by Ben Okri
Each day he knew by the mood of the café that the stranger would not appear.
Weeks went past in this way. The world changed quietly. The headlines on the newspapers spoke of distant wars that were creeping closer. One headline started a mild disturbance in him all day. They were setting up a colony on Mars. One hundred people had been chosen for a one-way journey to the red planet. On the day he read the news story he was at the café, staring through the misted window, nursing a cup of tea.
He had a sudden feeling. When he looked up, the mood of the café had changed. There was a blue quiver in the air. He sensed but could not see it.
At the next table sat the stranger. He was wearing white gloves. There was a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were looking beyond the veil of the world.
5
He had not seen the stranger come in, and had not noticed when he sat down.
‘Are you still haunted?’ the stranger said in a dry voice.
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so.’
‘Why?’
‘Unreality makes the world.’
‘Unreality?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought reality made the world.’
The stranger smiled. Deep grooves appeared on his face. An uncanny light shone in his eyes.
‘Unreality makes reality.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You have not understood the power of your dreams or the gift of your obstacles,’ the stranger said, a dark gleam in his eyes. ‘If fate shuts a door on you, it is because it wants you to find a greater one. The normal door you want to pass through is not for you. Every obstacle presents us with a magical solution.’
The stranger paused. There was a momentary silence in the café, as if everyone were listening.
‘You have been defeated by reality,’ said the stranger, after a while. ‘The only way to defeat reality is with unreality.’
‘How do I do that?’
The stranger was no longer listening. Now he had the solemn face of a tribesman of the steppes.
‘If you will trust me implicitly,’ he said, ‘I will show you the power of your dreams.’
‘You have my implicit trust. I am at the end of my tether. I will try anything.’
‘Good,’ the stranger said, leaning forward. ‘Now look into my eyes. While looking think of what you dream about most.’
He looked and felt the world about him dissolving.
‘Deep in my eyes you will see a flame and a sword. You must choose one. If you choose the sword, wield it. If the fire, hold it aloft.’
He looked deep into the stranger’s eyes. He saw a sword and a flame.
‘Have you chosen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Reveal your choice to no one.’
‘Not even to you?’
‘Not even to me.’
‘All right.’
‘Now go home and we will see what happens.’
When he blinked, the world was misty. When the mist cleared, the stranger was gone. There wasn’t even a cup on the table where he had been sitting.
6
He went home and read. He felt out of sorts. He felt a little unlike himself for the rest of the day. It was a feeling he couldn’t get rid of. In the evening a curious malaise stole into his limbs. He went for a walk to try and shake it.
The edges of buildings, flocks of birds, the spikes of metal fences, quivered lightly in his vision. Back home the corners of the room bothered him. It seemed to expand in ways that were impossible. That night, unusually for him, he fell into a sudden deep sleep. He had hardly touched his head to the pillow when he was encompassed by the dark.
Next morning he woke in an alien bed. The room was new to him. He had the curious feeling of having been transported to a world that was mildly familiar. The walls of the room were of a dazzling whiteness. On the wall opposite him there were two floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Between them was a large slender television. There was a white chaise longue near the bed. The ceiling was fretted with a simple abstract design composed of intersecting lines.
A woman was working on a small black computer on the solid mahogany table. She was beautiful, in an unfamiliar way.
‘Who are you?’ he said, raising himself on the pillow.
The curtains were still drawn and a soft darkness pervaded the room. The oblique light of dawn crept round the edges of the curtain.
‘Darling, you’re up?’ The woman smiled at him. ‘You have been sleeping now for twelve hours. I didn’t want to trouble you.’
‘But who are you?’
‘Darling, stop playing silly games. What are we going to do today?’
She had stopped working on the computer. She stared at him with cool eyes. He decided to go along with the pretence for a while. He studied the woman. She had red hair, full breasts, was not young and was not old. When he looked across at what she was doing he saw, to his surprise, that she had begun to fill out the spaces of a drawing. She sketched the shape of a minaret, with people in the background, and pine trees scattered in a small park.
‘You’re an artist?’
‘Of course I am, silly. What’s wrong with you today?’
‘Where are we?’
She stared at him hard. She stared at him a long time. From her gaze he perceived that if he continued like this she might consider something drastic. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes, to give the impression that he was the victim of a persistent sleep.
‘We’re in Istanbul,’ she said, concluding her long scrutiny. ‘Do you remember now?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said lightly, frowning. ‘Istanbul, you say?’
‘Yes, dear, Istanbul.’ She gave him another look. ‘What shall we do today?’
‘If we are in Istanbul, where are we staying?’
‘You are being strange today. You must be tired. Or forgetful. I hope you’re not going to get worse. Raffles, dear. We’re in Raffles. You chose it. Maybe you need a bit more sleep.’
He hid beneath the sheets. He passed from thought into sleep. When he woke, the curtains were drawn back and he saw a distant river. He got out of bed and went to the window. It was an excellent view. He could see a long bridge and on the other side houses on a sloping hill. The houses were white and ranged with charming symmetry. Their red-tiled roofs made a fine pattern.
