He had come to the other side of the world. At another time, being away from Istanbul might have felt good. But the fiery, flirtatious girl he had just met wouldn’t leave his mind. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, yet somehow his thoughts kept circling back to her. And though the fact that she was engaged should have held him back, it didn’t seem to matter to her at all. With these thoughts he left the dinner and went up to his room.
At first, coming to London had been exciting, but when he learned that the place he would be staying was far outside the city, a complex of historic buildings, golf courses, and green spaces that allowed no social life whatsoever, the excitement faded. Tonight, after dinner, he didn’t want to spend time with boring corporate types from all over Europe in a cafeteria/bar hybrid, listening to the stupid songs of the 70s and 80s. On the TV, BBC was on—as if mocking him: You’re in England, mate, what did you expect? If he were in Istanbul now, he would be in Ortaköy or Taksim.
He heard the door of the next room open. At that very moment, his phone rang.
— Yes, I’m just resting a bit.
— …
— No, I’m fine, just tired. Two glasses of wine were enough to make me sleepy. I’ll probably read a little and then doze off.
— …
— We’ll do it tomorrow, never mind. Enjoy yourself, we’ll talk in the morning.
At another time, being away from Istanbul might have been good, but this time the woman on his mind was in the room right next door. They had come here together with a few others for the training session the company had sent its sales team to. If he had come alone, maybe it would have been better—but the real problem wasn’t the people around him. It was her. If only she hadn’t come.
He got up, switched off the ceiling light, turned on the bedside lamp, and kept reading his book. The sounds outside grew quieter. He lost track of time—it was just past midnight when his eyes grew heavy. He reached over, switched off the lamp, and drifted away.
In his sleep, he dreamt of Istanbul—fragmented things. He half-woke, turned toward the bedside table. The red digits of the clock read 03:05. He was about to fall asleep again when he heard whispers in the room. At first he thought Clara had come in, but since he knew the door was locked from the inside, he didn’t rush to lift his head. He tried to listen. Someone seemed to be praying at his bedside. Even if it wasn’t a prayer, the words were in Arabic.
He slowly opened his eyes. Goosebumps. He froze. At his feet stood two shadowy figures in robes. One taller, one less distinct. They were reciting prayers in Arabic—as if to protect him. How he understood that, he had no idea, but the shorter one seemed to be helping the taller one, whispering things. Did the tall one have a book in his hand or not? He couldn’t remember. The moment he shot up with a scream, the shadows vanished. He turned to the clock—the red digits now read 04:04.
He switched on the lamp. As the room lit up, he looked around carefully, then switched on the other light—the room was now fully bright. His heart was pounding. The time between noticing the shadows and panicking had been one or two seconds. What lingered in his mind was not moving images but a single photograph. Shaking, he went to the bathroom, turned on the light, pushed the door open. Empty, of course. While washing his face, he was afraid to look into the mirror—convinced at any moment a shadow, a face, would appear there. The same fear accompanied him as he returned to the room.
He hesitated at the window, parted the curtains. Pitch black outside. But he knew the first 70–80 meters were grass, and beyond that a small forest began. Now it felt as though that forest filled the whole world. He thought of opening the window, then changed his mind immediately. Not that it would have mattered—whatever those visitors were, physical barriers didn’t seem to concern them. He was calmer now, but he couldn’t bring himself to switch off the light and sleep again. Should he call Clara, wake her, tell her? She might think he was mad. Worse, she might think he had made it all up just to be with her. There were nearly two hours left until dawn. He returned to bed; all the lights in the room stayed on. He glanced at the bathroom again, left its light on too, but shut the door before returning to bed.
Now he could think more clearly. It had been a nightmare. Maybe he hadn’t eaten too much at dinner, maybe he hadn’t drunk too much either—but none of that was necessary for a nightmare. As he walked around the room, he wondered how old this place might be. The two perpendicular wings with the bedrooms might not have been so old. But the main building—the one housing the restaurant, the training rooms, and the administration—was a perfect haunted mansion. England and its famous ghosts… He reassured himself: They were speaking Arabic. Until tonight, he had never thought of it, but clearly the old main building had conjured some ghostly figure in his subconscious.
He went back to the window. The darkness didn’t seem so dark anymore. He decided to return to bed and continue his book.
The book was gone!
It wasn’t on the bedside table. He thought it might have fallen, felt around the floor with his hands. Nothing. His heart raced again. He tried to recall what he’d done before falling asleep—he had reached out, turned off the lamp. He jumped up, grabbed the duvet, shook it hard, arms raised high. Checked the edges, underneath the bed. Nothing. He searched the desk, the drawers. Fearfully, he stepped into the bathroom. Nothing.
