14- Bear Foot

 

It was the first few days of November 2019. Zurich was enjoying a magnificent autumn. The street where I lived was covered in bright yellow leaves. That morning, as usual, I was running late for work. By the time I sprinted to the Höschgasse tram stop, the tram had already arrived. I snatched up a free copy of the Metro newspaper from the stand and jumped on just before the doors closed. I threw myself into the last available seat in the back section, where four people could sit facing each other. I unfolded the newspaper. The culture section mentioned that a Zurich-based author had won Germany’s Büchner Prize and had received the award in Darmstadt. 

Just two weeks earlier, when I had gone to the Orell Füssli bookstore at Stadelhofen asking for book recommendations, they had suggested this author’s 2017 novel. I had finished it in a few days. “What a coincidence!” I thought. Or maybe not—the award had probably been announced before the ceremony, and the bookstore staff had simply recommended a prize-winning author. 

The author’s surname meant "Bear Foot" in German. Other than that, I didn’t know much about him. Now, from the newspaper, I learned he lived in Zurich. I should have guessed—the novel was set in Zurich, after all. Still, it was nice to know he lived in my city. I pulled out my phone and looked up his Wikipedia page. I discovered he was born the same year and month as me, just one day later. “What a coincidence!” I was exactly one day older. As a child, I had hated being a "Christmas baby"—school was always on break, and my birthday gift would inevitably merge with my Christmas present. My birthday would get lost in the holiday rush, reduced to a small cake. He must have suffered the same birthday trauma for 48 years—poor Bear Foot! 

When I looked up, I locked eyes with the man sitting across from me. I glanced at the photo on my phone, then back at him. There was no doubt—Bear Foot was sitting right in front of me. His narrow brown eyes met mine for a second before he looked away. My heart pounded. I didn’t dare say anything. He seemed uncomfortable under my gaze and raised his copy of “Tages Anzeiger” to hide his face. So, he must have returned to Zurich after the award ceremony. But the Metro rag had only just caught up with the news. 

My eyes drifted to his dark blue raincoat peeking out from under the newspaper, then down to his shoes beneath his black jeans. The brown leather Italian loafers weren’t as big as a bear’s Foot. 

I pretended to read other news articles while impatiently waiting to catch another glimpse of his face. Trump had announced America’s withdrawal from the Paris Climate Agreement. Egypt’s military regime had killed 80 Islamist militants. 

I was supposed to get off at Bellevue and switch trams. But since he didn’t get off, neither did I. I could stay on a little longer and catch another tram at Paradeplatz heading the same direction. Maybe I’d find the right moment to say, “Congratulations on the award. I just finished your book.” I wished I hadn’t read it so quickly. If I had it in my bag, he’d see I was a reader—maybe even ask for an autograph. 

 

But what if it wasn’t him? Or worse, what if he thought I was some creep stalking him, like the protagonist in his book who follows a young woman? 

In his novel, a contractor named Philip waits at a famous café in Bellevue for a business meeting. When the other person doesn’t show, he steps outside but lingers nearby, smoking and wandering around in case they arrive. He notices a young woman exiting a revolving door across the square and, intrigued by her shoes, starts following her—not with any ill intent, just to pass the time. Even when his secretary calls to say the person he was supposed to meet has arrived, he keeps trailing the woman instead. 

If he had noticed me staring at his shoes earlier and our eyes met just as the tram approached Bellevue, wouldn’t it be natural for him to think “I was the one stalking him”? To avoid giving that impression, I decided not to say anything. 

The tram advanced a few more stops, nearing Paradeplatz. I definitely had to switch trams here. Secretly, I hoped he’d get off too. My wish must have been granted—as we pulled into the stop, he stood without lowering his newspaper, turned his back, carefully folded the paper, tucked it under his arm, and moved toward the door. From where I sat, I couldn’t see his face. But his raincoat matched one I’d seen in photos online. It had to be him. The moment the doors opened, he stepped off. Keeping my eyes on him, I followed a few passengers later. 

The electronic display at the stop said Tram 7 would arrive in three minutes. Bear Foot strode confidently toward Bleicherweg without hesitation. Since my tram was heading that way too, I figured walking the short distance was better than waiting. I might be a little late for work. Keeping a few people between us, I trailed him. 

What if he turned around and saw me? I pulled my sunglasses from my bag and put them on—even though the sky was overcast, with no sunlight in sight. As I neared my workplace, I realized I couldn’t keep following him. Maybe I gave up because I didn’t want to end up like Philip in his book. 

At the office, I sat at my desk and checked my emails. Then I grabbed my laptop and rushed to a meeting. That afternoon, during a free moment, I started a Word document. I noted the date, the tram-stop and time I boarded, and the time I got off. I saved the file as “Bear Foot”. 

I spent the entire winter attending book signings by visiting authors at Kaufleuten, sitting in on guest lectures at the university’s literature department, and buying and reading all of Bear Foot’s other books. I rode Tram 2 at the same time every day, sitting near the back where four people could sit facing each other. Back in the day, phone directories listed people’s numbers—you could even guess their neighbourhood. But despite months of digging, I found almost nothing about his private life. Still, I made sure to add every scrap of information to my document. 

By mid-March 2020, coronavirus cases had reached Europe. All shops closed, and pharmacies ran out of masks. Unable to go to the office, I worked from home and spent all my free time researching Bear Foot. 

By May, the weather had turned beautiful, but gatherings of more than five people were banned in Switzerland due to the virus. My friends and I decided to have a picnic at Zürichhorn, pretending to be two separate groups. Every year, I had a tradition of taking my first swim in the lake on Mother’s Day. To keep the streak alive, I arrived an hour and a half early, at noon, planning to quickly dip in and out before my friends showed up. My apartment was just a three-minute walk from the Corbusier Pavilion. I’d swim near the bronze statue on the lakeside, sunbathe while my swimsuit dried, read my book, and then meet my friends at the pavilion at 1:30. 

When I reached the statue, I saw another lunatic like me stripping down to swim, carefully folding his clothes. My breath caught when I recognized his face. It couldn’t be a coincidence that we had so much in common. No one else was crazy enough to swim in this cold lake—just him and me. I watched from a distance as he waded in and swam a few strokes. Then, driven by a strange impulse, I walked over, gathered his clothes, and stuffed them into my picnic bag. A few picnickers were around, but no one paid me any attention. Calmly, I stood up and walked away, keeping my eyes on the lake. 