On the lower terraces of the tower next door there were the last traces of snow. As he looked across the city he saw snow on rooftops and on lawns.
He turned away from the window. The woman was still drawing at the table. He went past her to the bathroom. The floor and walls were of marble. There was a bath and a separate shower and a large clear mirror over the washbasins. The doors were of smoky glass.
‘Did you know we have our own butler?’ the woman called out from the other room.
He contemplated answering but decided on silence.
‘Well, we do. She’s very nice.’
He had a quick shower while pondering the luxury of having a personal butler in a hotel. As he dried himself it occurred to him to ask whether he had any clothes with him. It was all so strange that he had no idea what he had and what he hadn’t. He came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Outside the bathroom door he saw a closet. In the closet were open suitcases. In one he recognised his own clothes. There were also shirts and coats on hangers, and on the floor his favourite old slippers. He put on black corduroy trousers and a blue shirt and went back into the room.
‘This came earlier,’ the woman said, handing him a note.
The note was from the concierge. He was due to meet one of the hotel staff at 11 a.m. to go through an itinerary of places he wanted to visit in the city. All this was new to him. He looked across at a clock on the bedside table. It was 9.10 a.m. In that same glance he saw the stack of books he had been reading at home. It reassured him to see them. Made him feel less unmoored.
‘Shall we go down to breakfast, dear? I’m starving.’
T
he woman stood up and put a wrap round her shoulders. She picked up a black handbag and keycard. He followed her mutely. Outside, there was a finely wrought table on which was a brass bowl. It looked valuable, like an antique. There were paintings all along the walls and the floor was of marble. Hanging from the ceiling was a cocoon of pearls forming intricate curves.
‘You could wear that as a dress,’ the woman said, admiring the exotic chandelier.
The lift arrived and they got in. He stood at a distance from her, in a corner. He wanted to get a good look at her. She had a very fine figure. Her face had clean lines, her jaw almost classical. When she turned her eyes on him, he noticed they were green, like a tiger’s. Her gaze was piercing, cold, but kindly. The more he stared at her, the more familiar she became. She bore his scrutiny calmly. Not a word passed between them.
When the lift came to a halt, he stepped out into a white corridor with a shining marble floor. He was careful not to slip. On the wall there was an abstract mosaic, made of tiles, behind glass. There were framed drawings along the white walls.
At the end of the corridor was the vast lobby, with long-stemmed flowers in giant vases on glass tables. Sofas and little tables formed interlocking semi-circles. They passed a recess where three managers sat at desks behind their computers. They leapt to their feet.
‘Good morning, sir,’ the senior among them said. ‘I trust all is to your liking?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ he said, a little thrown by their attention.
‘Is there anything you need?’
‘Not right now.’
‘And you, madame?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Is the room comfortable?’
‘Very.’
‘We are pleased. If there is anything you need at all, just tell us and we will do our best to accommodate you.’
‘Thank you,’ he stammered.
He was not used to this quality of politeness and concern, and at first it disconcerted him. The staff were polite and kindly all the way to breakfast. By the time he had taken his seat he felt a little more comfortable.
The breakfast room was spacious and white and clean. There were gigantic flowers on a huge central table. They sat near the big windows. He watched two soldiers patrolling the grounds outside. There was snow at the foot of trees. The steel and glass tower reflected the sun from its hundred silvered windows. He looked around the room. There was a large family at the round table next to them.
He settled his gaze on the woman who sat opposite him. She looked startling in her cool beauty.
‘What is this name they call me?’
‘It’s your name.’
‘My name?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do they all know my name?’
‘It’s part of their training.’
‘Their training?’
‘Learning the names of guests.’
A waiter appeared at their table like a genie. They gave him their orders. He followed their complicated requests. She wanted a yoghurt, Bircher muesli with soya milk, and white tea. He wanted muesli with fruit salad and orange juice to start. Then he wanted a full English breakfast with two eggs. They ate silently. He often felt her eyes on him. But when he looked up, she turned away.
7
At eleven they were in the lobby. He stood near a table, on which were golden cups, vases, a metal dish, filigreed lanterns, all in an ancient Arabic style. Before him, on the massive central wall, was a vast photomontage of the Dolmabahçe Palace. The photograph somehow simultaneously depicted the inside and the outside of the palace, with its labyrinthine steps, its balusters and halls, its rooms and stairways, its tapestries and crystal chandeliers, its peacock on a red rug and its Mongolian tiger. The more he stared at the picture the better he felt. It was a vertiginous work, and it reminded him of the rigorous symmetries of Escher.
While he was contemplating the paradoxes of the stairways in the picture, a slender woman appeared before him.
‘My name is Nergis,’ she said. ‘And it is a pleasure to have you with us, Mr Oraza. Shall we sit?’
They sat down on one of the light-coloured sofas. The lobby was spacious, the ceiling high and the chandeliers elaborate. Behind them were two giant sculptures. One was of a seated woman.
