by Marc Levy
“My plane takes off.”
“Yes. And it doesn’t take off until—”
Daldry interrupted her again. “What does a man have to do to get a coffee around here?” He waved until a waiter came to their table and took Daldry’s order for an enormous breakfast.
“Since our morning is free, what do you say to going to the Bazaar? I have to find my mother a present, and I’m sure you’d be of great assistance in helping me decide. I haven’t the faintest idea what she’d like.”
“Maybe some jewelry?”
“I doubt the jewelry here would be to her taste.”
“Perfume?”
“She’s worn the same perfume all her life.”
“An antique?”
“What kind of antique?”
“A jewelry box? I saw some that were inlaid with mother-of-pearl that were very pretty.”
“Why not? Though I’m sure she’ll tell me she much prefers English things.”
“Or a piece of silver?”
“She’s more of a porcelain person.”
“You should just stay a few days longer and paint her something. You could work on the big intersection at the Galata Bridge.”
“Yes, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll make a few sketches today and I can start work on it when I’m back in London.”
“Or you could do it that way.” Alice sighed, disappointed her ruse to keep him in Istanbul a bit longer hadn’t worked.
“It’s settled then. We’ll take a walk on the Galata Bridge.”
As soon as they were done with breakfast, Alice and Daldry took the tram to Karaköy and got off near the end of the bridge that stretched out over the water and connected Galata, across the Golden Horn to Eminönü.
Daldry took a little black notebook and a pencil from his pocket and made a careful sketch of their surroundings, noting the taxi rank and capturing a few lines of the quay where the ferries for Kadiköy and the Princes’ Islands docked, as well as the coast of Üsküdar. He added the little pier where the boats that went back and forth across the water drew up on the other side of the bridge, and the oval-shaped plaza where the trams for Bebek and Beyoğlu stopped. He took Alice over to a bench, where they sat together as he continued to cover the pages of his notebook, drawing people’s faces, a peddler selling watermelon, a shoeshine man seated on an old wooden crate, a knife grinder turning the wheel of his sharpener. Then he drew a little cart drawn by a potbellied mule and a car that had broken down, with its owner bent over the bonnet trying to repair it.
After about an hour, he put away his notebook, remarking that he had captured the essentials. The rest was in his head. Just in case the painting didn’t work out, they decided to go shopping for a gift in the Bazaar as well.
Alice and Daldry navigated the narrow streets of the Grand Bazaar until about midday. Alice bought a little box with a lacy mother-of-pearl inlay, and Daldry found a pretty ring, set with a piece of lapis lazuli. Perhaps his mother would wear it; she liked the color blue.
They had kebabs for lunch and went back to the hotel at the beginning of the afternoon. When they arrived, Can was waiting for them in the lobby. He looked disappointed.
“I’m sorry; my work is without success,” said Can.
“What?” Daldry wasn’t in the mood.
Alice translated. “He didn’t find anything.”
“How do you expect me to understand that?”
“With a little patience and tolerance?” Alice suggested.
“As I promised you, I found myself this morning in the Saint Michel School, where I met the headmaster. He was very sociable with me and I consulted his books. We looked at every class for every year, and it wasn’t easy with the old writing and old paper. It was very dusty, and we were always sneezing. But we looked at every page and read every name and there was no rewarding our efforts. No Pendelbury, no Eczaci. We separated very disappointed. I am sorry you never went to Saint Michel School. The headmaster is incontestable.”
Can’s story finished, Daldry spoke to Alice under his breath. “I don’t know how you keep calm.”
“I’d like to see how you’d fare in Turkish,” Alice said to Daldry.
“You always take his side anyway.”
Alice turned back to Can. “Maybe I was in a different school?” she suggested.
“That is exactly what I thought when I left the headmaster. In fact, I organized a list. I will go this afternoon to the Chalcedony School in Kadiköy, and if I don’t find anything, tomorrow I will go to Saint Joseph’s, in the same area. There is also the girls’ school in Nişantaşi. We still have many resources ahead of us, and it is precocious to imagine failure.”
“With all the hours he’s going to spend in these schools, maybe you could suggest ducking in on a few English classes,” said Daldry.
“You’re the one who should go back to school,” Alice replied.
“I don’t claim to be the best interpreter in town . . .”
“No, but you’re the right maturity level.”
“As I was saying, you always take his side. It’s reassuring, really. At least when I’m gone, you won’t miss me much. The two of you get along so well.”
“How can you say that?”
“I think the two of you should spend the afternoon together. Go with Can to that school. Who knows, maybe the place will stir up a few dusty old memories for you.”
“Because you didn’t get your way? You really are a child.”
“Not in the least. I have two or three things I want to attend to that would only bore you. Let’s do what we have to do, and I’ll see you at dinner. Can is welcome to join us if you’d like.”
“Are you jealous, Daldry?”
“Jealous of Can? What next? I can’t believe I came all this way to hear such nonsense.”
Daldry told Alice to meet him in the lobby at seven and left without saying goodbye.