I went home. Despite my composed walk, my heart was racing, and I was drenched in sweat. I emptied his clothes from my bag—his phone, wallet, shorts, linen shirt, and towel. “Damn, I took his towel too.” Poor guy must have been stuck there in just his swimsuit. But it was too late now. I rummaged through his wallet: bank card, driver’s license, a Coop receipt. I checked his phone for messages. Guilt gnawed at me. I decided to return his things after dark. I wiped my fingerprints off the phone and wallet, put on dishwashing gloves to avoid leaving prints, stuffed everything into a bag, and left it by my door. 

Then I changed out of my shorts and blouse into a long summer dress, swapped my cap for a straw hat, and even switched my picnic bag. I let down my tied-up hair and applied red lipstick. Now, there was no resemblance to the woman from earlier. I waited an hour before leaving again at 1:30. 

The picnic was fun, but I felt uneasy, ashamed of what I’d done. Around 4 p.m., I convinced two friends to come to the lake with me, saying, “At least take a photo of me while I swim.” The three of us walked to the shore. I kept my swimming tradition alive, if only for two minutes. Bear Foot was long gone—maybe he’d even reported it to the police. But there was no sign of suspicion. Now, I wished I had swum toward him at noon, pretended to cramp, and caught his attention. Instead of a harmless lie to start a conversation, I’d stolen his things. I didn’t know why I’d done something so crazy. But it was done. 

That evening, the bag was still by my door. I waited for dark and went to the shore around 10 p.m. Too scared to return to the scene, I left his belongings on a bench about 30 meters away and went home. After that, ashamed of what I’d done, I stopped researching him. 

Five years passed. The coronavirus days faded from memory. I had long forgotten the author I’d obsessed over for six months. But thanks to him, my interest in literature had grown. It was April 2025, and during an Easter trip to Italy, I listened to author interviews in the car. After Max Frisch and Dürrenmatt, an interview with Bear Foot began. He talked about himself—how one day, he’d gone swimming in the lake and had his clothes stolen, how vulnerable he’d felt that day. I nearly drove into the guardrails of Lake Lucerne from the shock. I pulled over, breathless. But I was ecstatic. He was talking about “me”. Now, he knew I existed.

08- Accidently

It was winter, the air was freezing, and the cold was making my bones ache. In the darkness, I could see nothing but the silhouettes of trees.

Actually, I had brought this situation upon myself. Lately, I had been acting impulsively and spending sleepless nights. When I didn’t get a response from my lover, I’d jump into the car and go to their place, causing a scene. I was moving entirely in the orbit of my heart, my feelings had taken control, silencing my mind. This night was once again the result of that uncontrollable anger.

I had learned from Facebook that he had gone to Como without informing me. My hands were trembling with anger as I hurriedly packed a small bag and jumped into the car. I set off south at midnight, taking the turn toward Saint Bernardino. Why had I taken this route when the Saint Gotthard Tunnel was the most practical and widely used route to Italy? Maybe it was because we had taken this road together on our last trip. But the Saint Bernardino pass was closed, and the signs directed me toward the Splügen Pass. I had only passed through there once in my life. Even in summer, this was one of the most desolate passes of the Alps. What was I doing here on this November night? I didn’t know.

When I opened my eyes, I was trapped between the airbags. I didn’t even attempt to get out of the car. Even if I tried, it seemed certain I wouldn’t be able to. I was sure I was bleeding somewhere due to the warm, sticky wetness I didn’t know where it came from. I was astonished that I was still alive. But I thought to myself that by morning no one would find me, and I would be dead.

I tried to gather the last memories I could, tapping into my fading memory. While climbing toward the Splügen Pass, I had turned the music up all the way and sung songs like crazy. Just before I reached the pass, I noticed the café we had visited with my brother and his family was closed. I tried the door, but when I couldn’t get in, I returned to the car and continued on my way. The descent from the mountain pass was now in Italian territory, and the sharp turns were numbered, reducing from 50 to 1. As I read the numbers illuminated by my headlights, I felt relief as the numbers dropped... 36, 35, 34... I don’t remember the last number I saw, but the treeless, grassy scenery above had changed, and as I descended, the coniferous vegetation began.

It was probably due to the heavy rain, but my summer tires couldn’t grip the road. My car lost control, swerved off the road into the forest, and crashed into a tree, coming to a stop. I couldn’t see any lights except for the headlights of my car. Now, the wolves and birds would eat me here. If someone saw me, would they feel sorry for me? Would they blame me for this mess? If I die here, maybe then they would feel guilty. But I didn’t want to die just for them to feel guilt. Thoughts were flying through my head.

Our story with him was more of a chase and escape tale than a love story. I didn’t even know why I had become so obsessed with this man. While he was spending his free time with me, I was being dragged along behind him. It had been a year and a half, yet neither of us had each other's house keys. We had planned no vacations, nor had we invited a mutual friend or family member to dinner. Our relationship was like an elastic band, he would pull away, and I would follow. It couldn’t be called an equal relationship.

Now, he was probably sleeping soundly. Even if I reached Como, how would I find him? The feeling of how foolish it was to go on this journey struck me like a knife. I couldn’t move from the place where I was stuck. I couldn’t even find my phone. I was cold. I tried to reach my coat in the backseat, but a sharp pain shot through my ribs, and I had to pull my arm back without even touching it.

Tears streaming from my eyes mixed with the blood on my face, leaving a salty taste on my lips. I didn’t know if I would make it through the night. Then, a faint light appeared on the left. A flashlight was moving, flickering back and forth. I should shout, let them know I was alive, that I was here. But all that came out of my mouth was a weak groan, barely reaching my ears. At that moment, the light fell on the car, and it blinded me. A silhouette holding the light appeared.

The stranger, rubbing his hands together to warm them, approached the car. With an indescribable joy inside me, I couldn’t stay still. He tried to open the driver’s door but couldn’t. After a brief hesitation, he walked away, returned with a tool in his hand, and opened the passenger and back doors. While reclining the passenger seat, he asked, “Come sta?”

Instinctively, I responded, “Bene!” as if I could be fine in this situation. Then, embarrassed by the idea of pretending I knew Italian, I muttered something resembling a groan: “Non parlo italiano, parlo tedesco o inglese…”

Meanwhile, he had reached back and managed to open the driver’s door from the inside. In a hurry, like an impatient child, I stuck my legs out. Just as he was about to say “Kıpırdama!”, I had already jumped up. Then, I collapsed to the ground.

