Bosphorus belle

The bridges of the Bosphorus hung above us in the dark and the boat slowed down then halted. The rise and fall of the swell became nauseating as the boat bobbed at the mercy of the wakes of passing boats and we waited.

This was a hired excursion boat from Istanbul and we were out partying to celebrate the end of a conference. I had little time to have a drink or to speak to anyone. But several conversations ended by asking if I had met Esmanur and when I said ‘no’ I was told ‘don’t worry, she’ll be here soon’. I could not fathom what they meant, who she was or why it mattered. But now we had stopped.

A launch approached us in the dark, mainly visible by its fluorescent wake. The music continued, but everyone fell silent and watched the approaching vessel. ‘Here she is’ I heard. I guessed that this must be Esmanur.

Soon the launch was at our side where a ladder extended to the sea. Looking over the side with the others I could see a figure in a gown taking hold of the rungs, her feet being guided to the steps by a boatman, and then climbing to the deck. The boat disappeared in the darkness and a tall, slim woman of extraordinary beauty stepped on board. Clearly Turkish, she had the unique combination of a sallow European complexion, dark eyes, the aquiline nose of her Arabic ancestors and large dark, shining, eyes. Her head was framed by a mane of luxuriant black hair.

Everyone wanted to speak to her, brush cheeks in the customary manner and to invite her to sit with them. She declined, ignored and whispered to a young lady close to her. The lady pointed to me and Esmanur looked over. I was clearly being summoned; I obeyed and went to greet to her. Immediately the crowd parted and some people sitting nearby stood up and ushered us to their vacated table. We sat down.

‘Hello’ I said, ‘that was quite an entrance - were you late?’ She completely ignored my question and asked how I liked Istanbul. ‘Fine’ I said, ‘first time here’.
‘I have lived here all my life’ she replied, ‘what is it you do?’
I handed her my business card and she studied it intensely. ‘You could be helpful to me’ she said, and I agreed that I would be delighted, despite having no idea what she would want of me.

Looking at her closely I could see that, despite the extreme confidence, the expensive attire and the noticeable entrance, she was quite young. Only early twenties, I reckoned. ‘Are you part of the group that is here’ I asked, sweeping a finger round the others on the boat. ‘Yes’ she replied, ‘but not for long’. She had recently worked with them and had the experience she wanted. But now she was ready to move on. Our conversation faltered thereafter as a stream of people came up to greet her, and from their expressions, I gathered they hoped she would stay with them. I made to leave several times – mainly to find a drink – but each time I moved she reached over and tugged my sleeve, indicating that I should sit down and stay with her. ‘You are our guest, you should not have to fetch your own drinks.’ To whoever she was talking at the time, she whispered, glanced at me and within a few minutes I had a cold beer in my hand.

The night progressed, and I remained at her table, largely ignored but not allowed to leave. Bored, I tried to strike up a conversation with others around us but each time I was summoned back to speak to her. For a few minutes she would show an intense interest in what I was saying, then resume conversation with someone else in the queue of people who were vying for her attention.

Fervent Turkish dancing had been underway since the start of the evening. At first a few women, then the men they persuaded to join them. The music got louder and the pressure on those seated to join became intense. Several times I was grabbed by the arms by a few women. But a glance from Esmanur, and they let me sit down again. I was grateful but remained unengaged in the conversation at the table. The only relief from the boredom was the occasional beer brought to me at Esmanur’s command.

I wanted to study her intensely, to see what hold she had over those around her. But my attempts to stare were noticed, if not be her, by one of those deep in conversation with her and I felt embarrassed. She was always animated, her hands waving and pointing. People were summoned to join her for a time, then they left – but always with a nod of assent from Esmanur. It seemed that no one could simply stand up and leave of their own volition; I certainly knew that; and felt trapped.

