Head Over Heels

by Felicity Price

  Even at that comparatively early hour, the narrow, hilly streets were bustling with people, mostly men, drinking coffee at innumerable street-side cafés. A few, persistent but friendly, tried to entice me into their shops to buy their beautiful carpets. Others were lying back in barbers’ chairs, having their hair dyed and their beards trimmed. I even caught a glimpse of one of the barbers running a flame across a man’s ears and under his nose. Just as well I’d read in the guide book that burning off unsightly ear and nose hairs was perfectly normal barbershop behaviour here or I’d have called the police.

  The Blue Mosque was so incredibly beautiful, I could have stayed admiring the intricate stonework and the sheer scale of the cascading domes all morning, but I still had so much to see. I left the devout Muslims to their prayers, found my shoes outside and walked the short distance to the imposing bulk of Hagia Sophia, once a basilica, then a mosque and now a museum. It was designed fifteen hundred years ago to be the earthly mirror of the heavens, and I could see what they meant as I climbed up and up the sloping steps and ramps to the balcony, almost as high as heaven itself. Celestial mosaics were simply everywhere — above me, around me and below me — mosaics that had been in place for over a thousand years. I almost filled the camera’s memory card with all the photos I took, wanting to record the experience so I could relive it when I was back home.

  If only Adam could have seen the barbers’ shops, I thought as I passed; if only Charlotte could see these beautiful leather handbags; if only Di could see these intricate mosaics; if only Ginny could see these incredible rugs. I would have loved to have had someone with me to share my discoveries, but the sense of freedom at being able to go where I liked and do what I pleased — for the first time in nearly twenty years — more than made up for it. I started to relish being a tourist and let myself relax.

  In a café across the road from Hagia Sofia, I dined on a lamb kebab and pide, a sort of round flatbread, wishing Simon was with me to enjoy it. I consumed a large amount of mineral water to make up for the buckets of liquid I’d sweated then trekked across town to the market everyone had told me about. It didn’t disappoint.

  With a growing sense of wonder and a parallel feeling of safety, I wandered the myriad aisles and alleyways of the Grand Bazaar for the rest of the afternoon, sipping lemon drink and mint tea when I was thirsty and enjoying the friendly banter of the shopkeepers as they tried to lure me to their tiny stores. I have to confess several were successful and I came away with a lovely, soft, apple green leather jacket (‘Fits you like a glove madam, very good price’), a new handbag for myself (‘Genuine leather madam, look I show you not plastic’, as he ran the flame of a cigarette lighter across the surface, convincing me it must indeed be a very clever fake) as well as a high-fashion fake designer bag that even smelt like leather for Charlotte, several divine silk and etched-velvet scarves for the girls back home (‘Something for all your friends, madam, five for a hundred lira, very good price’) and, at a street stall on my way back to the hotel, a pair of leather designer-copy shoes at an incredible price (‘If the shoe fits, madam,’ I told myself, ‘buy two’).

  Also on my way back to the hotel, I detoured to the Cagaloglu Hamam, the most famous of all Turkish baths, where the hotel receptionist had made a booking for me. Not knowing what to expect, I was more than a little apprehensive — especially when asked to take off all my clothes and enter a huge open chamber without anything to cover myself except a ridiculously small white bath towel. And there is a lot of me to cover.

  The octagonal bathing chamber, which I was pleased to find was ladies only, was of white marble, its domed ceiling dotted with vents to let out the hot, steamy air. There were women all around the sides of the chamber — some clutching towels around them, others in various stages of washing and drying. The focal point, under the dome, was an octagonal white marble plinth, where eight women lay in naked abandonment, spreadeagled around each angle of the plinth, while Turkish women wearing black bathing suits worked on them in what appeared to be a cross between a massage and a vigorous bath. I sat nervously waiting my turn, still clutching my towel.

  ‘Please, you wash here,’ a very sturdy attendant said, indicating I should take off my towel and wash myself over a deep sink at knee height. I unwrapped myself reluctantly, pegged up my towel and did as I was told, trying not to stare at other women doing the same thing in other parts of the room.