When I opened my eyes, he was carrying me. In a doctor-like tone, he said, “What did you do? Maybe moving wasn’t the right thing.” Then, he added, “Anyway, it’s really cold. Maybe staying in the car wouldn’t have been a good idea.”

He was right. If my spine were broken, I shouldn’t have gotten up. But it was too late. I left my concerns about my spine to the gods, and while being carried, I tried to guess the scent of his perfume coming from his neck. What perfume was he using, I wondered. Interestingly, I wasn’t feeling any pain. Maybe I was dead. Perhaps I had moved on to another life in a parallel universe. Otherwise, there was no way I should have made it out of this crash like this.

As soon as I entered, he laid me down on the sofa and ran to the phone. While pressing the buttons according to the electronic commands, he was also trying to comfort me. "You're fine, you're fine. Look, you remembered all the languages you speak." I wanted to complain, "What do you mean by all languages? Do you know how many languages I speak?" but my chest was tightening when I breathed and spoke. I just smiled. My fear had long passed, and I was examining the old chandelier hanging from the wooden ceiling. In the fireplace opposite me, the logs were burning brightly. This place must have been a chalet passed down from grandparents. The cushion under my head had embroidery on it. Almost everything was made of wood. The curtains matched the red-and-white checked tablecloth. These seemed like they belonged to his grandmother, not the man in his forties. The only thing from this era was the gigantic graphic on one of the walls. I was sure it was the dome of St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. I love Renaissance masterpieces, especially the domes. But it had been transformed into an architectural poster with watercolor. I would have liked to ask, but the pain in my ribs made me give up.

There was no trace of the fear I had felt in the car. My savior's warm and reassuring voice was still speaking on the phone. Holding the phone in one hand, he was trying to free himself from the coat and big boots he had put on when stepping outside. From the conversation, I gathered that he had contacted the hospital. He was talking about the accident, was he saying I fell into his garden? I heard him say "Mio giardino"—was he talking about the damage I caused to his garden? Could he be thinking about this while I was in this state? From the fragmented words like “La donna, incidente, ospedale” I could barely understand, I realized he was more concerned about my health than his garden, and I felt relieved. He hung up the phone, turned to me, and said, “The ambulance will be here in fifteen minutes,” and added, “A helicopter will come, don’t be afraid, okay? It would take at least an hour for a normal ambulance to reach here, and I told them you were in very bad condition so they should hurry. You know, this is Italy,” he said with a mischievous laugh.

Without that laugh, I might have panicked at the thought of the helicopter coming. But I felt calm. I was already sad that I would leave here in ten or fifteen minutes. I was observing my savior, who had freed himself from his discomfort. He turned to the desk, rolling up the sleeves of his blue linen shirt towards his elbows. He pulled the wooden chair under him, sat down, and started writing something. "Let’s inform your family. They’ll be worried." he said. "No," I replied, "they’ll be even more anxious," but still, I gave him the number of my closest friend in Zurich. He looked cool in his blue shirt, beige Chino pants, and neatly trimmed wavy hair. It was clear he didn’t farm in this mountain village. His way of speaking and how he expressed himself in both German and English showed he was an educated man. He was handsome too. He smiled, showing his pearly teeth through his short reddish beard. He must be married, I thought. Don’t we always say that good men are either married or gay? And we’re left behind... Then the man who had caused me to set out on this journey came to mind, ugh. I involuntarily wrinkled my face. Although he didn’t know the reason, my savior noticed my discomfort and said, “You’ll be fine, don’t worry!” I snapped out of my thoughts, but still, with the pain in my ribs, I tried to make short sentences, pointing to the blood on my face with my finger, and said, “I’m so scared” before I started crying. He stood in front of me like a doctor, looked deeply into my eyes with his green ones, and calmly said, “It’s just a small cut on your eyebrow," then took a wet paper from the bathroom and wiped my face. "There are no other wounds, look, all the blood is from here,” he said as he handed me a round bathroom mirror. Then, with a playful attitude, he said, "When I was a kid, I fell a lot, they would stitch up my eyebrow. Look!" and showed me the straight, hairless line that went through his eyebrow. Then, as if we were about to shake hands, he extended his hand and said, "I'm Lorenzo." Embarrassed by my fears, I said in a low voice, "I’m Laura. Thank you." Then I repeated, “Grazia mille” in Italian and started crying again. As I hiccupped, my chest hurt, but I couldn’t stop crying. He pulled his chair beside the sofa I was lying on and said, "Don’t be afraid, look, the ambulance is coming. I’m also in shock, but I wasn’t sleeping. I was working on a project. The car crash almost echoed in the room. I thought lightning had struck. When I went outside, I saw the car’s headlights. I still can’t believe you’re alive, and even in such good condition,” he said. When he saw I had calmed down, he pulled his hand away from my head and leaned back.

When the ambulance arrived, he rushed back to the desk as if he had just remembered something, wrote something on two post-it notes, handed one to the ambulance staff, and folded the other, slipping it into my pants pocket. "This is my phone number. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call!" he said. At that moment, I was only thinking about how the stretcher I was lying on would be lifted by a rope to the helicopter spinning above and feeling uneasy about it.

After staying for two days at Alessandro Manzoni Hospital near Lenno, Italy, I was transferred to Zurich University Hospital on Monday by ambulance. When they handed me my pants in a small bag as I got into the ambulance, I remembered to save Lorenzo's number, which he had written on a piece of paper, into my phone. At that moment, I sent him a small thank-you message: "A million thanks, not just one. They are taking me to Zurich now. They could have put me on a train, but I think you have a very good healthcare system, so they sent an ambulance." Two minutes later, he replied: "I’m so happy to hear that. I tried calling your number, but your phone was off. I thought about that night a lot. I could’ve not been there. I live in Milan; this mountain house is from our grandfather, and there are two or three other houses around, but they’re all empty this season. My being there in November was very coincidental. I needed to think, and I decided last minute to spend the weekend here. Every time I think about how close you were to not making it, it shakes me." Hearing this shook me too, but now I was in safe hands.

