Shared Taxi

By Robert Walton

Monica and I must never arrive at the gates of heaven together! We would be holding hands and that would be too much for St. Peter. Separately, it is possible we could get in, even me.

When we were younger? La! Two figs for St. Peter! Now, I insist that we take separate taxis anywhere we go. With these Istanbul taxi drivers, who knows?

When we were younger, there was Paris, the Rue de L’Abrevoir. We met in the shadows of a certain place where dusk lingered and blossoms bloomed for us alone. We were safe there — from nosey friends and nosey enemies, from parents with the agendas parents always have, from lovers past, present, and future — safe to share each other. Beneath glowing streetlights, we kissed. Our every minute was an hour.

But such endless hours are numbered. I remember her lavender satin gloves, her fingers on my wrist when we parted.

Ah, we parted for months, for years, and then for decades. There was a war — but there’s always a war. There were marriages — at least three, but never between us. There was her music, her violin — the concerts, the lights, the flowers. There was prison (for me) — a misunderstanding with Credit Lyonnais about some checks, very large checks. We met when we could — in London, in Singapore, and in other places both humble and obscure — to rediscover our passion. And did.

Now, Istanbul — she called this afternoon and I’m hastening to her on a ferry over the Bosporus. East to west, Asia to Europe, the ride always engenders a feeling of diminishment in me, sadness that even the Blue Mosque’s minarets — crowned by golden tiaras of light — cannot assuage. Ships menace, as always, looming like mythical sea monsters as I sip my Efes, savoring the beer while thumbing my nose at the blind behemoths.

I take a taxi to Ortakoy, stopping at a building comfortably distant from the market’s bustle. Monica’s flat is on the ground floor, and she exits her front door before I can open it for her. Always determined to make her own way in the world, she descends one step at a time, gripping the rail with her right hand and balancing with her cane in her left.

Upon reaching the sidewalk, she pronounces, “There!”

I offer my arm gallantly, hopefully. “What will it be tonight, Chérie? Ruby, Babylon Bomonti, or a jazz club along the Bosporus?”

“The Amerikan Hastanesi, as you very well know.”

The American Hospital — their machines, their needles, their poisons. For in the end, there is cancer.

Her fingers rest once again upon my wrist. “Please help me to the cab.”

I do, grasping her right arm, supporting her labored steps. She is a hummingbird in my hand and that terrifies me.

She sighs as she sits in the back seat. “Thank you. They’re expecting me at the hospital.”

“Slide over.”

She glances up at me in surprise. “But Henri, St. Peter?”

“Slide over.”

“Two figs?”

“Two figs!”

Previously published by Brilliant Flash Fiction.

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