One of the things that I did to prepare for the move to Istanbul in the beginning of 2009 was read the novels of Orhan Pamuk. So, on arrival, the only the words of Turkish I knew where those that are untranslated in his texts (I still recall passages from 'My Name is Red' whenever I hear the word efendim, which, while literally meaning 'my master' is used all the time here as an invitation to speak, especially over phone) and the only facts I knew were what I had read in the Amnesty International annual report (which Ville conveniently had access to one or two copies of!). Reading Orhan Pamuk, while maybe not quite as practically useful as a language course, did give me some useful pointers on how to use my time. I knew to avoid long distance buses, and that thoughtful Istanbullites should spend many hours gazing at the boats on the Bosphorus. I knew that a certain sepia melancholia would be appropriate from time to time and was even prepared for winter journeys into an Istanbul as black (and white) as Ara Güler's. I imagined a landscape thick with books and stories. (That is not what I found.)

It is good my preparations were the complex texts of a master writer and not some chirpy advice on how to live in this city as if you were in any other. Life here quickly revealed itself to have complexities that novels have a better chance of vaccinating against the worst shocks of. Sometimes I want to shout out the absurdities of this place, but my clear thoughts quickly become as fragmented as society here, the many disparate strands of which create a web, keeping everything in its place. My outrage is too easily diluted by my fear of misunderstanding the fault lines of this city.

On Sunday, after a busy morning, Anton fell asleep just as we were pushing him past a very good place to watch boats on the Bosphorus, and, wanting to fulfil our obligation to stare absent-mindedly at the traffic, we took our chance. When I read Pamuk's descriptions of his boyhood boat watching I had no idea that I would be moving to the Island where he spent his summers and taking my place almost daily in boats on the Bosphorus. I didn't know that the rhythms he memorised, the straight steady progress of tankers, the criss-crossing of ferries, the loops of the smaller boats, would somehow calm my confusion in the surreality of life here. I just hope that  I can steer my way here with my indignation intact.

When I was not so much older than Anton one of my favourite songs went like this:

Blue, blue, blue is everything I'm wearing.
Blue, blue, blue is everything I like.
Why do I always dress myself in blue?
Because a sailor is the man I love.


It had as many colour verses as my Mum could think up jobs for. Not the perfect feminist rhyme to sing to your daughters, or sons for that matter, but fun nonetheless.  When I was a little older Mum went through a (short-lived) phase of encouraging us to pray for our future husbands during our night time prayers. I loved this idea, little though I was, it was such a romantic thought that somewhere out there my spouse was growing up in preparation for us meeting, and living happily ever after. Two failed marriages, and years living in clear, comfortable atheism later, the idea that there was someone right for me seemed preposterous. I would either find someone I liked enough to spend my time with one day, or I wouldn't. I was saddest about only having one child when I had pictured a brood. I was lonely but, most days, I knew how to manage it.

Meeting Ville was everything described in songs. I felt as if the gods, frustrated by my constant mistakes, just stuck me next to the one person who would make everything good, and said 'Now for goodness sake go and have a proper life'. The idea that someone's chosen profession can be a reason (one of the reasons) that you love them, like in the song above, became truer than I had really expected. While I was at the Amnesty International AGM at which I met Ville, and it being a rare weekend without Ruskin, the friend I was with suggested we go and chat up some 'human rights hotties'! With all the confidence of someone who has been ditched for a younger, prettier model, I followed Cath to the bar. People who follow their convictions wherever they lead, (and have decent values in the first place) are a rare find. I felt immensely proud of who Ville was and the things he chooses to stand up for. I still do.

Once we had spent a bit more time together it was clear that there was something about Ville that was different. His ability to concentrate was super-human. Being the kind of person who needs a cup of tea and a biscuit every 15 minutes, I was in awe. If you asked him what he was thinking the answer would come as an explanation of a philosophical problem, or a real idea, quite unlike the 'I like that girl's shoes, what shall we have for dinner, etc' that ran through my head. I soon realised that Ville was utterly transparent, in that you could see worries pass over his face like clouds. He also never sought his own comfort: the man could be sat on lego bricks for hours and not notice till the discomfort was over. He would fall asleep in his clothes every night if you gave him half a chance. As he relaxed around me he occasionally made slight flapping movements in his excitement about a new idea or answer.When he first mentioned Asperger syndrome, it clicked.

Asperger syndrome is a condition on the autistic spectrum. It is an aspect of Ville's personality and I would never want to change it. People with Asperger syndrome often trade social skills and understanding others easily, for exceptional abilities in one or two areas. For Ville these areas are languages and analytical thinking, and he has learnt to compensate for the stuff that hasn't always come naturally. Its been useful for him while he has been working from home that he can concentrate even when all four children are at their most energetic! Sometimes we all have to ask him whether he actually took in what we have said. Yesterday Anton demonstrated his understanding of this by saying to Ville 'Don't say mmmmm, say yes'.

Now the idea that there was someone out there for me all along doesn't seem quite so daft a notion. And feeling as romantic as I do about life with Ville, having a little girl imagining the union that will one day happen, less problematic. I mean, meeting Mr or Mrs Right or Nearly Right does bring with it so much potential for joy. Its incredible to me that I got my perfect man and my brood after all. And an aspie is the man I love.

Ville in Skipton soon after we met.

Ville with Matti and Anton in Finland.

After a day of sunshine wind is now banging on the doors. These apartments are built for the summer when the Island population increases tenfold. The huge windows turn to paper in this weather. Anton and Neve are asleep. After a day of relaying between their needs the absence of their sounds is loud. And lovely. Anton is pink from the sun making his face more voluptuous than ever. And I am alone, which is very rare indeed. Ville is on a plane returning from a job interview in Sweden. I think he will wait at the airport for the first boat back to us, to share the news. We are both exhausted from the struggle to make ends somehow come close to meeting and this opportunity has made us both hope for an easier life. I will know in the morning.

Spending the last couple of days alone with the kiddos has brought home how it will feel if Ville goes back to working in an office. Since  he quit working for Amnesty International in Turkey when Anton was tiny, he has been freelancing and studying from home. Though he can't stop and play, he is always around and I haven't had to work out how to be independent here. And I really should have done by now.


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I am currently reading Orhan Pamuk's Museum of Innocence in preparation for my second visit to the physical museum Pamuk has created, on Friday. It has got me thinking about the small objects I have that evoke a moment in time, and I realise that I have very few. I am in no way a hoarder and love clearing stuff out, but as I get older I wonder if I will want more of these little things to help me remember. A couple of precious things that would be pride of place in my museum are the two slips of paper Ville gave to me the first time we met. We were at the Amnesty International AGM in Nottingham, him from Istanbul and me from Yorkshire. Looking at them I return to that moment. Displayed in the photos below are an Amnesty International AGM voting card on which Ville wrote the name of the Turkish author Yaşar Kemal. I, desperately hoping to engage him, had told him about the Orhan Pamuk book I was reading and asked what other Turkish authors he would recommend. He wrote the pronunciation of the letter ş underneath. Now that I live with him in Turkey this letter is all around. The other slip of paper is the business card he gave me, leaving me to wrack my brains to find an excuse to use. I wrote Yaşar Kemal on the card in exactly the way he had in case I should lose the other. It is now one of the very few things that I will never pass on or throw away.

If you ever happen to read this post I would love to know what would be in your museum...