 When I arrived in Zurich, my mother and all my friends rushed to the hospital as soon as they heard. I didn’t feel like calling the so-called lover who had led me to these roads. While he wasn’t even aware that I had gone to Como, the experiences I had and coming face to face with death had opened my mind. What good would it do if I told him what had happened? "I’d tell him if he called," I thought, "or maybe I wouldn’t." It had been exactly five days since the accident when he called me. That day, I had been discharged from the hospital and returned home by taxi. As usual, with an indifferent expression as if nothing had happened, as if I hadn’t gone to Como without him, he said, "Shall we meet tonight?" "No, I’m sick," I said. I had been expecting him to ask, "Shall I make you some soup?" Instead, he said, "Then take good care of yourself, rest please," and hung up the phone. A few days later, I was furious again. I wrote that I was angry at his indifference and that I was done. In response, he gave me a silly answer as if it was perfectly normal, "You’re always so negative, I can’t understand you." I didn’t feel like calling or writing more. Although thinking it was over made my heart ache, it was not greater pain than the endless disappointment he had caused me.

I didn’t call Lorenzo either. With Christmas and the New Year in between, I had gone to visit my family. I occasionally thought about my savior, but I hadn’t fully recovered from the shock of the accident, and with the fatigue from the ended relationship, I didn’t feel like doing anything during those months.

One sunny April morning, while I was getting ready to go to work after taking a shower, my phone rang. Lorenzo, embarrassed, said he had accidentally called me while his phone was in his back pocket. It was the first time I had heard his voice again. So, he had been fiddling with my number. He asked if I was planning to go to Milan. I told him that even though I needed to go to Ascona for work, I hadn’t been able to head south after the accident. I added that I would definitely call if I came. I told him I wanted to treat him to a meal, that I couldn’t repay the debt of life, but if I treated him to a meal, I would feel better. After this conversation, we started texting and sharing pictures from time to time. He was an architect. He sent me pictures of a school project they had done in Slovenia, and I sent him a few pictures from my trip to Los Angeles. This way, we got a chance to get to know each other again, like two old friends.

Exactly one year had passed since the accident, and November had arrived. During this time, I had explained the cause of the accident to Lorenzo, and he had told me that he had been dealing with relationship problems the day of the accident. Over the course of the year, we both slowly healed, and we had even started flirting a little over the phone. I was going to the office in Ascona for work again. We decided to have dinner at a restaurant on the terrace of the yacht club in Como, right between Milan and Ascona. I needed to overcome that Como trauma. Como was a city I loved, and I shouldn’t stay away from it because of one jerk. In Como, on a sparkling evening, we had dinner while watching the waves on the lake, and thus, the first steps of a new life were taken.

 

07- On the Island

The storm had intensified, and the speakers at the pier announced the cancellation of the 4:00 PM ferry. This last Sunday evening departure usually took weekend visitors back to their homes. The return trip from Sandhamn, the farthest of the archipelago islands, to Stockholm typically took two and a half hours, during which the regular passengers—familiar with one another by now—would chat along the way.

Despite the sudden worsening of the weather, about seventy passengers were gathered at the pier that evening. After listening attentively to the announcement in both Swedish and English, the crowd stirred. As the congestion began to thin, the summer residents were the first to leave. Chatting with their neighbors as they returned home, some sent messages from their phones, informing their workplaces they would work from home the next day. They appeared content to extend their weekend.

Meanwhile, tourists sought information from the locals, and upon learning they were stranded on the island due to the cancellation, they leisurely waited to see what others would do. Most passengers reacted with Scandinavian calm, quietly criticizing the ferry company or speculating that their travel insurance might cover the hotel costs.

Among the crowd was a group of seventeen people who had celebrated their 25th graduation anniversary in Sandhamn. They hoped to recreate the legendary gatherings of their high school years at Henrik's family home on the island. After a five-hour "celebration marathon," they were ready to head back home.

Years ago, the same house had hosted these gatherings. Back then, sausages were grilled on the veranda, beers were popped open, and conversations lasted until morning. High school romances occasionally blossomed, and they slept on couches or in sleeping bags on the veranda, diving into the icy sea at dawn. But this time was different. Now over forty, the years had created distances between them. Throughout the day, they had lingered around Henrik's carefully prepared table or barbecue, catching up on each other's lives with questions like, "What are you up to these days?" and "Are you married?" They subtly competed to determine who was more successful, who had aged more, and where life had taken them.

Now, stranded at the pier, they looked uneasy. The group grew tense. Those closer to Henrik hurried off as if unwilling to give up their spot, heading toward his house. The remaining ones either didn’t want to impose or hadn’t acted quickly enough. Some had simply grown too distant from their youth to consider sleeping on couches, preferring to stay at a hotel and head to work once the ferries resumed.

Among the travelers were three women from out of town who had missed their connecting trains. They expressed their frustration by saying they had always considered Sandhamn an impractical choice from the beginning.

Helene, a lone resident of the island, lingered at the pier, reluctant to return home after storming out during a quarrel with her spouse. She had come to the harbor intending to spend the night at a friend’s place in the city center. Her disappointment at not reaching the city was palpable, and she lingered, unwilling to go home.

Those in a hurry considered hiring a water taxi to reach Stavsnäs and continue to Stockholm by road. However, they soon learned via phone that water taxis, too, were unable to operate in such weather.

Half an hour after the announcement, only nineteen people remained stranded at the island’s sole pier. Among them were eleven members of the graduation group, Helene, a German tourist flirting with her in German, an elderly tourist couple from Geneva named Charles and Celine, their daughter who lived in Stockholm with her Swedish husband, and a young couple in their twenties, entirely absorbed in kissing, oblivious to their surroundings.

In this extraordinary warm September evening, they sat on benches in the waiting room, its three sides enclosed by glass, watching the torrential rain. Unhurriedly, they struck up conversations, forming an unusual camaraderie over their shared predicament.

The crashing waves against the pier, the occasional lightning from the eastern storm clouds, and the sun piercing through the clouds behind the island to bathe the sky in crimson created a romantic atmosphere. Watching the scene, they deepened their conversation, touching on topics like the new weather patterns caused by climate change, their weekend on the island, and the red hues of the sun defiantly breaking through the storm clouds. The discussion naturally drifted to politics, the indifference of leaders to climate issues, the rain's impact on Europe's wine harvest, and finally, to wine and the beauty of the sunset.

