there were clouds in rush-hour collision, clouds on go-slow; there were straw tepees in fields; marble graves built like Victorian cradles; in wooded dells there were rows of white boxes collecting honey; in forests there were trees with the bony legs and flat chests of children;

the countryside doesn’t change as much as cities do, Stanley observed aloud;

they brought saffron, spices, sperm, slaves, silver, stories, ivory, songs; they wore gems and germs; they traded gunpowder, gold, glass; Jessie brought the convent from high up in the hills of Leeds, it was the stone mansion with which she had been clad, the task of excavation awaited her; Stanley brought the visitors who’d come and gone, yet still lingered on;

they brought religion and refugees, ideas and medicine, myths and music, melanin by the caravan-load; Stanley brought Pearline and a love that would never die; Jessie brought a longing for her son that just wouldn’t bloody abate; they brought war and water, perfume and porcelain, politics and poems, peace and paper; Stanley wore loss and brought hope; Jessie wore loss and brought humour; they both brought mourning for the death of childhood, memories that would not fade;

and there was silk too – Japan, Korea, China, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Iran, Azerbaijan, Turkey, Egypt, Italy – this was the Silk Road;

they camped next to the ruins of fortresses and monasteries; han – caravanserais, han – a safe resting place for Silk Roaders; Stanley willed Alexander the Great to saunter out of the ruins, to regale him with tales of travel and conquest, or Tamerlane, and why not Genghis Khan or Marco Polo, come on, guys, he thought, bring it on; they slept in the car – in the morning they were surrounded by cows;

One day a Chinese queen accidentally

dropped a silkworm cocoon into her hot cup of tea.

As she plucked it out, it unravelled a shiny, silken thread.

they passed petrol stations and pylons; everything was hushed, everything was new and, for a short while, they listened to their own breathing.

Letter from the Court of Jessie at Ölüdeniz

Dear Me,

Jessie sits like the Queen of Tonga on her foam-backed throne, those fake plaits tied up like a pot plant, natural bushy hair pushing through underneath. Her plaits keep moulting. Sometimes I see one on the ground, a charred worm. She’s wearing an African-style wrapper, tied over her breasts, that falls just below her knees. Her legs flap open as she sits. I’ve told her it is not ladylike. I favour a pair of cut-off jeans and show off my sunken chest. Oh, I know all the girls are secretly going wild.