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Howard GaskinAN OLD MAN'S SUMMER EVENINGTHE WHITE FUNNELLED STEAMER cut slowly ovcr Bcbcc bay and left hardlya ripple to show that she had passed. The gulls that wheeled up fromthe city screamed in ugly welcome and circled her once or twice beforestreaming away in wide arrowed lines to the Black Sea. She was unladen, highin the water, and her squat derricks cast long slender shadows to the shore.Old Alexis watched her from the hillside above the castle of Rumeli Hisar,and when she almost disappeared behind a point he raised his glasses andfollowed her outline past Santa Sophia and Galata to the mouth of the GoldenHorn.A Russian cargo ship, he thought, and waited a little longer to see if shewould dock, but the last streaks of blood-shot sun dissolved behind the heavycumulus and the city became suddenly dark.He strained his tiring eyes but he could no longer see the boat, or even theshape of the dock. Yet there on the hillside high above the city there wasstill sufficient light to see to gather his belongings scattered during the day.Firmly, stiffly, he walked down to the spot where the bus was waiting. Hewas the last to board as always and he hung by a strap by the door all theway to Istanbul. He saw the water in flashes between the houses and althoughhe knew each tiny beach and upturned boat he would not turn his eyes away,hoping perhaps for some other, different glimpse.The night had not completely fallen when he arrived, but already thestreet-lights glared and the people had gone from the boulevards. Even thebeggars had gone; scattering away to mosques and bazaars and the darkerwinding alley-ways on the six hills of the city.He thought of the daytime heat trapped in his tiny room, of the stickymeal that he must cook, and of the city's suffocation.He looked across at the sands below the esplanade. Surely there was abreathe of wind out there? He stepped across the road.The night crept very slowly over the straits, impeded by the glow of phosphorescence,and brought with it the coldness of the sea. He had turned upthe collar of his jacket and thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets, buthe could not ease the pain in his aching back where the glasses-case bangedin awkward rhythm with his walk, and his old legs stiffened.He should have brought a hat, he knew, or a scarf at least, but he hadforgotten that now he felt the cold. It came, he thought, from the summerWESTERLY, No. 1 of 1 967 17