The Strange Journey of Alice Pendelbury

by Marc Levy

  “You’re not going to give up searching, are you?”

  “No, I promise I won’t. But it’s not going to be the same without you.”

  “I certainly hope not! Even though I’m sure you’ll find it is. You and Can get along so well. I know that sometimes I act as though it bothers me, but deep inside I’m glad the two of you have a bond, a certain understanding. He may speak a strange sort of English, but he’s an excellent guide.”

  “You wanted to tell me something earlier. What was it?”

  “It can’t have been very important. I’ve already forgotten.”

  “You’re leaving soon.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid I am.”

  They continued their walk along the water. When they arrived at the dock, where the last ferry for the evening was setting off, Daldry’s hand brushed against Alice’s. She turned and took it in hers.

  “Two friends can hold each other by the hand, can’t they?” she asked.

  “I suppose they can.”

  “Let’s walk a little farther together. Do you mind?”

  “Yes. Let’s walk a little farther together.”

  12

  Dear Alice,

  I hope you’ll excuse me for leaving so unexpectedly. I didn’t feel like making us both suffer through another goodbye. I thought about it every night this week as I said good night, and every time the idea of saying goodbye to you in the hotel lobby with my suitcase in hand seemed too awful for words. I wanted to tell you last night, but decided not to ruin those last few delightful moments of your company. I’d rather we remember our last walk together along the Bosporus. You seemed happy and I was too. What more could one ask for at the end of a long journey?

  During the time we’ve spent together, I’ve got to know you better. I can say without hesitation that you’re a marvelous woman, and that I’m proud to have you as a friend—at least I hope I can consider you my friend. You are a friend to me. Our stay in Istanbul will certainly remain one of the happiest times of my life. I hope with all my heart that you’ll reach the end of your journey and meet a man who loves you and accepts you for who you are, for your virtues as well as your flaws. (A friend can say such things to another friend without getting in trouble, can’t he?) He’ll find a woman by his side whose laughter will chase the worries right out of his life.

  I’m very happy to have had you as my neighbor, and I already know as I write you this letter that your presence in the house, noisy though it sometimes was, will be missed.

  Godspeed to you, daughter of the generous pharmacist, keep chasing after the happiness that suits you so well.

  Your devoted friend,

  Daldry

  Dear Ethan,

  I found your letter this morning and I’ll send you mine this afternoon. I wonder how long it will take to reach you. The sound of the envelope slipping under the door made me get out of bed, and I immediately understood you were leaving. I watched you get in the taxi from my window, and when you looked up at the hotel, I stepped back—probably for the same reasons you chose to leave without saying goodbye. And yet, as your taxi headed off, I wanted to say goodbye and thank you for your company. You’re not always an easy man to get along with (a true friend can say that without vexing you, can’t she?), but you’re also remarkable, generous, amusing, and talented. You came into my life and became my friend in an unexpected manner. We’ve only spent the past few weeks in Istanbul together, but still I felt a need to talk to you this morning.

  Of course, I forgive you for leaving as you did. I even think that you were probably right for having done so. I don’t like goodbyes much either. Part of me is jealous to think that you’ll be back in London soon. I miss our old house, and my apartment . . . I’ll stay here until spring comes, as you suggest. Can has promised to take me to the Princes’ Islands, something we missed out on doing together. I’ll write to you about it, and if I happen across an intersection worthy of note, I’ll describe every detail. Apparently going to the islands is like stepping back in time—there are only horses and donkeys for transport. Tomorrow we’re going to go back to see the perfume maker in Cihangir. I’ll tell you how it goes and keep you up to date on the developments in my work.

  I hope the trip home wasn’t too exhausting and that your mother is in good health. Take care of her, and take care of yourself as well.

