I knew without knowing, I knew without wonder, I knew as one knows oneself, I knew what it is impossible to know – and, I would say, I knew it even more clearly than I do now. For life has worn me down: continual uneasiness, concealment of my knowledge, pretence, fear, a painful straining of all my nerves – not to let down, not to ring out … and even to this day I still feel an ache in that part of my memory where the very beginning of this effort is recorded, that is, the occasion when I first understood that things which to me had seemed natural were actually forbidden, impossible, that any thought of them was criminal.
– Vladimir Nabokov, Invitation to a Beheading
On a plane back from a 3-day trip to Istanbul, Turkiye. The city is a place of dizzying sights, ceaseless sounds, and heady smells. You have to see it to believe it. Oh how the roads wind and twist, how they incline near vertically, or drop and bend precipitously, compelling you to hold on for dear life! You have to experience for yourself how this metropolis of some 16 million people can feel both enormous and absurdly claustrophobic. And, if you’re preparing for a mountain climb, try walking from your hotel to any location over a mile away—the streets will leave you quite literally breathless. No, the city wasn’t built with accessibility in mind, but at this point in my adult life, I’m okay with that. My brother and I were there for medical tourism. And while he endured hours of cosmetic surgery to improve his self-image, a single conversation with one of our local interpreters revitalized me for the remainder of the year. Yes, that good. Or bad. You be the judge.
Monday, early morning. We are driven to the clinic where we spend a significant portion of our time. We are greeted by their staff, all broken English but genuine smiles. In my mind’s eye, it was my brother, the de facto client, the one who should have been the centre of attention. I was supposed to be the silent companion, a nameless enigmatic stranger, a living shadow. The Fates, however, had other plans for my tattered psyche. This time, their scheming appeared before me in the Rubenesque forms of a young university student from Algeria. Her presence alone easily captured my heart. ‘Sir? Where are you from?’ her question caught me off guard. I attempted ‘Bulgaria,’ mispronounced as ‘bael-geh-riya,’ which she initially mistook for ‘Brazil’ before catching up “Oh, bul-gah-riya! Cool!”. I didn’t dwell on the rest of our initial exchange, knowing her role as an interpreter involved facilitating a friendly conversation. Nonetheless, my inner insecurities flared up, reminding me of high school days when the attention of a pretty girl would leave this chubby kid all hot and bothered. It seems some complexes never change. Just like war. Fallout, anyone? But I digress. With the clinic’s work on hold due to an unexpected government audit, I sought my caffeine fix in a nearby cafe. Unable to decipher the menu, I tried ‘One medium Americano, please,’ only to be told by the barista, ‘No. Turkish coffee or Nes.’ Opting for a Turkish coffee, he then motioned me to find a seat. And there she was, my charming interpreter. She looked at me, smiled brightly and invited me to join her and her colleagues at their table. We spent the next 30 minutes engaged in a lively discussion. Much to my delighted surprise, she showed an avid interest in my accent and perspective on life as a whole. We shared a few laughs, nods of mutual understanding, moments of silence, and hot Turkish tea. At this point in my writ I choose not to reveal all that she willingly shared about herself. A nod to discretion, I hope you understand. Yet, two moments from our conversation are now indelibly etched in my memory. The first was an unexpected compliment. “Is that man your brother? You look so serious and charismatic, so unlike him”. I chuckle shyly. She couldn’t have possibly known, that of the two of us, the sad and lonely clown is I. An unexpected compliment, at a time in my life when my self-image was probably at its lowest; my expectations of charming another anytime soon, practically nonexistent. It felt like a first breath of fresh air after being submerged underwater until we’re almost black and blue. The second, was her playful challenge to guess her origins. “And where do you think I am from?”, she turns and looks at me. I must admit, I am better at pointing celestial bodies in our Solar system than countries and their capitols dotting this planet of ours. I could’ve said that looking at her felt like staring at the sun with a naked eye. Her skin the hue of pasturized full-fat milk, dark hazelnut smiling eyes, warm brown hair tied in a bun and plump cherry-red lips. Radiant and warm, she was a vision of a poor man’s feast. Instead, I blurted “From this region of the world?”. She didn’t understand what I meant. A swing and a miss! Somebody, slap me! In the end – for all stories have one – I did not ask her name nor did we exchange telephone numbers. We simply walked back to the clinic and didn’t say another word to each other again. At least, not in a direct way.
For, you see, being the hopeless obsessive that I am, I proceeded to talk to an insufficient version of her for the remainder of that first day and part of the second. In the evenings, I tossed and turned in my bed like a man possessed, all of it as a result of an impoverished imagination. Did I just miss an opportunity to connect with someone, albeit from an impossible distance? Or was I reading way too much into our accidental meeting? Neither scenario is improbable. Natheless, she’s young, beautiful, bright, full of fears, fragile hopes, and dreams. I, on the other hand, am a 37-year-old hermit, born sick and commanded to be well—still mind-bogglingly inexperienced where matters of the heart are concerned, too. A silver lining to this story (or so I like to think): our hotel was in close proximity of a boutique chocolatier. So, I bought her a box of luxury truffles. Lacking the courage to present them directly, I sought help from one of her colleagues—another interpreter girl, one who worked particularly closely with my brother during his procedures. I hope my Algerian angel received the truffles. I hope my kindness found her well. I hope I wasn’t misunderstood. Against all hope, I wish that, if anything, she enjoyed the gesture. We probably won’t see each other ever again, but our little conversation was like a healing spell to me.
“Flower, flower, growing free
All your petals, they look good, to me
And you’re just the way, that you should be
You’re beautiful naturally, you’re beautiful naturally.”
As previously mentioned, such experiences are as rare in my life as the forming of gold in the universe. I share all of this with you, because I want to remember. I want to feel the residual warmth of this fantasy for as long as possible. Picking yet another flower, with a smile alone. Another one of Life’s gentle reminders that we should Carpe that f*cking Diem like there’s no tomorrow. For what is worth, giving without asking anything in return will always feel bittersweet, but also good. Please keep that in mind.
tsvetoslav shalev 
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