An iron gate set in a high stone wall opened onto a courtyard, where an old fig tree languished next to rows of worn wooden benches lined up under a glass awning. Can knocked at the caretaker’s door and asked to see the headmaster. The caretaker pointed them toward his office and went back to his newspaper.
They walked down a corridor, past a series of classrooms that were all occupied by children hard at work. The school supervisor had them wait in a little office.
“Ah, the smells!” said Alice, inhaling.
“What smells?”
“The smells of childhood! The vinegar they use to clean the windows, the chalk dust, the floor wax. It takes me right back.”
“My childhood didn’t smell like those things. There was no vinegar or chalk or wax. It smelled like cramped apartments in the early evening, people walking home from work with their heads hanging low, darkness on dirt paths, and filthy slums. But I’m not complaining. My parents were good people. Not all my friends were good people.”
“I’m sorry,” said Alice. “I didn’t realize you had such a difficult childhood. You’ve come a long way.” Alice paused and realized Can hadn’t made any of his usual grammatical errors. “Why don’t you speak English like that around Mr. Daldry?”
“Because it is so amusing to tease him.”
The supervisor tapped on his desk for them to be quiet. Alice couldn’t help but sit up a little straighter in her chair. This made Can chuckle. The headmaster appeared and invited them to come into his office.
Eager to show that he spoke English fluently, the headmaster ignored Can and spoke directly to Alice. Can winked at Alice and smiled; after all, the results were all that counted. As soon as Alice had explained her request, the director told her that he was sorry, but the school was still boys only in 1915. He accompanied them to the gate and saw them off, saying that he hoped to visit England one day. Maybe when he was retired.
They made their way to Saint Joseph’s, where they met with the priest in charge of the school. There was something alluring about his austerity. He listened attentively while Can explain
ed why they had come, before rising from his desk and pacing the room with his hands clasped behind his back. He went and looked out of the window into the courtyard, where a group of boys was squabbling.
“Why do they always have to fight?” he wondered out loud. “Do you think that violence is an inherent part of human nature? I could ask them in class, I suppose. It would make a good essay topic, don’t you think?” He talked to them without turning away from his view of the playground.
“Probably,” said Can. “It’s a good way to make them think about how they behave.”
“I was asking your friend,” said the priest.
“I don’t think it would serve any purpose,” said Alice, without pausing to reflect. “The response is clear. Boys like to fight, and of course, it’s in their nature. But as they grow up and their vocabulary expands, they will find the right words to express themselves and the violence will subside. Brutality is just the result of frustration, the incapacity to express oneself in words. Without words, people often resort to fists.”
The priest turned around.
“You would have got a good grade. Did you like school?”
“I mostly liked going home from school.”
“I’m not surprised. I don’t have time to look through our records, and I don’t have anybody else to do it for me. If you’d like, you may consult the ledgers in the study hall. Of course, talking is forbidden, and you’ll be sent away if you do.”
“Of course,” said Can, trying to participate.
“I was still addressing your friend.”
Can gave up and looked at the floor.
“Very good, come with me. The caretaker will bring you the admissions ledgers as soon as he’s found them. You have until six this evening, and not a minute longer, so work efficiently.”
“We will,” said Alice. “I promise.”
“Well then, come along.”
He stood aside for Alice to pass and turned to Can.
“You too. Come on.”
“I didn’t realize you were talking to me, headmaster.”
The walls in the study hall were painted gray halfway up from the floor and then blue to the ceiling, from which there hung two rows of flickering fluorescent lights. Most of the students were there as punishment, and they giggled when they saw two adults join them on the bench at the back of the room. The headmaster stomped his foot and silence immediately returned. Soon the caretaker brought them two large black books that were tied shut with ribbon. He explained to Can that everything could be found in them: admissions, expulsions, and grades from the end of the school year. The students’ names were grouped by class.
Each page was divided down the middle. On the left the student’s name was written in Latin characters, and on the right in Ottoman script. Can traced each line with his finger and studied the ledgers page by page. When the wall clock showed that it was five thirty, he closed the second volume and turned to Alice with a look of disappointment.
They took the books under their arms and returned them to the caretaker. As they headed out of the gate, Alice turned and waved at the headmaster, who was watching them go from his window.
“How did you know he was there?” Can asked when they were back on the street.
“The headmaster I had at school was exactly the same sort of man.”
“Tomorrow, we’ll succeed. I’m sure of it.”
“I suppose we’ll find out tomorrow.”
Can took her back to the hotel.
Daldry had reserved them a table at Markiz, but when they arrived at the restaurant, Alice stopped him from going in. She didn’t want to have a formal dinner. The evening air was warm, so she suggested they walk along the Bosporus instead of sitting in a noisy and smoky room for hours on end. If they were hungry, they could always find a place to stop and eat later in the evening.
Daldry agreed. Remarkably, he wasn’t hungry either.
Down by the water, a few other people were out for walks as well. Some were trying their luck at fishing, casting their bait into the black water. A newspaper vendor was selling the morning news at a reduced price, and a shoeshine boy was hard at work on a soldier’s boots.
“You look worried,” said Alice, gazing across the water at Üsküdar Hill.