  Your friend,

  Alice

  My dearest Alice,

  Your letter took exactly six days to arrive. The postman handed it to me this morning as I was going out. I suppose that it also must have taken the plane, but the postmark didn’t indicate which line, or whether it had stopped in Vienna. The day following my return, after having put things in order in my flat, I went next door and did the same in yours. I promise I haven’t moved a thing, I just chased away some of the dust that had taken up residence in your absence. If you had seen me, like an old charwoman in an apron with a handkerchief tied over my head, bumbling around with a broom and a bucket, I’m sure I would have never heard the end of it. I did happen to run into the woman downstairs as I was taking out the rubbish, and she gave me a very strange look indeed.

  There’s so much light in your place that it already feels like springtime, a season that I hope will arrive in the rest of the world sooner rather than later. It’s useless for me to remind you that England is a very cold and damp place, and though the weather is one of my favorite subjects of conversation, I won’t bore you with the meteorological details, apart from letting you know that it has rained every day since my return, and that according to the people in the café where I’ve taken up my old habit of having breakfast, it has been raining the entire month. The gentle winter on the Bosporus seems very far away indeed.

  Yesterday, I took a walk along the Thames, and you’re right, the smell is certainly very different from those you had me analyze on our walks near the Galata Bridge. Even the manure here smells different, though perhaps that isn’t the most elegant example to support my observation.

  I feel guilty for having left without saying goodbye. I had a heavy heart that morning. I don’t understand myself what you did to me—of course, you’ll never understand what it’s like to be me, but that matters little. During that last night we spent together in Istanbul, you became my friend. In some inexplicable way, you made me a better painter, and perhaps even a better man. Don’t take this the wrong way—this is not a confession of mixed-up feelings for you, but a true and simple declaration of friendship. Friends can say such things to each other, can’t they?

  I miss you, Alice. The pleasure of setting up my easel under your skylight amidst all the perfumes you taught me to appreciate is almost like being in your presence again. It pushes me to work and gives me the courage to paint the intersection that we admired together. It’s an ambitious project, and I’ve already thrown out a huge number of studies that weren’t good enough, but I’ll get there with patience.

  Take care of yourself and give my regards to Can. On second thoughts, don’t—keep my regards for yourself.

  Daldry

  Dear Daldry,

  I just received your very kind and touching letter. Thank you for all the lovely things you wrote.

  I should tell you about the events of the past week. The day after you left, Can and I took the bus from Taksim to Nişantaşi. We visited all the schools in the area, but found nothing. Every visit was more or less the same. We spent hours poring over old ledgers, from which my name was always missing. Sometimes we didn’t have to bother because the school hadn’t kept its records or didn’t allow girls in the Ottoman days. I’m starting to think that my parents never sent me to school at all. Can thought that maybe they kept me at home because of the war. Still, it’s strange not to find my name anywhere—I’m starting to wonder if I even existed! I know there’s no sense in thinking that way, so yesterday I decided to give up looking for a while. The whole search has become rather tiresome.

  The past two days we’ve gone back to visi
t the perfume maker in Cihangir. Each moment working with him is more fascinating than the last. Thanks to Can, whose English has greatly improved since your departure, I’m able to explain all of my ideas. In the beginning, the perfume maker thought I was crazy, but I got him to understand by asking him to imagine all of the people who would never climb the hill to Cihangir, who would never hear the foghorns of the ferries sailing back and forth, and who would only see the moon’s silvery reflection in the Bosporus in books and postcards. I tried to explain to him how wonderful it would be if we could offer them the possibility of imagining the magic of Istanbul through a fragrance telling the story of the city’s beauty. Since he loves his city more than anything, he stopped laughing at my ideas and started paying closer attention. I wrote out a list of the odors I had noticed in the little streets of Cihangir, Can read them out, and the old man was impressed. I know that it’s an ambitious project, but I’ve started daydreaming about the day that a perfume shop in Kensington or Piccadilly will display a bottle of perfume called “Istanbul” in its window. Don’t make fun of me now—I’ve managed to convince the old perfume maker, but I still need all the support I can get.