I was surveying the Martyr’s Bridge, beautifully light up, and wondering when we would turn and head back into Istanbul when I glanced over to look at Esmanur. She was gone and all the faces at the table were looking over my shoulder. Esmanur was dancing, taking in the last few orgasmic rounds of the dancing which was clearly coming to an end. The women were dancing trance-like, hands raised, and eyes shut with Esmanur dancing in the middle of them. Her hands were raised, breasts bobbing in time to the music and shards of hair plastered to her perspiring forehead. She stared at me intensely. Never taking her eyes off me, she made it clear that this performance was for me. I smiled, but she just kept staring and I was mesmerised.

She returned to the table and, separating me from the person to whom I was talking, sat next to me. Very close. I could feel the heat from her body, a sweet smell of perfume wafted from her and she leaned over, her hair touching my face and said: ‘I hope you enjoyed that’. Then she turned to continue conversations with the others at the table and I was ignored again.

I assumed that the point of my proximity to her would become apparent. But it never did. Another hour passed and at last, the boat bobbed back into the harbour in the shadow of Istanbul station and the party atmosphere on the boat subsided. The music stopped and the shutters on the bar clattered down as the boat glided to a halt at the jetty, the reversed propellers stirring up that unique faecal smell of Istanbul harbour.

The guests began to leave but, clearly, people wanted to make sure Esmanur disembarked safely so everyone offered her to go before them. She declined a few offers and then eventually stood to leave. I planned a few words of farewell and the hope I could be of help. Without looking at me she began to walk to the gangway. Before she reached it, she dug into her handbag for something and tossed it on the last table. She never looked back…and I never saw her again.

I waited for a few minutes until I saw some familiar faces from the conference and stood up to leave the boat with them. As I stepped on the gangway, the last thing I saw was my business card on the table.

Stabbing pain

He glanced up as he collected his bag from the scanner and saw her for the first time.

‘Beautiful’ he thought, and he watched the slim, dark haired girl - undoubtedly Spanish - walking towards the platforms of the RENFE High Speed Trains. They were both travelling from Barcelona Sants. He was going to Pamplona. He wondered where she was going as he followed her to the platform escalators.

He was too late taking his gaze off her. As she passed the barriers at the checking desk where the uniformed staff scanned your ticket, she turned to join the queue which was facing him. She saw him and indicated clearly that she had by fixing his gaze for a few seconds. ‘Oops’ he thought ‘need to be more careful’; he dropped his eyes to the floor and took his place in the queue...right behind her. By a series of ‘beeps’ the queue moved forward as tickets were checked and passengers made their way to the platforms. His was platform 3 and he was not sure whether to be pleased that she was heading that way too. He felt a bit embarrassed and, by this time, was wondering if she thought he was following her. He decided to stop and fumble with his bags, looking disinterested as she stepped on to the first of the long escalators to the platform many metres below. Once she was out of sight and several people had followed her he made his way to the escalator and descended. About half way down he looked ahead to see her step off the escalator. Instead of moving on to the next escalator she stepped sideways and turned to watch him approaching her. He wanted to walk back up the escalator, he felt uncomfortable. Much to his relief, with only a few feet of escalator to travel, she turned and walked to the second one. He did not step on himself. Instead, he watched over the side until she had reached the end and stepped off. Again, she did not move, she looked up and caught his gaze before moving down the platform and out of sight.

Disconcerted and feeling stupid for staring at her in the first place he reached the platform and asked the uniformed lady were the ‘Preferente’ seats were; she told him that they were at the other end of the platform. His heart sank as that was the direction the girl had walked in. He decided to wait until the train arrived and people had started boarding before moving along to his carriage. That way he was unlikely to encounter her.

The beautiful high speed train glided in to the station and he made his way along the platform slowly against the tide of alighting passengers. With no sign of her he reached his carriage at the rear of the train, found his seat and sat down. She was nowhere to be seen and he sighed heavily, with relief. The train began to move, silently, from the station. He was looking out of the window as the train entered the long tunnel away from Barcelona Sants. The automatic sliding carriage door swished open. It was her.

She put her wheeled case in the luggage rack, checked her ticket, scanned the seat numbers and took her seat on the opposite side of the corridor. She was facing him and could see him clearly; as he could see her. He glanced at her a few times in quick succession, but she was not looking at him, she was flicking through messages on her mobile phone. She swiped left in large gestures as she deleted messages, occasionally stopping to read one in detail.

