The Girl in the Devil Horns
A chance encounter at midnight on the streets of Istanbul.
The street was empty, the silence broken only by an occasional passing car. We stood at a junction bus stop, debating whether to wait or walk to a distant taxi stand. The digital board had been promising an arrival of the bus in “2 minutes”. For the last ten minutes. I checked my phone again, hoping for the easiest option, but the Uber map was empty. No cars nearby. We just started discussing the next day’s plans when my friend pointed across the road.
“Probably drunk,” he said.
I nodded. Two glowing red horns floated in the dark. Devil horns. The kind worn at parties. A young girl was dancing wildly about a hundred metres away on the other side of the road. The powerful street lights hit her at an angle, turning her into a joyful, dancing silhouette.
We turned away and refocused on our discussion, agreeing to split up the next day to visit our personal favourite spots, when a voice interrupted.
“Hello!”
Standing right beside us was the girl. She seemed much younger than I expected. Her head was wrapped in a hijab, paired with a soft brown dress, topped with those glowing plastic devil horns. She looked like a character from a children’s show. A small basket hung from her hips, filled with translucent, colourful toys.
“Hello, what are you doing here at this time? Where are your parents?” my friend asked her.
“Hmm… My mom is at home. I am selling these,” she said in clear English.
“How old are you?” I asked.
“I am eleven,” she said.
“Do you go to school?”
“Hmm… Yes.” She held up five fingers and continued, “I am in fifth grade.”
She started sentences hesitantly, but then the words flowed with perfect intonation, confidence, and clarity. She wore a radiant smile. “Do you guys want to buy some souvenirs or toys?” she asked.
I wanted to buy something, but my luggage was on the verge of exploding. My friend faced the same problem, as did our third companion who had already headed to the Airbnb. None of us could carry a single extra gram. My only option was to buy a toy just to abandon it at the roadside or the Airbnb later. But then, an alternative popped into my mind. I handed her some money as a gift.
Her face went blank with confusion for a few seconds. Then, she took it.
We bid her farewell, urging her to return home soon.
“Thanks, I am okay!” she said, turned, and wandered back to her distant spot.
Five minutes passed. We found ourselves engrossed in our mobile phones, surrounded by the rhythmic buzzing of crickets.
“Hello!”
She was back, breathless and beaming, the red horns still glowing atop her head. Before we could speak, she flipped a switch on a small toy and pressed it into my hand.
“You gave me a gift. So, I want to give this gift to you. Please!”
“Thanks!” I said.
She vanished into the dark. I stood there, holding the lit-up toy, torn on what to do with it.
My friend interrupted, “Five more minutes. If not, we can start walking towards the taxi stand.”
I agreed and glanced at my phone, quickly drowning in a flood of unread messages. Some time had passed. The malfunctioning digital board was still stubbornly lying. In “2 minutes”. I took a deep breath and looked at my friend to suggest we should finally move, but a shadow approached us.
“Hello!” It was the same girl, the same smile, but the devil horns were gone. “Can you please buy me something from the bakery to eat?”
She asked straight out, with no trace of a plea. The way a niece asks an uncle.
“Yes, sure!” I answered immediately.
Both she and my friend looked surprised by my quick response. I told him I’d be back soon and crossed the road with her to the bakery nearby.
“Are you from Istanbul or some other part of Turkey?” I asked.
“No.” She looked at me. “We came from Syria.”
“Do you have siblings?”
“Yes. I have my sister.”
Suddenly, a surge of vehicles drowned out our conversation. Before I could ask something else, we arrived at the bakery.
Unfortunately, they were already winding down for the night and refused to serve us. We scanned the street and spotted another bakery a little ahead, but it looked dark too. I pointed to a small supermarket right next to us that was still open. “Let’s get something in there,” I said.
The shop was cramped, bisected by a cash counter manned by an elderly shopkeeper. He looked at us with confusion, so I explained the situation. After a moment, his face softened. He gave a small smile and a thumbs-up.
I waited by the counter while she strolled through the shop. I heard the soft crinkle of plastic a few times. She returned holding only one item: a beautiful, glossy, bright-red box of tiny candies. She placed it on the counter in front of me, then added a loaf of bread. She glanced at me and walked past again. I kept my expression neutral, though I shared a smile with the shopkeeper once her back was turned. She went to the corner and called for help to reach the top rack. The shopkeeper handed her a packet of baby diapers, which she added to the pile. She slipped back for one more chocolate bar.
When she turned to go back for a fourth time, I stopped her.
“Okay, that should be enough, I think,” I said, offering a gentle smile.
“Okay, okay, okay…” she murmured as if she had been anticipating it, raising her hands in surrender, with a smile.
But then, she grabbed a bulky pack of kitchen paper towels. She placed them on the counter, glancing at the pile — the bread, the diapers, the chocolate bar, the kitchen towels — and then looked at the bright-red candies.
She pushed the bright-red candies away, motioning the shopkeeper to remove them and add kitchen towels instead.
While I took out my wallet to check for cash, the shopkeeper began billing the items and putting them in a bag. I took the bag and handed it to her. Then, I reached out and picked up the bright-red candy box. I signalled the shopkeeper to include it in the bill.
Her eyes lit up when she saw it.
“This is a small gift from me,” I told her. “Because I want you to do well in your studies.”
It sounds dramatic in retrospect, but in that moment, I needed to say it. She gave a forceful nod. “Yes… Yes…”
The shopkeeper said something to her in Turkish — telling her to thank me — but I didn’t need the translation. I was used to her distinctive English-speaking style by now. I could hear the words in my mind, but waited for her to say them. She stepped close and hugged me. She didn’t say a word. She just held on for a few seconds. I patted her shoulder.
We left the shop, said goodnight to each other, and departed.
I walked toward my friend, wondering what was going on in that little girl’s mind. She had accepted money as a gift, walked away, returned to give me a gift, walked away again, and then returned to ask for food. I didn’t see an adult nearby giving instructions, though perhaps I may have missed them. But whatever or whoever was making her do it, I couldn’t doubt the genuineness of her smile for a moment.
Now whenever I walk past the toy she gave me — which sits on a desk in my living room — I pick it up. I switch the translucent red heart on and off, staring blankly. Most of the time I’m thinking about something else. But sometimes, I do think about that night.
I think about the way she was dancing. In that darkness.
— sAb
(RECORD 001)
Author’s Note: A true account from my recent vacation, with details, dialogue condensed and added filler details for narrative flow.