The sunset was indeed stunning—a dramatic juxtaposition of dark clouds and crashing waves on one side, and a radiant patch of red at the precise point where the sun was setting.

 

Retired physics professor Charles, behind his black-framed glasses with his hazel eyes moving, eagerly dove into the wine conversation, starting with "Allors..." In his strong French-accented English, he continued, "Why don't we head to the -merveilleuse- hotel bar behind us? A retired man like me can't spend his money on anything better. First round is on me!" While North Europeans rarely decline an alcohol offer, they followed Charles with slight objections like, "Are you sure? We’re too many!" due to a genetic shyness.

Charles's wife, Celine, gazed at her husband's cheerful demeanor with love and admiration. A former ballet instructor, Celine nodded in approval, her shiny brown eyes under her dark bun, adjusted her shawl, and elegantly entered the redwood Seglar hotel's bar on her husband's arm, like a butterfly. Their initiative, as the oldest in the group, set the others in motion. Despite the pouring rain, they dashed under shared umbrellas, laughing, and filled the bar immediately behind the dock.

As the wind still howled outside, the warmth inside was a contrast. The hotel staff seemed unprepared for the sudden crowd, but soon, three bottles of Primitivo arrived at the table. Charles raised his glass, saying, "To new friendships!" The graduation group repeated, "To old friendships!" They laughed, but a cracked voice saying, "What a friendship, huh?" sharply interrupted the laughter. Under Charles’s surprised gaze, Anna continued grumbling.

"When I said Sandhamn was a ridiculous idea, no one listened. Here we are. The ferry's canceled, the train’s gone. Great planning!" Erika, sitting next to her, sighed. "Why Sunday, not Saturday?" Isabelle added, "Anna, we all said that, but Henrik's group 'overpowered us.'"

Meanwhile, Martin, coming from the lobby, joined in. "Who’s this Henrik group, girls? I don’t know. You tell me." Martin’s unnecessary loud remarks sparked a conversation that spread to the other tables. Minor disagreements from high school, fueled by accumulated years, turned into a bigger quarrel. Everyone was talking at once. A family, disturbed by the noise, grumbled, "What’s this noise! People should show some respect!" Isabelle turned, grinning, and scolded the woman, "We’re on vacation, relax a little."

Laura, trying to calm the situation, joined the discussion, "What’s done is done. We’re here now, and we’ll wait for morning. Look, I came all the way from Switzerland and I’m not complaining," and added with a somewhat smug tone in Anna's ear, "Sometimes life overturns our plans, but in these moments, it’s best to focus on the opportunities the new situation offers, not the disrupted plan. Unforgettable memories are born from these imperfect plans. I raise my glass to broken plans!" She clinked glasses with a few people who joined her. Anna, increasingly irritated by the "all the way from Switzerland" emphasis and the following spiritual nonsense, sarcastically replied, "But I’m not from Switzerland, madam," and added in a hoarse voice, "That’s why I won’t carelessly pay for the hotel like you."

Charles, trying to smooth things over with a laugh, said, "No, none of us are that rich; it's just an urban legend," and laughed uneasily, adding, "And it’s late," before excusing himself.

Charles managed to stop the argument. The storm outside had also calmed. It turned out that Helene was Henrik’s neighbor, and later that night, she decided to head home. On her way out, she took Anna and Erika with her, both of whom had no money to pay the hotel, as an excuse to her guests and husband.

Later in the evening, Martin, having pushed the lobby sofas together, declared a "new high school party" in the hotel corridor. They began sharing wine bottles and confessing secrets of their old high school crushes. The atmosphere Henrik had failed to create at the summer house was starting to form here.

The next morning, those who woke up at the hotel at seven saw that the previously angry sea now gently licked the dock like a docile cat under the sun, and with a peaceful calm, they sipped their coffee. Most of the passengers who had disappeared the day before for the 8:00 ferry had returned, along with a few new ones. The ferry at the crowded dock was greeted with a weary enthusiasm as if it was welcoming a beloved after a long journey, and the two-and-a-half-hour ride passed in the blink of an eye. When the passengers arrived in Stockholm, they hugged each other sincerely, bidding farewell with wishes to meet again. None of them would ever forget Sandhamn.

 

10) An Extraordinary Evening (A Year in Montreal: Part 1)

It was a rainy, dark October evening. As I was driving along St. Huber Street, my wipers were working at full speed. “Ugh, what a terrible rain!” I muttered. The city had surrendered to the rain; the roads had turned into huge mirrors reflecting the streetlights.

When I opened the garage door with the remote control and entered the parking lot of our building overlooking the Old Port, I took a deep breath. “What a horrible rain! Finally home. Is this city testing me or what?” I whispered to myself.

It had been two months since I moved to Montreal. The famous cold weather everyone warned me about still hadn’t arrived. In fact, October had been unusually warm and sunny. But today, for some reason, a heavy tropical rainstorm had started and continued non-stop all day.

I parked our Saab Cabrio in its spot. My partner Charles had found this old beauty in Quebec and, imagining the smile on my face, had carefully cleaned the leather seats and polished the body.

I opened the car door, placed both feet on the ground before getting out of the low vehicle, and felt a pain in my back as I stood up. I wasn’t exactly old yet. I was about to turn fifty-five next month. But lately, I had been battling pains in my back, neck, and knees. The health problems I’d faced in recent years had forced me to descend from the world of gods into the world of mortals. My genetic heritage had certainly overworked my internal organs as I aged, but luckily it had added beauty to my appearance, turning me into a graceful, attractive, and sophisticated woman. Instead of the shy, timid girl of my childhood, I now saw a poised lady in the mirror.

I slid the driver’s seat forward and took my green leather backpack and small handbag from the back seat—souvenirs from Venice last year. Over the past year, with my partner’s insistent suggestions, I had gotten used to using a backpack to protect my back. I had also given up stuffing my bag to the brim; now I carried only my laptop and a few essential items. Apart from a lipstick and a small perfume, I no longer carried makeup. In the past, I used to carry huge handbags, filled with things I didn’t even know about. Sometimes, even God wouldn’t have been able to guess what I’d pull out of them. My ex-husband Daniel used to laugh and call it my “Woopy bag.” Woopy, apparently, was a magician character from a children’s TV show he used to watch, famous for pulling all sorts of things out of his bag.

I got into the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor. The thought of climbing nine flights of stairs from the garage had crossed my mind—it would’ve been good exercise for my legs and heart—but I’d never tried it.