  Our approaches to making perfume are very different. He thinks in terms of absolutes, and I think more like a chemist, but his techniques have brought me back to the essentials of our craft and have opened new horizons. Our methods seem to become more and more complementary each day. To me, creating a perfume isn’t just mixing molecules. I always begin by writing down what my nose dictates to me, all of the impressions it senses, the way a needle etches sound on a blank gramophone record.

  If I’m telling you all this, it’s not just to talk about myself (although I’ve got quite used to that), but also because I’d like to know how your own work is coming along.

  Since we’re business associates, it’s out of the question that I should be the only one with my nose to the grindstone. Unless you’ve forgotten the agreement we made in that lovely restaurant, you will recall that your duty was to paint one of Istanbul’s most beautiful intersections. Tell me what you’re focusing on among all the things you sketched on our last day together near the Galata Bridge. I haven’t forgotten a moment of it, and I hope you won’t have forgotten any of the details. Think of it as a written test, and don’t roll your eyes, even though I can practically see you doing it now. I’ve spent too much time in schools lately.

  Maybe you’d rather think of my request as a challenge. When I come back to London, I promise to bring you a perfume. When you smell it, you’ll immediately be taken back to all of the places we visited together. I hope that when I arrive, the painting will be done as well. They’ll have something in common because both of them will tell something of the time we spent together between Cihangir and Galata.

  Now it’s my turn to ask you to forgive me for this convoluted way of telling you that I’m going to stay here a little longer than I initially planned. I feel both a need and a desire to do so. I’m very happy here. I think I’ve never felt so free, and the sensation has become addictive. That doesn’t mean that I want to continue living off your inheritance. I don’t need or want to keep living in such luxurious conditions. Can has been tremendously helpful and has helped me find a pretty room in a house in Üsküdar, not far from where he lives. One of his aunts is renting it to me. I can’t tell you how excited I am. Tomorrow I’ll leave the hotel and start living the life of a real native of Istanbul. It will take me about an hour to get to the perfume maker’s house in Cihangir every morning, and a little longer to come home in the evening, but I’m not complaining, quite to the contrary. Crossing the Bosporus on a vapur isn’t nearly as wearing as descending into the depths of the Tube in London. Can’s aunt has even offered me a job as a waitress in her restaurant, where her husband is the chef. It’s the best restaurant in Üsküdar and there are more and more tourists, so it’s helpful for her to have somebody who speaks English. Can has explained the menu and taught me the Turkish for the different dishes. I’ll work there three days a week and my earnings will be more than enough to pay for what I need. Though the conditions will be far more modest than those we shared, I was quite used to living modestly before I met you.

  So there it is. Night has fallen on Istanbul and it’s my last evening in the hotel. I’m going to make the most of it and enjoy one last night in this vast bed. Every evening when I walk past the room you stayed in, I wish you good night. I’ll keep doing so from my window when I’ve moved to Üsküdar.

  I’ve written my new address on the back of the envelope. Write back soon. I hope you won’t forget to list all the things you’ve put in the painting.

  Take care of yourself.

  Yours truly,

  Alice

  Dear Alice,

  Since you asked, here is the list . . .

  The tram: Wood-veneer interior, slightly worn floorboards, a partition with a violet-tinted windowpane separating the driver from the passengers, the iron gear lever, two flickering ceiling lamps, the rest of the interior a shade of cream, paint chipping here and there.

  The Galata Port: A roadway paved with crooked paving stones set with the tracks of two tramlines. Uneven pavements, stone parapets, a pair of wrought-iron crash barriers rusty in places and corroded where the metal is inserted into the pavement. Five fishermen are leaning against the railing. One of them is a boy who ought to be at school. A watermelon vendor standing behind his little cart with its red-and-white-striped canvas canopy. A newspaper vendor with a cloth bag slung over his shoulder, his cap on crooked, a plug of tobacco in his cheek (he’ll spit it out soon). A souvenir peddler looking out across the Bosporus and wondering whether it wouldn’t be better to just throw away his merchandise, drown himself, and call it a day. A pickpocket, or at least a dodgy character. Across the street, a disappointed businessman wearing a dark-blue suit, a fedora, and saddle shoes. Two women walking side by side, probably sisters. About ten feet behind them, a man who knows his wife is cheating on him. A bit farther along, a sailor is going down the steps to the water’s edge.