“Just a few things on my mind; nothing serious.” He turned to face her. “How was your day?”
Alice told him about the schools they had visited that afternoon.
“Do you remember our trip to Brighton?” asked Daldry. He lit a cigarette. “On the way back to London, neither one of us wanted to give any credit to that woman. Even though you never said anything—you were being polite, I suppose—I think you were wondering why we were driving so far for nothing, why we were spending Christmas Eve on icy roads in an unheated car. But we’ve traveled together quite a bit since then, and a lot of unexpected things have happened . . . I’d like to continue believing in what she told you, to think that the trouble we’ve taken hasn’t been in vain. Istanbul has already revealed so many secrets, things neither you nor I would have ever imagined. Who knows? Maybe in a few weeks you’ll meet the man who will become your husband and make you the happiest woman in the world. Speaking of which, there’s something I’d like to tell you about that’s been bothering my conscience.”
“But I already am a happy woman, Daldry. Thanks to you I’ve been able to come on this incredible journey. You know I was having trouble with my work, and now, also thanks to you, my head is full of ideas. I don’t really care whether everything that woman told me actually comes true. To be honest, there was something rather hateful and vulgar about it all . . . making the sorts of assumptions she did, imagining me as a desperate and lonely woman chasing after the mirage of a man who would magically change my life. I’ve already met a man who has changed my life.”
“Oh really?”
“The perfume maker in Cihangir. His work has allowed me to imagine a different sort of project. I’ve been thinking about it since our visit. It’s not just interior fragrances, but the smells attached to places that mark our lives, the kinds of scents that call up lost or forgotten moments from our past. You know, our olfactory memories are the last ones to go. We may begin to forget the faces and voices of our loved ones, but never the smells. You love food so much—I’m sure that smelling a favorite food from your childhood must take you back to the past in vivid detail.
“Last year a man who particularly liked one of my perfumes got my address from a shopkeeper and came to see me. He brought along a little box that contained a bit of braided leather cord, a tin soldier whose painted uniform was chipped off, an agate marble, and a ragged little flag. It was the summary of his childhood all in a tiny metal box. He told me that when he first smelled my perfume, he was overcome by the strange and inexplicable desire to go home and go through his attic to find that box, one he’d completely forgotten about until then. He had me smell the interior of the box and asked if I could reproduce the mix of odors before it faded away. I rather stupidly told him that it was impossible, but after he left, I wrote down what I had smelled. The rust on the inside of the lid, the hemp of the cord, the tin, the old oil paint, the oak that had been used to sculpt the little toy, the dusty silk of the flag, the agate marble . . . I think I still have that list somewhere. I kept it, not knowing what to do with it. But today, with some more experience, by continuing to observe and study, like the way you made all those sketches this afternoon, I think I know what to do. I have an idea about how to make a perfume that could combine many different materials. You seem to be inspired by forms and colors, but for me, it’s odors.
“I’m going to go see the man in Cihangir again and ask to spend some time with him, to watch how he works. I could show him my techniques too . . . It could be a sort of exchange. I’d like to be able to recreate forgotten moments and places. I know it all sounds very mixed-up right now, but try to imagine if you were to stay on here, and you really started to miss London, what it would be like to
suddenly smell the rain in the city you’d left behind. The streets back home have a particular odor, and it changes from morning to evening. Every important moment in our lives has a particular scent.”
Daldry thought about this. “It’s an odd idea, indeed,” he said, “but it’s true that I’d like to rediscover the smell of my father’s office. I think it was more complex than I realize. There was the smell of the fire in the fireplace, and his pipe tobacco, the leather of his chair and the blotter on the desk where he worked. I can’t describe them all, but I also remember the smell of the rug where I used to play with my tin soldiers. The red stripes marked the positions of Napoleon’s armies, and the green borders, our English troops. It had a very comforting scent of dust and wool. I don’t know if you’ll make much money with your idea. Who would buy a bottle of dusty rug or rainy street? But it’s very poetic.”
“Yes, perhaps not street smells, but childhood smells? Right now I’d cross all of Istanbul just for a little bottle of the smell of the first days of autumn in Hyde Park. It would probably take me months, even years, to create something worthwhile, something sufficiently universal. But for the first time in my life, I’m starting to feel comforted by my line of work. I’ve been doubting myself, even though perfume making is the only profession I’ve ever wanted. I’ll be eternally grateful to you and to that fortune-teller for having encouraged me to come here. Even though the things we discovered about my parents are disturbing, they also make me very happy—it’s a sort of gentle, nostalgic feeling, something between crying and laughing. Every time I went past the street where we used to live in London, I didn’t recognize a thing. Our house and even the shops nearby were all destroyed. But now I know that there’s still a place in the world where my parents and I lived together. The smells of Istiklal, the stone of the buildings, the rumbling tramways, and a thousand other things belong to me as well. Even if I don’t remember anything from those days, I know we had them together, and when I’m trying to fall asleep at night, I don’t think about how my parents are gone, but about what their lives must have been like here. It’s a wonderful change.”