Since we were only planning to stay in Canada for at most two years, we had rented a furnished apartment. We were enjoying certain luxuries we weren’t used to in Europe: a lobby, a swimming pool, a gym, and a sauna.

When I started my career, I’d immediately taken out a loan from the bank where I worked and bought my own home. Now, living in a rental, surrounded by furniture chosen by someone else, gave me the odd feeling of long-term hotel living.

Canada felt too Americanized for chronic European romantics like us. We missed streets steeped in history. Even Quebec French sounded to our ears like an American speaking French. The helpfulness of people in North America, though appreciated, often felt a bit fake to us. But after all, we weren’t here permanently. We weren’t condemned to this place, and we were content with our expat-tourist hybrid lifestyle.

The elevator doors opened on the eighth floor. My neighbor’s door was open, and the entrance was full of suitcases and shopping bags. I had met the small, white-haired woman in her mid-sixties before, but it was the first time I saw her husband, who was much bigger, overweight, and had messy hair. Other than two of the six apartments on our floor, I had no idea who lived in the others.

The elderly couple introduced themselves briefly. They said they usually stayed at their second home outside the city and only came here for work every two weeks. When they learned I was Swiss, ten minutes later, the man knocked on my door. I hesitantly opened it, and he said a sentence he’d learned in German. “Typical Canadians and their intrusiveness,” I thought. The other day we’d invited one of my husband’s colleagues over, and he had casually opened our fridge. Opening the fridge in someone’s home on a first visit—this mixture of friendliness and overfamiliarity—seemed unique to Canadians.

Even though I felt completely safe in this apartment, I always locked the door. The main entrance to the building was always locked, but delivery people rang the doorbells, and the residents would buzz them in from upstairs. There were also many homeless people in the city, and they might try to sneak into the warm lobby during these deliveries.

Since my brain was capable of producing infinite disaster scenarios, when my neighbor knocked, I felt a little jolt of anxiety. Once again, I was convinced how right I was to always lock the door.

My husband worked in a factory in the industrial zone of Granby, about eighty kilometers away. He spent two hours a day in the car and always came home later than me. During that time, I would tidy up the house, do the ironing, or go to the gym.

Now, because of the heavy rain, the evening had gotten even darker. But the last rays of the sun had found a small gap in the clouds, making the silver dome of the Bonsecours Market shine brilliantly. I had started painting the incredible view from our apartment onto a canvas, to take it back to Europe as a memory. The canvas still stood half-finished on the easel, and for weeks I hadn’t been able to continue. Besides, the light wasn’t quite right tonight, and honestly, landscape painting didn’t give me much pleasure. I had always been inclined toward painting, but I preferred portraits and figures. The details and chaos of rooftops, terraces, and chimneys tired me out.

Indeed, the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and bedroom captured the endless view like a painting. Especially when we turned off the lights, I couldn’t get enough of looking at the scenery. That evening, I took off my work clothes, put on my shorts, sat on my yoga mat, and watched the view. I picked up the dumbbells and lifted them half-heartedly, just to feel like I’d done some exercise.

Then I heard the key turn in the lock, and I ran to the hallway to greet my partner. We hugged warmly and kissed. But his face looked tired. As soon as he hung up his coat and took off his shoes, he started telling me without me even asking.

That morning, when he went to get into his car, he noticed a huge crack in the windshield and found a note on it. The police had caught the person who did it—a man who had smashed the windows of twenty other cars but had turned himself in without stealing anything.

“Really? Why would someone do that?” I asked. Then, as if answering my own question, I said, “Could it have been one of the homeless? Maybe he thought he’d be more comfortable in jail as winter approaches.” My husband nodded in agreement. His colleagues had come to the same conclusion. It was actually a tragic situation. What a decadent solution. Twenty car owners had started their day annoyed by a cracked windshield, gone to the police station to file reports, talked to insurance companies, made repair appointments—a waste of time, effort, and money. All because this city still hadn’t found a solution for its homeless.

I took a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge and poured two glasses. I handed him one, looked into his eyes, and said, “Santé.” Another ordinary evening was beginning on the new continent.

 

 

09- A Journey of Life

As Yaşar Kemal's famous words say, "Those beautiful people mounted their beautiful horses and rode away." One by one, the kindest and most gentle-hearted people in the world left us, leaving us abandoned here.

One of these beautiful, extraordinary people was Mr. Hüseyin. Born in 1935 into a poor family in Rasht, a city near the Caspian Sea in Iran, he began his apprenticeship as a tailor at a young age. His mentor was an Azeri tailor, which not only honed his tailoring skills but also allowed him to learn Azeri.

In 1962, he married Mrs. Mükerrem in Rasht. She insisted on being called "Muki Hanım." Perhaps it was because she wasn't considered a stunning beauty or because, at 29, she was deemed to have missed her marital window by societal standards of the time, that she chose to marry the humble tailor. Unlike many women of her age, she quickly obtained her driver’s license, bought a car, and became an indispensable partner to her non-driving husband, supporting his artistic soul with her financial acumen.

After moving to Tehran, Mr. Hüseyin expanded his business, hired employees, and soon became one of Tehran's most respected tailors. He opened a three-story workshop and created clothing for the wives of the political elite surrounding Shah Pahlavi. Despite his success, he remained humble and kind throughout his life.

However, the Iranian Islamic Revolution changed everything for them. What began in 1979 as a liberation movement turned into a regime of moral policing in the 1980s. These enforcers frequently raided Mr. Hüseyin's shop, degrading and falsely accusing him because he tailored women’s clothing. These pressures extinguished the light of life within a man who had never harmed anyone and was a paragon of goodness. Eventually, he was forced to leave his homeland.

In the early years of the revolution, he sent his son and daughter to Sweden for their education. Later, his daughter married and moved to America, and finally, Mr. Hüseyin, along with his wife, had to migrate to Virginia, near their daughter. Yet, the wounds of the last twelve years in Iran remained an indelible scar in his heart, and he even requested that his remains not be returned to Iran.

When they moved to America in 1992, Mr. Hüseyin was 57, and Muki Hanım was 59. They fed birds on the balcony of their small apartment in Fairfax, Virginia. Muki Hanım, who had bought a modest car after moving to America, handled the shopping. Meanwhile, Mr. Hüseyin turned one room of their two-room apartment into a sewing studio, where he sewed evening gowns for the local Iranian community. In the mornings, he worked a few hours at an Afghan tailor's shop, making minor adjustments to garments. Life had taken them to the heights of success, only to confine them to this humble apartment.

