Virginia is musing on the Istanbul pavement, an interesting figure to a middle-aged tourist who jerks past her in a yellow taxi, seeing a tall, elegant woman with full lips and a cream straw hat. Certainly a woman of distinction, standing alone, waiting for someone. Actually, she is in a brown study, thinking of the blindness of each generation.
Angela doesn’t see her own addiction.
And my generation? What didn’t we see? What did the people who came after us say?
At that moment, I was nearly knocked down by a young man rolling down the street like thunder, pulling behind him an enormous cube of shadow that completely blocked the pavement. All I saw for a moment was darkness, and his angry face as he lurched to a halt, he was shouting at me in what must have been Turkish but what I could read were his eyes, full of hatred, I raised my hands to protect myself – then realised the cube was a mountain of rubbish, and stepped into the street to let him pass, saying ‘Sorry, sorry, pardon, pardon’, though why did I think my French would help me? – perhaps his face softened, but he had rushed on, and then there were people shouting behind me and a giant lorry had nearly hit me, its brakes squealing, then crunching metal, I covered my ears and hopped back on the pavement and a surge of adrenalin made me run, I knew for a fact I could not run, but as in a kind of dream, I was flying up the road, my legs were light and strong as steel, I was hardly panting, I was laughing with pleasure as the lights danced past me in a coloured chain and people stepped out of my way, startled.
I stopped a block or so from the hotel. Blood coursed round my body, strong as a river, my cheeks were warm, my lips were warm. I hugged myself. I patted my arms. I thought, briefly, clearly, ‘I love my body’. I had not felt that since I was a girl.
Why did I feel it then? And the answer came, as an owl hooted and the sun sank down below the roof-top. You were threatened by the angry refuse-man, then nearly killed by the passing lorry. You saved yourself. You were strong. You ran.
I wanted to tell Angela, but I knew she would tell me off for being careless.
Then I thought something else, quite clearly: I do not want to write about it. I want to be here. Here in the moment.
Being alive was all that mattered.
The birds were calling for the setting sun, wheeling in clouds above the busy city, looking to settle on the terracotta roof-tops. Surely they had let me out of the darkness so I had another chance to be alive?
One day, perhaps, I would meet this Gerda, who’d been sent away to school as if she were a boy. Angela talked about her intermittently, usually protesting what she was about to do for her: emails, money, holidays. She had red hair, she adored reading.
And Gerda writes, according to her mother. The young are interesting, and need our help. Tonight at supper I will ask about Gerda.
I had come back safe. I was nearly home. Then I looked at my watch and began to hurry.