  And while we’re on the water, there are two docks with a number of colorful little boats tied up, some of them are painted with indigo stripes, one is daffodil yellow. On the dock, five men, three women, and two children are waiting for a ferry.

  On the street that winds up the hill, if you look carefully, you can see a series of shopfronts: a florist, a stationer, a tobacconist, a grocer, and a café. The street bends just beyond the café.

  I’ll spare you the color variations in the sky . . . You’ll discover them for yourself. As for the Bosporus, we’ve both looked at it with sufficient frequency for you to imagine the play of light across the water’s surface.

  In the distance you can see the hill of Üsküdar, houses perched on its sides. I’ll pay closer attention to them now that I know that you’re living in one of them. There are also the minarets, not to mention hundreds of boats—dinghies, yawls, cutters—gliding across the water.

  I admit that this overview is a bit scattered, but I think, in all humility, that I’ve managed to meet your challenge with success.

  I’ll send this letter to your new address and hope that it makes it to you. Üsküdar was one of the neighborhoods that I never had the opportunity to visit myself.

  Your ever-devoted

  Daldry.

  P.S. Please don’t feel obliged to pass on my greetings to Can, or his aunt for that matter. I also forgot to note that it rained Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday. The weather was mixed on Wednesday but very sunny on Friday.

  Dear Daldry,

  I can’t believe it’s already the end of March. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to write last week. Between the days spent up in Cihangir and my evenings in the restaurant in Üsküdar, I often fall asleep as soon as I come home. You’d be proud to see how handy I’ve become—I can now carry three plates on each arm, and I haven’t dropped one in nearly a week. Mama Can, as everybody calls Can’s aunt, is very kind. If I continue to
eat everything she puts in front of me, I’ll come back to London as big as a house.

  Every morning, Can picks me up at home for the walk to the ferry. It takes about fifteen minutes, but it’s pleasant enough, unless the wind is coming from the north. Strangely, during the last few weeks it has been even colder than during the time you were here.

  Crossing the Bosporus remains a great pleasure. How funny it is to work in Europe and return home to Asia! When Can and I get off the ferry, we take a bus, and when we’re late, a dolmu.

  Though it eats up what little I earn in tips, it’s still cheaper than a taxi.

  Once we arrive in Cihangir, we still have to walk up those steep streets that I’m sure you remember. I often pass the same cobbler as he’s leaving his house in the morning. He wears a big box attached to his waist that looks like it must weigh as much as he does. We wave to each other and he heads down the hill as I continue my way up. There’s a house a little farther up the hill where a woman is often standing in the doorway, seeing her children off to school. She watches them head down the hill with their schoolbags until they disappear around the corner. When I pass, she smiles at me, but I can see in her eyes that she worries until her babies return to the nest at the end of the day.

  I’ve also become friends with a grocer, who offers me a piece of fruit from his stand every morning. He says I have to choose it myself, that my skin is too pale and that fruit is good for my health. I think he likes me and, to a certain extent, the feeling is mutual. At noon, when the perfume maker has lunch with his wife, Can and I go back to the grocer and buy something to eat. We often go to a beautiful little cemetery and sit on a stone bench under a fig tree, where we play a game, imagining details from the lives of the people buried around us. In the afternoon we go back to the workshop. I’ve been using a sort of makeshift organ that the perfumer helped me put together. I’ve been able to buy a lot of the equipment I need, and my research is coming along. Right now, I’m working on re-creating the illusion of dust. I realize how ridiculous that must sound, but dusty overtones are an important part of all of my memories, and Istanbul is full of the smells of earth, stone walls, gravel paths, salt, mud, and dry wood. The master has shown me a few more of his discoveries, and a real understanding seems to be growing between the two of us.