Good Evening, Ester (Evening, Day 1)

I sent my letters to you from the hotel's post office this evening, just before dusk. The main post office on the Cadde-i Kebir, the city's most central and most glamorous street, is not safe. The second I leave the hotel, they are on my trail, following me, sometimes undercover, sometimes quite openly. Almost as though they expect me to be afraid, to panic and so try to escape. But I shall not give them that pleasure. No, I shall not let the official archives write ‘Şehsuvar Sami panicked and ran’. But at the same time I do not want them to stop my letters reaching you, so I have been using the postal services in the hotel to send them.

If I could just write it all down in one go, in a single sitting. Just let it all out… Not because I am impatient but because I am worried. What I have sent you is just a small part of what I want to tell you. A prelude perhaps, maybe just the first pages of a novel… An outpouring of the last twenty years, the story of a world turned upside down, of an empire in upheaval, of lives turned inside out, of our lives… The story of an accursed war that drenched the world in blood, of shattered hopes and dreams, of torn ideals and of a love that never died. Do not be so quick to frown. I know I have no right to speak about love after everything we have been through. But please, I implore you, even if you do not believe what I write, at least wait until the last lines before you pass judgement. Please, at least grant me that one indulgence.

Instead of the stairs, I took the lift down to the postal bureau to post my letters to you. You know how machines and machinery have always fascinated me. There were three other people in the lift with me. Three French ladies. I won't lie, they looked so sophisticated and they exuded a heavenly aroma. The scene reminded me of that day we went to dinner with Ahmed Rıza Bey on the Rue des Ecoles in Paris.