Louise hears the gunshot, muffled, from behind the carpet. She jumps, as though the pistol is aimed at her, the shot fired in her direction. She squeezes her eyes shut, waits for another to sound—but there is nothing, only silence. Then the distant sound of a shrill whistle.
She untangles herself from behind the carpet. Her skin is flushed from the heat of the wool; she can feel it, her hands like ice when she raises them to her cheek. “Thank you,” she murmurs to the shopkeeper, who is looking off in the direction of the gunshot. “Merci,” she says again.
The man nods, visibly shaken, but does not smile.
She leaves his shop quickly.
Back on one of the souk’s many streets, she searches for an exit, wonders how she will ever be able to find one. She doesn’t know what she had imagined earlier, when Henri first mentioned the Grand Bazaar—a few lanes filled with shops, similar to the passages in Paris. She had been mistaken. This is nothing like that. The bazaar is labyrinthine, an entire city unto itself. She cannot even imagine how far it must stretch, cannot imagine how many arms and legs it possesses in its offshoots.
She chooses one way, at random, begins to walk, trying not to hurry, trying not to look out of place. She gathers her new scarf around her, hiding part of her face within the folds of the fabric, while doing her best to take in her surroundings.
Ahead, she can see a crowd has begun to gather. She stops, feels someone knock against her shoulder, hears them curse, but she doesn’t respond, doesn’t bother to offer her apologies. She’s not sure she would be able to speak, even if she wanted to. Because she can see it now. Through the crowd—when someone shifts, placing their weight from one foot to the other, when they lean this way and that—an opening forms, and there it is, right before her. A body. His body or the man’s body, she doesn’t know, can’t tell. She tries to get closer, but her legs are leaden, protesting against each and every step. She is only several feet away and yet still, she cannot see—does not want to see, she admits.
The glint of something catches her eye. It is just to the right, on the floor, in the thick of the crowd. She weaves herself through the mass of people, around one person and then another, averting her eyes from the scene unfolding before her, deciding as she does so that she doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to see, what has happened, whose body lies before her. She only wants to investigate this glinting object, because she thinks she knows what it is, and then she wants to be gone, disappeared from this place before anyone notices her.
She hears the whistle of the police and grimaces. She needs to be fast.
She tells herself that there is no time, that he is beyond her help—perhaps even beyond time, though she doesn’t let herself dwell too long on this possibility. This is who she is, after all. Someone who leaves the ones closest to her dead or dying. But no, Henri is not her father, is nothing like him, and what is happening now isn’t at all the same. The realization makes her start, makes her look, up and toward the two slumped figures only several paces from where she hides.
She sees him—Henri—watches as he begins to stand, arms held high, and she feels the breath catch in her throat. He is alive, then. Not dead, not dying, not even injured, she realizes, her eyes scanning over his body, her gaze greedy now for what it has been denied. She notices blood then, and the man who has been following them, slumped on the ground, clutching his leg. Good, she thinks.
The police are growing closer now. There is nothing she can do to save him—he is beyond her help, but not, she knows now, beyond time. There is that, at least.
After, Louise wills herself to slow her breathing, which has become short and raspy. Walking in the opposite direction, she passes by bolts of fabric, one stacked on top of another, creating a cave made entirely of silk and wool and other blends she knows after years of working in a laundry, but that she cannot think of in that moment. She pretends to nod at the embroidery, reaching out a hand, touching here and there, trying her best to make it look as though her steps are unhurried, despite her desperation now to escape this place, desperate for light, for air. She thinks of the oubliette, of the light shining at the top—and she can see it, that same beacon of light, of hope, just before her, only steps away. It is as though she has conjured it, the exit, freedom, just steps from where she stands. She worries that it is a mirage, knows that it is not. She breathes, slowly, softly, begins to increase her gait. It is closer now, in mere seconds, she will be there—she will be free. She covers the last of the distance quickly, not caring who will notice, who will see. She pulls at her scarf, feels her blood pounding—and finally she is there, standing just outside the gate, the sun on her face, so that she feels as though she can breathe again. She takes a big, shuddering breath, lets the mill of people separate and re-form around her. She is out of the bazaar and she is alive.
She takes one step forward, and begins to run.
For the first ten minutes or so, Louise runs blindly. Somehow, she manages to find herself in another bazaar, and she worries for a moment that she has only gone in a circle, that she has ended up at exactly the same point at which she began. History repeating itself, she thinks. Slowing to a fast walk, not wanting to draw any unwanted attention, she looks around. Mounds of spices, of paprika and sumac, conical shapes made up of deep reds and rich yellows, surround her on either side. A vendor spots her, calls out, indicates a row of tea leaves, dotted with rose petals, with dried oranges, with buds of flowers that she can’t identify. She sees hibiscus, dried and bloodred, waiting to be scooped up and purchased. To all this, Louise shakes her head, does her best not to look as frantic as she feels, and pushes on.
This is something different, she tells herself, another bazaar, not the one from which she just escaped. She whispers it, over and over, softly to herself, worrying all the while that she is going mad. That she is already dead. It occurs to her that the shot she heard before was for her, that she has already died, hidden in that stinking carpet. That now, here, does not actually exist, that it is only some sort of purgatory she is forever locked within, destined to try and find her way out, to fail, for the remainder of time and beyond. For surely, there is no time when it comes to purgatory, only a nothingness, an emptiness that stretches on and on.
Louise pushes the thought from her mind, tells herself to stop being so ridiculous—she doesn’t believe in destiny, after all. Only herself.
Eventually, she finds her way to the port. The city is fully awake now—carts of steaming simit, trolleys with tea and coffee line the streets. She glances at them all, feels her stomach ache with hunger.
She ignores the feeling, only pushes forward.
At the Sirkeci docks, she purchases a ticket that will take her to Bursa. It’s not as far as she had hoped, but it’s something. It will take her out of this city, away from the man who is looking for her—the men, she corrects herself. She shakes her head. If she allows herself to think about it now, about him—no, she cannot afford such sentiment. Not now. Not when she has only fifteen minutes left before the boat departs, fifteen minutes between her and the start of her life.
Louise stands anxiously, her palms sweating. She cannot stop herself from glancing over her shoulder every few minutes, doesn’t know who she expects to see. To distract herself, she wanders over to a stall that has been erected by the docks. An older woman, her hair wrapped in a colorful handkerchief of green, pink, and blue, stands behind it, selling fruit. Louise hands her a few Turkish liras and is rewarded with a large bag of apricots.
She leans forward, can smell the sweetness of the orange-and-red dimpled fruit inside. The old woman says something then, but Louise cannot understand. She reaches for Louise’s hand, places something cold and ceramic there. Louise looks down, sees a charm of some sort, in the shape of a palm. She doesn’t know if the woman is offering or selling, but she presses a few more liras into her hand and places the charm in the pocket of her coat.
Back at the dock, the boat is boarding. Louise takes a deep breath, prepares for the journey across the Sea of Marmara. She turns toward the ferry but is stopped by the pressure of a hand, grabbing her lightly by the arm. She glances over her shoulder, half expecting to find the old woman standing behind her, asking for more money.
“How?” she demands, looking into his face.