When the clock struck eleven, the terminal was as crowded as ever.
Daylight streamed down from the high ceiling, spreading broad patches across the polished floor and glinting along the metal edges of the escalators. The rattle of suitcase wheels mingled with the hum of coffee machines and voices speaking in different languages. Newly opened perfume bottles were being arranged outside one shop, while across the way the first warm loaves of bread were being placed in baskets at a restaurant.
The revolving doors at the terminal's main entrance never stopped.
Passengers came in from outside one by one. After a few steps, they would pause and look up at the high ceiling and the crowds stretching beyond sight. Some carried a single bag; others struggled with suitcases trailing behind them. Some arrived alone, while others were brought by their families. Their loved ones embraced them at the entrance, slipped their tickets into their pockets and helped them find a place amid the crowd.
That morning, a young woman entered with her mother, father and little sister. As her family gathered around her, she studied the terminal as though she were seeing a vast place for the first time. The white ticket in her hand bore only her name. Her father led her to the general waiting lounge, found an empty seat and placed her bag beside it.
At that very moment, another family was saying goodbye at Gate 18.
An elderly man straightened his son's collar. A woman kept looking at the face of the one who was leaving, as though trying to fix in her eyes every detail she would soon have to remember. The attendant repeated the final call. The man left his suitcase where it stood, raised a hand and disappeared beyond the gate.
At one end of the terminal new passengers were arriving; at the other, people were departing through the boarding gates.
Neither the revolving doors nor the boarding gates ever stopped.
In the terminal's largest hall, a black board hung from the ceiling. It looked like the boards in airports everywhere: rows of letters, gate numbers and times. But most of the lines on this board were blank.
The tickets in the passengers' hands also showed only their names.
The departure time, gate number and destination had been left empty.
That was the rule of this terminal. A passenger received a ticket upon arrival, but was not told how long the wait would be. The destination was unknown as well. When a name was announced, one of the empty lines on the board lit up; only then did the time, gate and destination appear.
Some waited a long time for that announcement. Others were called before they had even settled into their seats.
During their first days, passengers asked many questions about this.
“Can't you at least give me an approximate time?”
The attendants at the information desk always gave the same answer.
“We aren't told in advance either.”
“Then where am I going?”
“It will appear on the board when your name is called.”
“Can I change my ticket?”
“No.”
After a while, the passengers stopped asking. They became accustomed to the order of the lounges, found a place for themselves and began to regard waiting as the natural state of their lives.
Some sat close to the gates and listened carefully to the announcements. Others chose corners far from the loudspeakers. Some kept their ticket in a shirt pocket and took it out several times a day. Others buried it at the bottom of a suitcase, not wishing to remember that it existed.
At 11:17, a name was called.
For a moment, the voice cut through the murmur of the hall. Some people looked up without meaning to. An empty line on the large board lit up.
A young man sitting by the window in the general lounge rose to his feet. He hurriedly closed the laptop lying open on his knees. The friend opposite him glanced at the clock in astonishment.
“So soon?” he said.
The young man did not answer. He looked at his ticket, then at the board. He had bought a coffee less than half an hour earlier. The paper cup stood on the table with only two sips taken from it.
“We had a meeting,” his friend said. “We were going together this afternoon.”
The announcement was made a second time.
The young man slung his laptop bag over his shoulder. He tried to take his large suitcase as well, but the attendant at the gate told him that only the small hand bag was allowed.
“Will the rest be sent later?” he asked.
The attendant shook his head.
“They will remain here.”
The young man struggled to release the suitcase handle. Inside were new suits, files and expensive things he had spent a long time collecting. When the final call came, he embraced his friend, glanced at his unfinished coffee and walked towards the gate.
Five minutes later, a cleaner threw the cup away. Another passenger took the seat at the table where the computer had been left open.
The line on the board went dark.
The lounge returned to its usual noise.
Upstairs was the VIP lounge.
Thick carpets swallowed the sound of suitcase wheels, and leather armchairs before the wide windows overlooked the entire runway. Fresh flowers, crystal carafes and the day's newspapers stood on the tables. The waiters knew the passengers by name and brought their coffee before they asked for it.
