pause. ‘Except to say... is she all right? No. She is very... hm, the word? Not happy. She Bulgar woman. Came here to Istanbul in order... one moment.’ 

He picks up his mobile and jabs at it. Outside people are getting onto the bus. I’m torn. Will it wait? Do I risk missing another flight? 

He is showing me his screen. Google Translate. There are words in Turkish and below them I read: To identify the body of her son.  

‘Oh. Oh my goodness. That’s...’ 

‘Yes. He did...’ He mimes pulling a noose around his neck. ‘He had only thirty years. Poor boy. His name – ’

‘Yes,’ I cut him off. ‘Yes, I know his name.’ 

I walk out into the sunshine and onto the bus. On the journey to the airport I send Jennifer a message: ‘Can we talk later? Lots to discuss.’

—o0o—