  ‘Now, please, come with me.’ She led me over to one side of the central plinth, asked me to lie on it face up and immediately proceeded to work on me. It was one of the most unusual, most memorable experiences of my life, being thoroughly soaped, scoured, washed, pummelled and massaged, all over — and I mean all over. It wasn’t sexual but it was quite sensual. And it was totally relaxing. I came out of there feeling cleaner than I’d ever been and thoroughly exfoliated, thanks to a scrubbing mitt that felt like it was made out of a wiry Goldilocks pot-cleaner.

  I had a quick meal on the way home, trying a glass of the Turkish wine Simon had recommended (I must have tried the wrong one, because it was pretty ghastly and I didn’t even finish the glass, which is saying something for me) and dining on a lamb and preserved lemon casserole so tender it melted in my mouth. The restaurant ceiling was covered with hundreds of Turkish lamps, each one of them different, casting a romantic glow across the tables. Again I wished Simon was there and sent him a text to tell him just that.

  ‘Message for you, madam,’ the concierge said as he unlocked the door for me when I arrived back at the hotel. I lugged my shopping bags up to my room and opened the envelope. It was a fax:

  All well on the boat, everyone looking forward to meeting you. I will meet you at the hotel in Marmaris when you arrive. I have to get some supplies in the town first. Project has been very exciting. Research team great guys — and gals! You’ll love them. See you tomorrow.

  Simon xxxx

  Very prosaic, I thought. Not one of the great romantic writers, my Simon. But just the same, it was nice to get a welcome note. I took it with me up to the rooftop and stared down at the city on one side and the big open gulf of the Sea of Marmara on the other. Under the thick canopy of stars, I counted my blessings, very much looking forward to seeing him the next day.

  • • •

  I’d slept slightly better on my little hard bed that night but had to be up early again to get to the airport in time for my flight to Dalaman. It seemed to take forever and every queue I chose was the wrong one — there’s a universal law that I always forget: the shortest queue is the slowest. As soon as I’d hefted my bag off the carousel in Dalaman I phoned Simon and got his voicemail, which surprised me. I’d been hoping for him to be waiting by the phone, if not at the airport! I left a message saying I’d arrived and was looking forward to seeing him soon.

  The bus ride to Marmaris was, thankfully, my last scheduled journey for the next two weeks and I decided I would be extremely glad when it was over — glad to see Simon again after such a long time, and glad to settle down in one place, even if just for a few days before going on the boat. So I wasn’t exactly thrilled when the bus came to a halt as it started down a steep winding road on the side of a tree-clad mountain. I looked around the side of my seat to the road ahead. There was a long line of cars queued up, snaking down the road as far as what looked like a line of policemen.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked the man across from me, who looked like a local.

  He shrugged. ‘I do not know. Looks like the police are stopping cars.’ He shrugged again. ‘They do that sometimes. Maybe the Kurds are coming to town.’

  Damn, I thought. I didn’t want to be kept from seeing Simon much longer.

  The bus slowly inched forward.

  I got out the iPod I’d bought and loaded with music — with a lot of help from Adam, who’d reluctantly dragged himself away from whatever he and Darren were doing on the computer. The music helped the long wait go by a little faster, but it still seemed an eternity before
we got anywhere near the roadblock.

  I was lost in a reverie when the policeman boarded the bus and spoke to the driver. But I quickly snapped out of it when he was followed by several armed soldiers, who marched up the aisle, guns held at the ready. They looked closely at every one of us, saying ‘Passport, passport’.

  I temporarily froze at the sight of the gun pointed in my direction. Well, to be honest, it was pointing more towards the back of the bus, but it was the closest I’d come to looking down the barrel of a gun. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so terrified in my life. I sat there mesmerised by the big black gaping hole at the end of his gun barrel.

  The soldier jerked it again impatiently and I was spurred into action. I delved round in my bag, aware of his dark eyes boring through me, and found my passport. He nodded, handed it back and turned immediately to the man in the seat opposite, who was holding his passport out warily, as if expecting trouble.