He wasn’t just a tailor; he was a creative designer and a master of his craft. When his son was about to marry, he made his future daughter-in-law's wedding dress based only on her measurements and a photograph of the design. When he arrived in Stockholm a few days before the wedding, the gown fit her perfectly. Yet, he modestly attributed this success to the young woman’s perfect physique rather than his extraordinary skill.

Later, he sewed coats, jackets, and dresses for his daughter-in-law, presenting them as though they were insignificant gifts, even feeling shy when thanked. The fact that his daughter-in-law was Turkish brought him special joy. He loved her as his own daughter and relished speaking in Azeri Turkish, which he had learned during his apprenticeship, with her. He felt embarrassed about not knowing the exact Turkish equivalents of some words, but his warm smile never faded.

They lived in Virginia for 20 years. Without retirement savings, Mr. Hüseyin worked until the age of 77, never once complaining. Each morning, he would hold the medallion of Imam Ali around his neck, offer a prayer, and then sew throughout the day. Despite his piety, he was never dogmatic. When his grandson wanted to pierce both his ears, Mr. Hüseyin took him to an Armenian jeweler and bought him his first earrings.

In their final years, life scattered this couple to opposite ends of the world. Mr. Hüseyin fell ill and despite the disagreements he had with his son-in-law, spent his last years in Beverly Hills with his daughter and son-in-law. Meanwhile, Muki Hanım returned to Tehran. Their son and grandson remained in Europe. It seemed to be the fate of good people from that country to be scattered like grains of rice and die separated. 

In September 2020, Mr. Hüseyin passed away in Los Angeles at the age of 85. In October 2024, Muki Hanım passed away in Tehran at the age of 90.

When Mr. Hüseyin was laid to rest, he left behind not just his magnificent garments but also his love, which he gave without expecting anything in return, his ever-present smile, and his philosophy of always responding to both good and evil with kindness.

I remember them both with tears in my eyes and a deep longing. Reflecting on the beauty of the Iranian people and the tragic destiny of this ancient neighboring country moves me deeply.

 

06- Returning Home. As If It Were Just Yesterday

 

It was three o’clock in the morning. Everywhere was pitch dark. The door to the apartment building opened quietly.

Last year, the entry code system had broken down, and since the residents couldn’t manage to collect the necessary maintenance fee, the door remained unlocked both day and night. Most of the people living in the building were retired civil servants, getting by on meagre pensions, and hadn’t really cared whether the door was locked or not. Taking advantage of this, children who didn’t even live in the building had begun to spend their time here—running up and down the stairs, sliding down the railings, or sitting on the steps engrossed in their smartphones. Over the course of the year, they had scratched their names and scribbled swear words on the walls. When Mr Mehmet from number 3 passed away last summer, his daughter cleared out the flat he had rented for many years, took what was useful, and left the rest piled in a corner of the large entrance corridor under the pretext of “someone might need it.” At the very front of the pile was a red velvet sofa, where Mr Mehmet always sat on the right side in his final years. The cushion had sagged under his heavy body. The children especially liked to play on this sofa, wedging chocolate wrappers between the cushions, wiping their snotty fingers on the velvet fabric. The most mischievous among them would sometimes climb to the top of the bookcase at the back and shoot arrows at people entering the building. With the arrival of autumn, even the cats had started to sleep there on cold nights. The apartment had begun to resemble something straight out of Elif Şafak’s The Flea Palace.

The building’s oldest resident was Mr Levon. When the apartment was newly built in 1936, young couples had moved into all the flats. Levon had been just five years old when his parents moved in. Back then, the neighbourhood and the building were both elegant and pleasant.
The wrought iron garden gate was always kept closed, roses bloomed in the garden tended mostly by Levon’s father, and both an apple and a cherry tree flowered in spring and bore fruit in summer. In this four-storey building, children had been born, many had married and moved away, parents had passed on or become too elderly to leave their homes. Even the newer tenants had now reached retirement age.

Mr Levon was an only child. He had never married and continued to live in the same flat after his parents passed away. In seventy years, the face of the neighbourhood had changed drastically—houses with gardens and small apartment blocks had been replaced by high-rises and office buildings. Now, this old building, squashed in between, had become a neglected relic of a bygone century. The garden gate had been removed, the garden converted into a car park. In the 1980s, a door lock had been installed, but now broken, the building had turned into a thoroughfare.

Since Mr Levon lived on the first floor, he was always the first to know what was going on.
He had been a handsome and flirtatious young man in his time, often inviting his girlfriends over—much to the frustration of some of the more pious residents. At seventy-three, he was still lively and good-looking. While he no longer carried on as wildly as he once had, his cheerful and courteous manner had made him the darling of the older ladies at the Pera Café, where he went every Sunday.

That night, Mr Levon hadn’t been able to sleep at all. Charles Aznavour’s Hier Encore was playing softly on the record player—low enough not to disturb the neighbours.
Levon sat in the reading chair by the window, his smiling eyes watching the empty street lit by a streetlamp, his thoughts wandering to the old days.

As the longcase clock, which he never liked but couldn’t bring himself to get rid of because it had belonged to his grandfather, struck three, he heard a sound like the clicking of high heels. Who could it be at this hour? He stood up from the chair and moved closer to the window, looking down. Outside stood a slender, elegant lady. One hand held her shawl, the other leaned on a walking stick. She looked around. Her hair, loosely tied in a bun, had strands of white fluttering in the light of the streetlamp. There was no sign of a taxi or any other vehicle.
As he wondered what this woman could be doing here at this hour, he recognised her.
It was Jale. Yes, it could be no one else—his childhood love. He hadn’t seen her in half a century. But those delicate wrists, that graceful head, that beautiful, upturned nose—how could he ever forget them, even after a hundred years? The building door opened quietly, and Jale glided in like a swan.

Levon and Jale were the same age. They had moved into the building the same year but had attended different schools. During their youth, they had shared no more than shy glances.
Jale’s father was a doctor, her mother had her take piano lessons, and Levon would drift into daydreams as he listened to the piano melodies wafting down from the floor above. In 1948, Jale had married the son of a wealthy family. When Levon found out, he was devastated, cried for nights, but in the end surrendered to the flow of life.