Now the nightmare had started again, even more strongly. Believing the vision he’d seen half-asleep had been a dream was easy. But to be fully awake and unable to find the book—that was terrifying. He tucked up his legs, sat cross-legged on the bed, glanced at the clock. 04:20, the red digits glowed. What felt to him like hours were only minutes. He didn’t even dare stretch his legs, leaning back against the wall, sitting stiffly. Twice he gathered his courage to go as far as the window, but each time he returned.
He lived through the longest hour and a half of his life. Around six o’clock, the sky began to lighten, though dawn hadn’t yet broken. At exactly 6:00 he dialed. He heard the phone ring in the next room, Clara answered, sleepy:
— Hello??
— You’re asleep, right? I couldn’t. Shall we go for a walk?
— What time is it?
— Just 6. Sleep a bit more if you want.
— No, no, I’ll get dressed, that’ll be nice.
Five minutes later she knocked. Life was back—after nearly two hours of absurd thoughts, now there would be a real, flesh-and-blood person beside him.
— You’re pale as a sheet, Clara said.
— Just couldn’t sleep, that’s all.
— Good thing you woke me, I wish you had sooner.
I wish, he thought.
Thinking it might be chilly outside, they both put on sweaters. Though the October weather was pleasant, this hour of the day was truly cool—a sweet kind of chill. They started down the path among the grass. Clara was smiling. Fabregas still couldn’t relax, still tense. The greenery was soothing, but he couldn’t shake it. Without much talking, they reached the end of the path, where a wooden gate opened out of the grounds, onto the real road. They walked on.
— This is a cemetery! Clara exclaimed.
Fabregas looked. The land was flat, dotted with neatly lined crosses. Not bounded plots like back home, but green, peaceful. He feared Clara might want to go inside, but she didn’t; they kept walking toward a building further ahead. Clara, shivering, leaned into him, clinging to his arm as they walked.
— There’s something about you, she kept saying.
— How can I put this… it’s hard to explain, Fabregas muttered. He didn’t want to sound like someone inventing a story just to get attention.
Clara laughed. The sky was brighter now, though full daylight hadn’t arrived. They reached a courtyard with a single-story, steep-roofed old building. Clearly, it was a church.
— Shall we go in?
— At this hour?
— Why not, come on.
She pushed the door. Just as they were about to step in, a sudden flash of light startled them both. Already on edge, Fabregas was surprised he hadn’t screamed. The halogen security light above the door had come on. They laughed. Relief, if only for a moment. Fabregas thought, If only there had been something like this to calm me down in the room.
The church looked old. They went up to the door—it was locked. They didn’t want to knock and wake anyone. Maybe no one was inside at all. On the left side of the courtyard, they noticed a small cemetery, no more than twenty by twenty meters. Clara tugged Fabregas by the hand and pulled him in among the graves. It was the last thing he needed. Marble plinths, ornate headstones, inscriptions, all crowded together without order. Most dated back to the early 1900s or late 1800s. They stopped at the grave of a young man, likely killed in the First World War. Right beside it, the grave of a seven-year-old child—his brother, judging by the dates and names.
It was a peaceful place. When Fabregas lifted his head, he saw the cemetery actually stretched around the back of the church. Some headstones bore poems or short inscriptions. Clara went to the grave of a seventeen-year-old girl.
— I wonder why she died? she said.
— 1935. Sixty-two years ago. Even if she had lived, she’d be gone by now.
— Yes, but then she’d have been buried in the new cemetery down the road.
…
— Look, this one could be French.
Clara wandered among the graves, curious and excited. Fabregas couldn’t share her energy—whether because of what he had lived through the night before, or the somber air of the church and yard. Yet he couldn’t help but be surprised by Clara’s carefree cheer.
He checked his watch—past six-thirty. “We should head back,” he said.
Arm in arm, clinging together, they left the churchyard. The halogen lamp flashed once more. Fabregas’s thoughts went back to the missing book. Where could it have gone?
— What are you thinking? Clara asked.
— Never mind, not the time.
— I think it’s the perfect time.
Yes, they were passing by the other cemetery. Maybe if he looked at the names he could find a couple of Arabic ones—and meet his visitors from a few hours earlier. His struggle with his desire for Clara receded to the background. He envied her carefree approach to life and death, yet her indifference left a trace of coldness.
— I don’t know how to say this. It was such a strange experience.
— Yes?
— It’s really not easy to explain. I didn’t even fully understand what happened myself, Fabregas said, eyes on the ground as he walked. Clara laughed.
— I get it, everything happened so fast, and here we are, she said, then hugged and kissed him.
She thought he was trying to declare his love.
La Isla Inaudita (The Unheard-of Island) is a Novel by Eduardo Mendoza