  He was right. The soldier snatched it away and indicated the man should move outside. I noticed several other local-looking men and women were being shoved unceremoniously towards the front door, too.

  Out the window I could see a small gathering of civilians being herded together and taken further away from the bus, where each one was individually interrogated.

  With my adrenalin pumping, I was desperate to know what was going on. But with my source of information now outside at the mercy of these fierce-looking men, there was nobody to ask. I was dying for a drink of water but had brought none, aware that the bus ride was supposed to take less than an hour.

  All the remaining passengers were looking around questioningly. Like me, they were mostly tourists who’d boarded the bus at the airport laughing and chattering, talking about their expectations of sun and sea and holidays ahead. I could tell from their accents that there were several Australians and Americans, a few Swiss or Germans, numerous Britons and Russians. The Turks, it appeared, had all been offloaded. How long, I wondered, would this go on? And, judging by the intensity and length of the interrogation, I feared I might never see my aisle companion again.

  I turned on my iPod again, hoping for diversion, but the music no longer seemed like the soothing introduction to a fortnight of relaxation. I turned it off and got out my book, but couldn’t concentrate, so put it away again. In the end I resumed staring out the window, watching the soldiers at their work in a sort of suspended animation, not really thinking of anything except how this was going to end.

  It was something like forty minutes before the Turkish people were allowed back on the bus — with one exception. One poor man was kept behind. He looked absolutely terrified as the soldiers pushed him at gunpoint towards the army truck at the side of the road. At least it wasn’t my neighbour, who was soon edging his way back down the aisle, looking extremely worried. He looked around warily and spoke quietly to the young American next to him, then leaned slightly towards me and said, ‘There has been big bomb blast in Marmaris.’

  Chapter 16

  ‘Oh my God,’ I said, trying to keep my voice down while wanting to scream out loud. ‘My partner is in Marmaris.’

  ‘Not good,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he is far away from bomb.’

  ‘I hope so. Oh, I hope so. Did you find out where the bomb went off?’

  ‘No. I don’t know. Probably they choose the hot tourist spots. It is peak holiday season. This will cause major international damage.’

  ‘Oh no!’ I put my head in my hands and willed myself not to cry. I needed to be strong. I would need every ounce of strength and grit to get through this, to find Simon and get out of this terror town. Then it occurred to me that I might not be able to get into the town or anywhere near the ‘tourist hot spots’ to find him.

  ‘Will the bus take us into the town?’

  ‘I don’t know. They tell us nothing.’

  ‘What were the soldiers looking for?’

  ‘Suspects. Associates. Kurds.’ He looked around again on that last word, anxious, as if he might be overheard and arrested for simply mentioning it, then shrank back into his seat. Clearly he wasn’t willing to say any more.

  With all but one of the passengers on the bus and the driver back in his seat, we resumed our journey down the steep hillside at a snail’s pace. I got out my mobile and dialled Simon’s number. It rang twice then went to his voicemail again.

  At least his phone was going, I thought, which was a good sign, surely? Speaking as quietly as I could, I left a message: ‘Hi Simon, it’s me. I’m not far from Marmaris and have heard about the bomb. I’m hoping you’re okay. Please call me as soon as you can.’

  Then I texted him as well: R u ok? Im nr Marmaris. C u soon. Pls ph or txt u r ok. Xxx

  It occurred to me that news of the bomb might have reached home, so also I texted Adam:

  Bomb in Marmaris. Im fine. Pls tell Dad n girls at work. Luv Mum

  Further down the hill, the orange-tiled rooftops and white buildings of the town became visible. I could see plumes of smoke rising from the part of town nearest the port, presumably where the outdoor bars and cafés were that I had seen on the internet. My nerves were completely frazzled. Where was Simon? Was he caught up in a police cordon? Or, even worse, was he somewhere near the bomb when it went off? If it was in the middle of the tourist area, he could well have been. I’d deliberately shut the possibility out of my mind, but seeing those columns of smoke brought it all much closer to home.