Nergis had a notepad in her hand. She looked at him.
‘I thought we should discuss things you would like to see in Istanbul.’
‘So we are in Istanbul?’
‘Yes,’ Nergis said, looking at the woman as if to ascertain whether he was serious. The woman shrugged.
‘My husband has a strange sense of humour,’ she said.
Nergis smiled.
‘There are so many things to see in this city that it would take you months to see them all.’
As she finished, a lady with a bright smile came to their table and asked if they wanted anything. He was hesitant, and Nergis suggested Turkish tea. The serving lady returned a short while later with a silver platter bearing dark red teas in small transparent glasses. There were also two bottles of ice cool water and a bowl of sugar.
He was not sure how to drink the tea till the woman put two small cubes of brown sugar into her glass. Then she stirred and sipped. He did likewise. He was surprised by the bitter but delicate flavour. After the first few sips he felt mysteriously revived, but he didn’t feel any clearer.
Nergis began asking questions about what they would like to see. He mentioned one or two places that were famous. Nergis made notes and then suggested other places. The wife looked on with a half smile.
‘I’d like to go where ordinary people live,’ he said.
‘They live everywhere,’ Nergis said. ‘In Istanbul we have neighbourhoods and each neighbourhood has its unique character.’
‘What is your favourite neighbourhood?’
‘Beşiktaş. The bazaar.’
‘Put that on the list.’
‘And what are your favourite things to do in the day?’ asked the woman.
‘When I have a day off I love to go on the ferry along the Bosphorus with a simit.’
‘Simit?’
‘A bagel.’
‘I see.’
‘I love feeding the bagel to the birds. I love throwing pieces of bagel in the air and watching the birds catch them. Sometimes they feed off your hands.’
‘We’ll do that then.’
‘I will put it on the list.’
That’s how they made the list. The serving lady brought Turkish tea twice and kept filling their glasses with water. When Nergis finished the list, she saw him staring at the photomontage.
‘You like it?’
‘It’s intriguing.’
‘It was made by an American artist. It’s a digital painting. The artist was given permission to photograph the Dolmabahçe Palace. Pictures of the interior and exterior are placed on the same surface. That is why a staircase leads to a red room and why…’
A concierge came over and whispered something to Nergis. When he left, she said:
‘Your car is here.’
‘Our car?’
‘To take you on a tour of the city.’
He looked at the woman. Her eyes shone but she said nothing. Nergis rose.
‘I know you will have a wonderful day,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured.
A concierge led them through the revolving doors, into the sunlight where a black limousine was waiting. The woman who was his wife slid into the back seat, and he climbed in after her. The seats were plump. The driver started the engine. Then a man got into the seat next to the driver. He turned round to face them. He had sad eyes and a face that betrayed some hidden suffering.
‘Welcome to Istanbul, Mr Oraza. My name is Mehmet. I am your guide, and you are my Sultan. Anything you want me to do, I will do.’
The driver engaged gear and drove out of the hotel complex. As they drove out into the tangle of roads, he felt himself dissolving.
8
/> The window was the world and the world was misting over. A curious feeling that he was fracturing came over him. He shut his eyes. Instability returned when he opened them again.
They seemed to drive a long way round the city. Sometimes the traffic was light, and sometimes it was heavy. While they drove, the guide spoke. He wove in and out of the guide’s words, forming a mosaic picture of the city. The guide said it was a city of melancholy and dreams. Twenty-five centuries of history and five civilisations had been compressed into the city. It was the only city in the world that straddled two continents. The guide quoted an ancient chronicler, who said that if any city deserved to be the centre of the world it was this one. It was a city of jewels scattered over seven hills. Jason and the Argonauts, seeking the Golden Fleece, had drifted through here. The streets had known the impress of Greek civilisation, the Roman Legions, and waves of Ottoman Turks, who gave the nation its name.
‘All who came here were changed by the dreaminess of the location. Four times the city has changed its name. And each of its names is a portal to one aspect of its dreams. Names are important here,’ said the guide, turning to stare at him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘To seek Byzantium is to seek a city hovering above this one, a legend half lost among cathedrals and ruins. It is like seeking to live in a poem. No one who finds it escapes.’
The guide stared at him. He withstood the stare. Then he turned to look out of the window, at the snow turning to slush along the roadside. He saw the pale white houses with red-tiled roofs. Trams weaving their way through the city put him in a thoughtful mood. He liked cities with trams. He gazed at shop-fronts, at cafés where people sat outside drinking tea in little cups. The sky was clear and a mild spring sun lent the city its gold. He could tell by the names on signboards, and by the changing character of places, when he was passing from one neighbourhood to the next. He saw mosques and churches and a cement-coloured building, old before its time. Each mosque gave its neighbourhood a unique mood. For a moment he thought he was in Egypt or Dubai. The feeling was elusive, but persistent. He stared at the roads, the towers, the flyovers, the shimmering glass of skyscrapers. He was seeing and not seeing, and he liked it.
