Good Evening, Ester (Evening, Day 2)

Now I understand. A writer's wish to be left alone in a hotel room so that he can work on his masterpiece without disruption is an impossible wish. Every day, indeed, almost every hour, I am disturbed by some new incident. This time it was caused by a gentleman at my door claiming to have forgotten his room number. I heard the jangling of keys in my keyhole and so I got up and opened the door. Standing there was a rather stout gentleman trying to open the door to my room. When I asked him why, he said he had made a mistake and that he had got the floors mixed up. I glanced down at the number on the key in his hand. It was room 310, whilst mine is 410, which meant his room was the one directly beneath mine.

‘My apologies’, he said sheepishly. ‘I must have had a little too much of that Italian wine this afternoon.’

Of course, I did not fall for it. He was with them. With the police, who are keeping an eye on me while I am cooped up in here. You see, I did not leave the hotel today and so they must have been wondering whether I was still in my room or not. Let them. I couldn't care less. I played along with the man, however, and accepted his apology. Indeed, to appear even more convincing, I said, ‘Perhaps a nice, strong cup of Turkish coffee after so much wine would have helped you remember where your room is.’ He apologised once again and walked away but by then, my sense of comfort as well as my desire to write had vanished. I stepped out onto the balcony and into a spectacular evening. The sun setting slowly over the banks of the Golden Horn glittered in the windows around the city, bathing the whole of Istanbul in a honey-coloured light.

The street was its usual flurry of activity. For some, the day was ending, while for others, life was only just beginning. I felt a huge urge to go out, to see people heading back to their homes, to bump into the pleasure-seekers streaming on to Independence Street.