Mehmet has only spoken to me once, when I first climbed into his passenger seat. He asked me where I wanted to go and I told him across the Bosphorus Bridge then back to the hotel.
“No stops?”
“No stops.”
He didn’t seem to find this particularly strange, so I suppose lots of tourists do it. There aren’t many chances to see two continents in one taxi ride, after all. I was grateful he didn’t ask why I wanted to go, since I might have told him in my fragile mood. What would I have said? That I was seeking my son, Steven? That I was trying to travel through time to find him? He’d have thought me a madwoman. Thankfully he kept his silence, and hasn’t spoken since. Good. I mustn’t be distracted. Not today.
I try to tune into Istanbul as we drive. It’s an idea I’ve borrowed from Steven. He once posted on Facebook about his traveller rituals when he arrived into new cities. He’d start with a long walk to try and pick up the hidden frequencies he said vibrated through every city’s streets. He said it was like dialing into an old-fashioned radio, trying to find clear notes amidst the hiss and fizz.
I lack Steven’s sensitivity, but I try my best to think like him now. I have this superstitious idea that if I can tune into Istanbul, I can tune into Steven. Or part of him, anyway. The part of him that took this same taxi ride ten years ago.
What would I have said? That I was seeking my son, Steven? That I was trying to travel through time to find him? He’d have thought me a madwoman.
Mehmet nudges the taxi through the tangled traffic choking the old town. A hundred horns blare from the cars swarming around us, though surely nobody can know who is rebuking who.
The cacophony fades, which puzzles me until I hear the rippling notes of the call to prayer, loud enough to be heard over the engines. I know it’s broadcast from the minarets spiking the skyline, but it sounds ancient and deep, like it’s coming from the streets beneath us.
Steven would have loved this moment. Once, on a crackling long-distance phone line, he told how he lay one afternoon by a river in Java, listening to three mosque loudspeakers competing for the ears of the faithful. Tremulous wails weaved through the air into something so beautiful and textured he felt that if he reached up he could touch it. My son, the wanderer. My son, with the poet’s heart.
The traffic releases us quite suddenly and three expansive lanes usher us toward the Bosphorus Bridge. Steel spears the dawn sky, holding the bridge and us aloft. Martyrs Bridge is its official name, but I flinch from it.
“Yavas gitmek,” I say, one of the few local phrases I’ve learnt. Go slow. Mehmet smiles at my Turkish, decelerates, and eases the car to the right, gifting me a better view.
The Bosphorus reveals itself, a ragged ribbon of glittering water. Incredible that something so slender separates two continents. Borders are always smaller and less solid than we expect. I think of Steven’s pride if he could see me now: his old mother crossing into his beloved Asia for the first time in her 59 years.
I try to look for what Steven must have seen, hoping that might help me feel what he felt. I foolishly look for the men with fishing rods Steven photographed while he stayed here but, no, that was a different Istanbul bridge. There’s no footpath on this one, of course. That’s why Steven had to take the taxi.
Incredible that something so slender separates two continents. Borders are always smaller and less solid than we expect.
I look across at Mehmet, whose mouth has softened into a small smile. Perhaps he’s remembering what a remarkable city he lives in.
What would he do if I grabbed my door handle now and threw myself out of his car?
It’s so hard to believe my soft-hearted boy once caused another taxi driver such horror. I can’t imagine it. I just can’t. No matter how many times I’ve read the consulate’s report.
Even if they were driving as slowly as we are, I can see how much that tumble onto concrete must have hurt Steven. How did he manage to climb the railings after that? What was in that mind of his in those final seconds before he hit the water?
I’ll never know.
Three words that live so deep in me they’ve become my heartbeat. Sometimes I forget they’re there, but that’s only the brief relief of distraction: they’re always pulsing beneath my skin. As we descend from the bridge and onto Asian soil, I know they’re still true. As true as they were on that first morning I woke into a world without Steven, as true as they were this morning, as true as they’ve been on every morning in between. Ten years, to the day.
I’ve failed again. I didn’t really expect to succeed. I can’t tune into a city like Steven could and I can’t tune into him. This is all there is: he is gone and I don’t know why. And as long as my heart beats, I’ll never know.
Jaime Gill is a British-born writer living in Cambodia, whose stories have been published by Litro, Tulsa Review, Pinky Thinker, In Parentheses, Beyond Words, voidspace, Write Launch and others. Several stories have been finalists for awards including The Masters Review Annual Award, Bridport Prize, Rigel Award, and Plaza Prize.
Fiction Attic Press seeks flash fiction, flash memoir, and novellas-in-flash from new and established writers. You can submit your flash fiction through our submittable site. The summer flash fiction submission period ends on July 28, 2024.