Her eyes were grey. After climbing the three flights of stairs and passing through the narrow corridor of the publishing office, where bundles of books covered the walls up to the ceiling, perhaps her eyes had turned that colour. But I had not noticed. I had not even heard her voice when she asked the office boy for the manager’s room. I was absorbed in my work, translating a tedious sociology text.
I was writing sentences, erasing them, and writing again. When I finally raised my head, I saw a woman of medium height, dressed entirely in dark clothes, passing by the half-open door of my room. I removed my glasses and pressed the corners of my eyes with my fingers. My eyes had not been cooperating since early morning. It was the result of a sleepless night.
It was nearly noon, and the old publisher had not yet arrived. I lit a cigarette and walked toward the window. The sunlight hurt my eyes, though it was no longer the harsh summer sun that emptied the rows of bookshops.
Later, the old man introduced me to her. A yellow folder lay on his desk. He told her, “Publishing a book these days is like fighting a wild animal. It only collapses after you have lost a great deal of your own blood.”
She asked quietly, “What about poetry? Do you publish poetry?”
The old man sighed deeply. “No… not like novels or historical books. Publishing poetry has too many problems these days.”
That was how I first noticed her.
Days passed. I read her translation in a café. The novel she had translated took place partly in Istanbul. A ship approached the calm Mediterranean waters, a mysterious death occurred, and two lovers fled to Istanbul.
In that city, the hero found both love and art at once. Instead of leaving for America, he chose to remain in Istanbul forever. But happiness did not last long.
I could not put the pages down.
A few days later, she invited us to her apartment. She was preparing to leave the country. The house looked half-empty. Boxes, empty shelves, and a thin layer of dust covered everything.
Her grey eyes reflected light differently now, sometimes blue, sometimes darker.
We listened to a string quartet. She asked me:
“Did you read the novel?”
“Yes,” I said.
She hesitated, then asked quietly:
“Is it worth publishing?”
I answered:
“It’s excellent.”
Later, we left.
In the headlights of the old Chevrolet, I saw her standing alone at the end of the tree-lined alley. The car moved backward. She grew smaller and smaller. Then we turned the corner.
I never saw her again.