The Hague is an Option
by Suna Çevik
The tram rattled over the old cobblestones. He lifted the suitcase and pushed it toward my feet.
“Well. Goodbye. Take care.”
“We’ll see each other again,”- I said. “You probably won’t recognize me.”
The doors closed. I sat down and leaned my head against the glass, watching the streets of The Hague slide past. I tried to remember them properly, as if I might need to later.
His wife would be back home the following week. But that wasn’t the reason. Just like the reason wasn’t repentance or his sudden rediscovery of devotion.
He was tired of me.
It was a Tuesday. July, unusually cold. Ten years ago.
Today, on the phone, the brisk voice of the Wine School manager asked me
“Will you be studying in Amsterdam, or in our The Hague branch?”
I remembered the first time he said hello. A concert. A crowd. Friends of friends introducing us. I remembered the feel of crisp white hotel sheets, slightly stiff, always the same in different countries and cities.
“I… I…”
A sudden headache cut through me. I flinched sharply, as if from a piercing cold.
“Can I think about it until tomorrow?” I asked the Wine School manager.
“Yes. Of course,” the woman said, and after a brief goodbye she hung up.
What if I saw him again? What would happen if I saw him again?
There are supposed to be Laws in the universe: The Law of Order and The Law of Chaos. According to both, we were destined to meet again in The Hague.
Should I smile brightly and squeal with joy, “Oh! My dear! It’s been so long”?
Or should I pass by, pretending we never touched each other, never wanted each other, never exchanged breath and sweat?
I needed to walk. I needed air. I needed to think.
It was July again.
2,600 kilometers away from The Hague, there was no need for a Columbia jacket or a knitted sweater. In my provincial Aegean town, the temperature hovered above forty degrees Celsius. I pulled a cotton shirt over my swimsuit and went out.
What would I say to him? What do people usually say to each other?
How are you? What’s new after ten years? How’s the dog?
What if it’s dead?
Better not ask about the dog.
What nonsense. Why had I decided I would run into him in The Hague?
“Yes, you will”, a voice said. “You’ll be in the city for a month. The Hague is tiny, practically two and a half streets, and he lives in the center”.
“Okay. The probability is high. But what are the chances he would recognize me?”
“You think he forgot? You remember him”- stupid voice said again.
“And how many people have I forgotten? Maybe I wasn’t as important to him as he was to me”.
“Bullshit” - voice doesn’t give up.
“No”.
“We’ll see.”
I imagined it anyway. We meet. He recognizes me. We exchange polite sentences about time and weather.
Then he asks what I’m doing there.
I say, “I have a course in a local wine school”. And invite him for a drink.
And he says, “unfortunately, I stopped drinking years ago, when my dog died”.
Why do I keep thinking about it?
What am I even saying?
The pharmacist interrupted me.
“Four hundred sixty-seven lira. Cash or card?”
I paid and walked home with a box of laxatives. What I really needed was something for acute psychological distress, but that required a prescription. Laxatives were easier. They made the body lighter.
More tangible. Alcohol hadn’t worked for a long time. But this evening it was on my list anyway.
The bar was smoky. In The Hague you can’t smoke indoors anymore. In Turkey you still can. I thought of The Hague again.
“Jack with ice” - I give my order to the bartender.
“Another one”.
Then, “One more, please”.
I walked home unsteadily and sent the email before sunrise, forcing myself not to reread it, not to hesitate.
The next morning, the administrator would open it and read:
Hello,
I’ve decided to attend the course in Amsterdam.
Looking forward to the timetable and payment information.
Kind regards,
Margarita
Suna Çevik is a Turkish art critic, sommelier and fiction writer. In 2025, her short story “The Star” was published in the anthology “Istanbul”. She has recently moved to Budapest and now resides here.
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