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There had been an accident; the road was closed. Only a few minutes earlier the “Life–Clean Water” tanker had swerved into the left lane while heading down the hill and had crushed a dolmuş. The driver of the shared taxi was cowering in a corner, his hands trembling as he smoked a cigarette. The weight of the water tanker had crushed the long nose of a 1940s Plymouth that did the Taksim–Teşvikiye route. All that
survived was the taxi meter. Beyond the ever-growing crowd of onlookers, amid the shards of glass and broken car parts, I saw the body of a woman trapped in the front seat, and recognized her as the darkhaired woman I’d passed on my way out of the Şanzelize Boutique. The street was now covered with debris. Taking Füsun by the arm, I said, “Let’s go.” But she paid me no mind. She stood there silently,
staring at the woman pinned inside the wreck, until she had had her fill.
After what I call the happiest moment of my life had passed, and the time had come for us to part, and the fallen earring unbeknownst to us still nestled between the folds of the sheet, Füsun looked into my eyes.
“My whole life depends on you now,” she said in a low voice.
This both pleased and alarmed me.