The wind picked up near Ayrılık Çeşmesi. Historically, the area was called “Departure Point,” where people gathered for the pilgrimage to Mecca. Nowadays it was, like much of the city, another overcrowded neighborhood. The only pilgrimage most people had time for was the daily commute. Even the Ottoman cemetery, just off the road, seemed an after thought.

Passing the cemetery, Reinhart looked at the headstones, with their old markings, the weeds of neglect. Over the wall behind the cemetery, were the backs of houses of a Kurdish neighborhood.

“Shall we walk to Moda?” Leyla asked. His wife had just got off work from the palace, and she was beat from five tours.

“Sounds good,” Reinhart said.

Sunday evening in Kadikoy, and many people were out.

The Beşiktaş-Fenerbahçe match was on later, so all the bars were teeming with expectation. In Moda, it was crowded, too. The line outside the ice cream shop was wrapped around the block, and all of the kebab restaurants were full. Cats lounged majestically outside the cream-colored houses, and slept in the remaining bits of sunlight that crept through the clouds.

They walked to a café along the waterfront, where the host sat them at a table near the back. The view was terrible, and the menu overpriced.

“Do you want to leave?” Leyla asked.

“Yeah, let’s get out of here.” They got up, leaving the view to the host and the overpriced menu on the table, and walked out without saying good-bye.

Up the street, they bought a few bottles of Bomonte from a bakkal, and some take-away ciğ borek from a nearby restaurant.

Feeling liberated, they walked down the hill, passing the café with their dinner in hand, and climbed up onto the rocks by the sea. Other people were sitting there as well, but they found a spot and spread out their picnic.

Here, the sea was rough and dark, with waves pounding against the rocks.

“Maybe we should move back a little,” Leyla said. The waves were coming in a series, each swell higher than the last.

“We’re fine,” Reinhart said. “They won’t come up this far.”

A fresh wave struck, sending a sheet of spray up over the rocks. They moved back up where it was higher. Reinhart opened one of the bottles of beer, while his wife served the borek. It was still hot. They ate and passed the bottle of beer back and forth, looking out at the rough sea.

“I got a message,” Reinhart began. “An old colleague from the school. She said Boğazıcı University is looking for teachers this fall.”

“You should definitely apply, baby,” Leyla said. “It’s a really nice university. Over on the European side, right along the Bosphorus. Here – look,” She got out her phone, opened Google images, and showed him a picture.

“It does look nice,” Reinhart admitted.

“Look –there’s even a swimming pool. If you worked there, I could use the swimming pool – as your wife.”

“It’s probably very competitive. I’m not sure I’m qualified enough.”

“You can try,” Leyla said. “I mean, why not? You should have a good chance. Most of the foreign teachers are leaving.”

She was right, he thought. They had already talked about it, the part about the teachers leaving and the others who didn’t want to come.

It didn’t hurt to apply. Also, it was true that schools were having trouble recruiting. Teachers read the news and worried if the country was safe.

Meanwhile, they had been married nearly a year. A university post would be a step up. Better pay – a little better. And there was the prestige, of course. Bosphorus University. It had a nice ring to it. He could imagine his wife telling her friends, “My husband, you know, works at Boğazıcı.” The university was reportedly ranked among the world’s best in one of those annual surveys.

“And just think,” his wife continued, caught up in the image. “If you got the job, we could move to the European side because we would both be working there. Maybe Ortaköy.”

“Not so fast. I haven’t got the job yet,” Reinhart said.

“So? Can’t we dream, baby?” The look behind the sunglasses told him everything. “Can’t we just dream? Is there a problem with that?”

“You’re right,” Reinhart said. He popped open the other bottle of Bomonte. In his mind, he had already decided. Yes, he would apply. A current of excitement ran through him, through them both. The prospect of a new opportunity, a new life, opened up for both of them. They saw fresh vistas together. He looked at his wife, her eyes visible now behind the sunglasses, smiling as she chewed on the last of the borek. She deserved it, too, he thought. We both do.

“I need letters of recommendation,” he went on.

“You can get them, baby,” his wife encouraged.

She listed the names of several people, ones he had told her about when they talked about his work, ghostly names from California and Prague.

“We’ll see,” he said again.

“You look tired,” Leyla said. “Did you not sleep well last night?”

“It was warm,” Reinhart said. “You were having a nightmare.”

“Was I?”

“Yeah, you were calling out something in your sleep.”

“I don’t remember.”

A cloud passed over her face behind the glasses. “I do remember one I had the night before though. In the nightmare, a man was on TV reading the news. He was announcing, in this deep voice, ‘We have just received official word that life has no meaning.’ Or something like that anyway. “Life has no meaning, there is no point …”

“Really? Interesting dream.”

They passed the bottle of beer back and forth, and sat for awhile, looking out at the sea. Over at the marina restaurant, the lights were lit like small torches, and lots of people were sitting at tables having dinner.

“I think it had something to do with the palace,” his wife said. “The other day there was another terror alert. There was a car parked outside the palace. I asked one of the other guides, ‘What’s happening?’ Because all the security were going out. ‘Oh, I think that car has a bomb in it maybe,’ she answered. It was funny, I thought, the way she said it so casually. ‘Oh, there may be a bomb in that car over there …’”

“Are you serious?” Reinhart looked at his wife. “You mean this happened the other day? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know, I just didn’t. Maybe I forgot.”

“So was there a bomb?”

“No, in the end, it was a false alarm.”

They finished the beer a while later, and packed up. It was getting dark, but the evening had settled into a comfortable twilight. They passed the park where everyone sat at tables under the trees, having Turkish coffee and tea and looking out at the boats in the sea. They felt good walking together, and they returned to making their fresh, secret plans.

###

James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and teacher living in Istanbul.