The sun through the front window of the bus blinded me awake as we jostled over the rough street heading into Erzurum. Somewhere nearby I had, or so I had been assured, a hotel room reserved. Presumably there would be a bed there where I could stretch out this stiffness for a few hours – two days tops – without the onslaught of knees, elbows, voices or the ubiquitous stench of people who smelled as bad as I almost certainly did. I shifted slightly to relieve my throbbing side from the lump of the boots in my duffle and turned to stare out of the side window where there was no morning star trying to enkindle my brain. On the outskirts of town the buildings were sparse and dingy without the prickly stabbing of minarets mingling among the crowd of swollen Byzantine domes that marked the cities of the region. My mouth was thick with the pasty memory of bad food and burnt coffee and I closed my eyes again as we churned along. Her face filled the eyes of my daydreams.
"I want the song to be a cloud, to evoke the feeling that a cloud is talking to you, telling you what it's like." She is hugging her guitar on the blanket where we sat that Wednesday in the field just outside Elsdon, the only day the sun came out for those two weeks.
"Telling you what what's like?" I ask her.
"To be a cloud," she says, furrowing her brow. "What else would a cloud know to say?"
She had been right, of course. What the hell else would a cloud know? It was clear to me now, bouncing along the road in Erzurum, like it hadn't been back in Elsdon. I winced to think that we'd probably have made love one last time if I'd only seen it clearly that day, but instead I had droned on sourly, darkening her one sunny day, and, inventing some commitment, she had taken her guitar and her beautiful, soft blanket and her wonderful, generous breasts off to her cousins' house for the evening. Suddenly the bus driver blazed his horn at a bicycle and I jerked upright, startled. The cyclist, an old man, took his time moving aside and then we lurched and shambled forward. My heartbeat faded slowly back to normal and I settled back, closing my eyes.
"Be safe, then," she says to me, leaning in to kiss my cheek with a chaste innocence that burns like an accusation. It's the day I'm leaving for London and then on to the Continent and she's standing outside the car. I want to get out and wrap her up in arms and legs and pack her away and bring her with me, but she's keeping a distance that subtly but clearly tells me to stay in the car. She's a wonder like that with communication, knowing every way to say everything. I envy that.
The bus window was open and I could hear a muezzin calling adhan nearby as we burrowed into the city, walls pressing closer and climbing higher on all sides. The familiar feeling of being far away had, for a long time, been like a hum in ears that accompanied me unceasingly, and that place was no different. A baby girl with a dirty face but bright eyes, naked except for a diaper, stood in the bus aisle holding onto the seat in front of me to keep from stumbling. Her stare was intense and unwavering, right through my bloodshot eyes and into my soul. I smiled at her, but she was unmoved like stone. I wanted to pick her up and hug her, maybe sing her a song. I wanted to sing her a song to make her understand a cloud, but I didn't know how to say everything like that. Not many do.
Hello, friends. I trust you're well.
Later. Love.