After marrying, Jale had moved to her husband’s family’s mansion in Bebek. Her parents had relocated to one of the newer, rising neighbourhoods and never returned to the area. She had a son first, then a daughter five years later. Her son didn’t follow his father into business but entered law school. During those years, Jale only saw her husband and son late at night, spending her days in the mansion with the staff and her daughter. She had piano lessons arranged for her daughter and eventually enrolled her in the conservatoire. In 1980, she lost her husband in a tragic accident. Later, she opened a gallery in Etiler and spent twenty years there.

To reassure himself he wasn’t dreaming, Levon rushed to the door, moved swiftly down the stairwell, and descended the stairs quickly. Jale had stopped at the pile of Mr Mehmet’s belongings and was staring into the dusty entrance hall. Her back was to the staircase.
The furniture was lit by the glow of the streetlamp streaming inside. Levon marvelled that she could still look so graceful. He didn’t want to frighten her, so he called out softly, “Jale, is that you?”

Jale startled slightly, but then turned her noble head proudly in the direction of the voice. Then, beaming as though they had seen each other only yesterday, she began: “I took a taxi,” she said. “I needed to come home.” Levon hadn’t seen a taxi—but perhaps she had got out further away and walked. What was she doing here in the middle of the night? Despite the wrinkles, he could still see the young girl in her beautiful face, but the fact that she was returning to this building she hadn’t lived in for fifty or sixty years made him uneasy. “Why have you come? There’s no one here anymore!” he managed to say. Jale’s eyes sparkled and she smiled mischievously. “I ran away, Levon,” she said, laughing. “My daughter called my son over from Paris, saying I had Alzheimer’s. He rushed here to put me into a care home. So I snuck out in the night without telling anyone. Said I was going to my parents’.”

About five years ago, Jale had started disappearing now and then, and often wandered back to the old neighbourhood. But she had always managed to return without being seen.
Once, she’d said she was going to meet a friend, then forgotten and got lost shopping.
During the millennium celebrations in 2000, when the whole family had gathered at the mansion, her disappearances and memory lapses had become noticeable. First, the gallery was handed over, then a carer was hired. But when she began vanishing from home more frequently, her daughter Suna had urgently summoned her brother from Paris. Now, the children were at home trying to figure out what to do about their mother.

Jale looked at Levon: “I may have Alzheimer’s, but I remember you, Levon!” she said.
“Your eyes were always beautiful. They still are—but you’ve aged terribly!” They both laughed. Levon managed to reply, “And you’re still beautiful.” Then, not wanting to wake the neighbours, he put his hand over his mouth and gestured for silence. “Come upstairs,” he said.
“You know your parents aren’t here, don’t you? It’s been sixty years—could they still be alive? I’ve always been here. I’m glad I never left.” Jale lifted her head as though something had suddenly clicked in her mind. “Yes, we lost Mum. We lost Dad when the children were still young.” Then she looked again at Levon. “Come on, take my arm. I don’t know why I thought wearing these heels was a good idea.”

The two old friends linked arms and climbed the stairs together. As they entered the flat, Aznavour’s voice echoed softly from the record player.

 

05- The Man Sitting on the Bench

 

These days, the old Dalhousie train station, now hosting art events, has two benches set against its northern wall. On each bench sits a man—both Black. If you look down the stairs from Notre-Dame Street to Saint-Hubert Street at 12:30 p.m., you’ll surely see these two men. And if they’re not there, you’ll feel their absence. At first, you might not pay much attention, but with time, you begin to observe and realise that these two men share nothing in common except their skin colour.

One of them is just as you might expect at first glance—one of those homeless men who sleep on benches at night. His body is slumped forward with exhaustion, his hair unkempt, his hands constantly moving and rummaging through his belongings, which are scattered across the bench. He is one of those whom Montreal’s politically correct crowd gently refer to as SDF (Sans domicile fixe = without a fixed address).

The other, though from a distance may appear to be a similar dark silhouette, reveals on closer inspection a completely different picture: neatly pressed trousers, a smart jacket, a dark shirt to match, spotless shoes, perfectly trimmed hair, an upright, dignified posture, and a well-kept physique. Clearly, this young man does not sleep on the bench. He always sits with his hands clasped on his knees, one leg stretched forward, the other tucked under the bench, gazing straight ahead in stillness.

Once you notice this difference, the man with the clasped hands, sitting as if burdened by something, begins to occupy your thoughts. What could be troubling him? You may conclude that he’s lost his job but hasn’t been able to bring himself to accept it—so he dresses each morning as if going to work and leaves home. Perhaps it’s such a deep blow that he hasn’t even told his wife. He spends his day sitting on this bench, deep in thought, only to return home in the evening as if coming back from the office—just like in a film.

You begin to obsess over seeing him there at lunchtime. Wondering if he sits there all day, you start to keep watch even from your home. You realise that his presence there isn’t random—it’s rooted in his inner world. Eventually, you notice that he spends only about an hour and a half there each day. You think, perhaps instead of joining his colleagues for lunch, he uses this window of time to think, to weigh his troubles. Perhaps he’s religious and occasionally folds his hands to pray. Or maybe he just closes his eyes to rest.

To one man, the bench is a bed he sleeps on every night, his home. To the other, it is a place of retreat, a spot to gaze into the distance and unload his sorrows. Though they’ve long been aware of each other’s presence, they have never spoken.

Yet if you delve into the well-groomed young man’s mind, you’d learn that his father has been homeless for some time. After living for a year in an old caravan, he has now been missing for a month. Grieving and hoping to find him, the young man has developed a growing curiosity and compassion for those living on the streets. Had his wife agreed last year, he would have offered his father the small workshop annex with a separate entrance. But now, with his father having sold the caravan and vanished, the guilt gnaws at him. He has started greeting the man on the next bench in the hope that he might learn something from him. Still, he hasn’t been able to strike up a conversation. Even when the homeless man doesn’t turn up, the young man never gives up coming to the same spot.

These benches, nestled in the cosmopolitan swirl of Montreal, serve as a sanctuary and space of calm. They are the place to which these two men have been brought by hardship and weariness. In this quiet corner of the city, far from the crowds and noise, by the old station wall and its two benches that sit before a park, life continues to unfold—and these benches continue to bear witness to the lives of these two men.