  I could feel a deep knot in the pit of my stomach as I stared at that smoky trail up to the sky. It was still visible when at last we arrived on the outskirts of Marmaris and wove through strangely quiet streets to the bus depot. Police were everywhere, speeding along the streets purposefully. All the shops were shut, iron shutters drawn across every door and window.

  At the bus depot, we were told that very few taxis were running and the central part of the town was cordoned off. We wouldn’t be able to get to our hotels for some time.

  I was desperate to find Simon. My whole being wanted to run into the town and start looking for him, but I realised it would be foolish to just take off. For a start, I’d be unlikely to see my bag again. And besides, I had no idea how to get to the centre of town, save for following the general direction of the smoke signal.

  The locals on the bus had disappeared, leaving the visitors to sort out their own transport. Some of the other tourists were talking amongst themselves about getting to their hotels, finding out if anyone was staying in the same one or nearby, and trying to work out which ones would be affected by the cordon. Somebody had a map. I joined their little clique and listened, then one of them mentioned the name of my hotel.

  ‘I’m staying there,’ I said.

  ‘That’s one more, then,’ a large American said. ‘You want to share with us, honey?’ He indicated his wife and another much younger woman.

  ‘Er, yes, okay, that would be good, thanks.’ I figured if there were only limited taxis available, an American would be among the first to commandeer one and therefore I could do worse than stick with them.

  The man positioned himself near the kerbside and the three of us women stood nearby, waiting for a cab to appear. After fruitlessly scanning the street for a while, the man turned to me and said, ‘I should have introduced myself. I’m Chuck. Chuck Haines. And this is my wife Sandra.’ He indicated the small grey-haired woman next to me. I smiled at them both and introduced myself in return, as did the young woman, whose name was Nerida. I couldn’t make out her surname; it sounded very complicated.

  It took a good half hour before we found a taxi and by then I was beside myself. I couldn’t stop thinking about Simon and wondering if he was all right. What if he’d been right there where the bomb went off? What if he’d … ? I couldn’t bear to think about it.

  The four of us crowded into the taxi, a somewhat dilapidated car of indistinct origins. The driver stacked our bags in the back, making a great show of how heavy the American couple’s bags were.

  Chuck took t
he front seat and asked if we could go as far as our hotel.

  The driver shrugged and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Is closed.’

  ‘As close as you can go, then,’ Chuck said.

  The taxi dropped us near where a police car and uniformed men blocked the road. ‘I stop now,’ he said, pointing to the meter. ‘Twenty lira.’ We all thrust notes at the driver but the American said, ‘I’ll cover it,’ and paid the man as he started to lift the bags from the boot. I leapt out and grabbed mine as he swung it to the pavement.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I said to Chuck. ‘I suppose we walk from here and see how far we can get.’

  ‘I know a back way,’ he replied, pulling up the handle on his pull-along suitcase then fixing his wife’s as well. Nerida slung her backpack on her back, making me wish I’d had a more practical bag. I’d got the one Simon had suggested: a big, soft sports bag on wheels that would be suitable for the boat but not too hard to negotiate around airports. It had straps to enable me to carry it on my back, but I’d tried that once before and it wasn’t that comfortable. It hadn’t been light to begin with but now, bulging with all my purchases, I felt it should be pulling me.

  ‘Follow me,’ Chuck called.

  ‘You’ve obviously been here before,’ I said as I accompanied him along the empty footpath.

  ‘Sandra and I come every year. We love this place.’

  He might have been a big guy but boy, could he move. I could feel a sweat break out as I strode to keep up with him. His wife and the backpacker were right behind.

  ‘Do you think our hotel will be near the bomb?’

  ‘Dunno yet,’ he said, not even panting. ‘But it sure don’t look good.’

  He turned off down a side street and we followed. For the next fifteen minutes we wove our way along a range of increasingly narrow streets until I could see the sea ahead at the end of an alleyway. Suddenly we popped out into the sunshine in a seemingly unpoliced area. In front of us was a grassy patch under a canopy of trees and, beyond that, the sea. To the right, a few people were scurrying to and fro, looking anxious and fearful. To the left was a series of buildings, leading to a sharp corner in the road. The American headed straight for it.