He realised that he was now staring at her and averted his gaze to look out the window at the passing Catalonian landscape and then drifted off to sleep.

After an hour he woke up and it took him a few minutes to recall where he was. He looked around and then saw her again. This time she was staring at him. He dared to hold her gaze for a few seconds and he imagined he saw a smile on her lips. He smiled back and considered going to speak to her, but his courage evaded him, she would probably leave the train before him and he realised – with a mixture of relief and disappointment – he would never see her again. But the few stations on the way passed and she remained on the train with only the final stop to go - Pamplona.

The approach to Pamplona was tedious, with the train stopping several times at deserted stations and then slowly trundling into the town. He waited until she got off the train –  pretending to take some time packing his shoulder bag. When she was on the platform, he followed to the single exit door which funnelled the passengers into the small ticket hall and through to the taxi rank. Several hundred people left the train, but most were being collected or just walked off into the town. He turned to the taxi rank, which was devoid of taxis, but not devoid of a single waiting passenger; the girl.

He slowly walked up behind her, hoping a taxi would come to take her before he reached the rank. No taxi came, and he had to take his place behind her. She turned as he approached and he quickly decided to speak, thinking it would be more natural. She was clearly aware of him.

‘No taxis; is it always like this?’.

‘No idea, first time here.’ She smiled but not very warmly.

At least she spoke English.

‘My first time too; got a conference at the university.’

She did not answer...and he was lost for further conversation.

A taxi arrived, and he briefly wondered if she would ask him to share, but no. She said something to the driver, got in and was off without even looking at him.

Now he was relieved; clearly, she had no interest in him and he had probably not made a very positive impression on her. A second taxi arrived, he said the name of his hotel – Blanca de Navarra – and they drove off.

Entering the lobby, he fished out his passport and presented it to the receptionist. He tried some of his elementary Spanish but she replied fluently in English. After a few minutes, a photocopy of his passport having been taken and his credit card swiped he turned to find the lifts. As he located them across the lobby one of the lifts opened and, to his surprise, the woman from the train came out and walked across the lobby in his direction. This time he was not going to miss the opportunity. ‘Hello - just what are the chances?’.

‘Very high, I’d say, given how few decent hotels there are here.’

She was curt and cold and clearly not impressed with Pamplona, or the hotel.

‘Oh, I don’t know, I saw quite a few on the web but this was near the conference.’ He replied. ‘You’re not going to the conference too, are you?’

She did not reply.

‘Well, I wonder if you’d like to have a drink later?’ The words were out before he had even thought about them.

‘Sure’ she said - to his surprise - ‘I’ll come to your room and pick you up’.

‘My room? I was thinking...OK then’ he was taken aback at her forward suggestion but the offer of coming to his room seemed too good to miss. After all, he thought, who knew what it might lead to.

‘What time’ he asked.

‘When I’m ready’ she replied.

She was not exactly warm or friendly, but she was in charge.

***

He unpacked, and his mind was on one thing only. The girl and the prospect of her coming to his room. He felt his breathing deepen and his heart rate accelerate. What should he wear, would he have time for a shower, or a drink at the bar? But he realised, in fact, he was stuck. Her vagueness about when she would come and his desire to see what this was leading to had got him trapped in his room – he dare not leave as he as sure she would not come back if she did not find him there.

***

After a few hours – during which he was beginning to wonder if she had been being sarcastic – he heard a knock. He peeked through the security hole, and there she was.

When he opened the door she asked if she could come in.

‘Of course’ he replied, turning and walking into the room ‘come in. I was wondering if you were going to come at all.’

She said nothing.

‘I wondered if you’d seen me at the station in Barcelona and on the train, but I guess you did. I thought maybe we could...’

He turned; she was close behind him. She gazed into his eyes, put an arm round his neck and, with her head to the side, drew him in for a kiss. He willingly cooperated and leant forward, holding her gaze. He did not see the knife which she thrust into his solar plexus and up into his heart.

As he slumped to the floor the last thing he heard was: ‘Oh I saw you.’