I should have liked to linger over my boughatcha, but the tension of the tone betrayed a heat above the normal. I paid my kourous, and left the shop, praying both to the Christian God and to the Mohammedan one that they might let these misguided children see stretches of peaceful green, instead of always red.
Slowly, slowly, now, I walked to the Galata Bridge, and turned to the right, just behind the karakol which houses the main body of the Galata police. I was on my way to hunt up old Ali Baba, my boatman, him with whom years ago I had shared the raptures of the Byzantine History. My heart was beating fast. Would Turkey play me false this once? Would the one living landmark of my past be chosen as the one to mark a change in that changeless country?
Hastening, I yet found myself lingering in my haste. If his place were to be empty, if he were really gone, having himself been rowed over the river Styx, would it not be better for me not to go there, but always to remember his place filled by his kindly presence?
Though reasoning thus, my feet still took me onward to where he used to be, and there, at his accustomed place, sat Ali Baba, his face looking like a nice red apple, wrinkled by the sun and rain.
I went and stood before him. “Ali Baba!” I said, tears in my voice.
He rose, a trifle less quickly than he used to, and looked at me incredulously.
“Benim kuchouk, hanoum,” he said slowly, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh! it is I!” I cried. “It is I,” and gave him both my hands.
We walked toward the little caïque, where he took some time to unfasten the rope. We did not speak until he had rowed again mid-way, under the bridge.
“Where have you been all these many, many years?” he asked reproachfully.