Mr Rauf sat in the same armchair by the window every morning. When he first arrived at the terminal, he had waited in the general lounge. First he acquired a silver card, then a gold one, and finally a private room. With each move, he had thought the waiting would no longer be as tiring as before.
That morning, his assistant placed several files before him.
“We can lease the adjoining lounge as well,” he said. “If you approve, we can sign today.”
Mr Rauf looked at the crowd beyond the glass. Downstairs, people sat side by side on hard seats and kept changing places in search of a power socket. Here there was space and silence.
“Sign it,” he said. “The children will be comfortable when they come.”
His assistant turned the document around.
“How long should we lease it for?”
Before answering, Mr Rauf felt the ticket in his pocket. He had not looked at the blank space for the departure time in a long while.
“For as long as possible.”
At 12:03, a woman's voice came over the lounge speakers and called a passenger's name. The pen in Mr Rauf's hand paused, but it was not his name. The door of the private room next door opened. A man who, only minutes earlier, had been speaking loudly on the telephone stepped out.
“There must be some mistake,” he was saying. “My schedule is full. I have two more meetings this evening.”
The attendant pointed to the illuminated line on the board.
“The name and ticket number both match.”
“Can't I leave tomorrow?”
“Your ticket cannot be changed.”
The man became angry, then seized his telephone. He called three people in rapid succession, explaining who should receive which file and who should keep which key. But before he could finish his conversations, the final call was made.
The door to his private room remained open.
In his haste, the man left his expensive watch on the table. An attendant was about to call after him, then thought better of it. He knew that only the passenger could pass through the gate.
Mr Rauf watched the man leave from behind the glass. A few minutes later, lounge staff entered the room. They gathered the papers from the desk, changed the flowers and removed the man's name from the small plaque beside the door.
That afternoon, another passenger moved into the room.
The newcomer said he liked the view from the window.
The lunchtime crowds had begun to fill the restaurants downstairs.
Half-finished plates, shopping bags and charging cables lay across the tables. Some people ate alone and hurriedly; others celebrated birthdays at long tables. Waiters cleared each vacated place and handed menus to new arrivals.
Outside a shop, a middle-aged woman was trying to close two suitcases. The things she had bought that morning would not fit. The assistant suggested a third suitcase.
“I'll be back shortly,” the woman said. “There is more I want to buy.”
Her daughter was looking up at the board hanging from the ceiling.
“What if they call your name?” she asked.
The woman laughed.
“There is plenty of time.”
“How do you know?”
The woman fell silent for a moment.
“You can feel these things.”
Her daughter was unconvinced, but said nothing more. She followed her mother into the shop.
There was a long queue at the till. People filled their baskets so they could buy more before the sale ended. Some had their tickets tucked inside their wallets; others carried them crumpled in their pockets. The cashier asked every customer the same question:
“Are you sure you can take these with you?”
Most assumed she was asking whether the shopping bags would be allowed on board and began enquiring about cabin baggage dimensions.
The cashier did not explain.
At 13:26, another name was announced. An elderly woman emerged from one of the changing rooms at the back of the shop. She was wearing a navy jacket whose tags had not yet been removed.
Her daughter dropped the dresses in her arms and ran to her.
“Mother, was that your name?”
The woman looked at the board. Her surprise did not last long. She removed the jacket and carefully returned it to its hanger.
“Then the time has come,” she said.
“But we haven't finished shopping.”
The elderly woman stroked her daughter's cheek.
“We never would have.”
She left her suitcases outside the shop and took only a small, worn bag from one of them. Her daughter accompanied her as far as the gate. They both wept as they parted, but when the elderly woman looked back for the last time, it was not the packages in the shop she tried to see. It was her daughter's face.
After the gate closed, the shop assistant buttoned the jacket left on the hanger and returned it to its place.
An hour later, someone else bought it.
Children imagined that time moved differently for them inside the terminal.
To them, moving walkways were games and luggage trolleys were racing cars. They counted the aircraft beyond the glass and gazed at the bright toys outside the shops. When an announcement began, they would fall silent for a moment; when it was not their name, they returned to their games.
Mert was eight years old. He was sitting with his father in the general lounge while his mother queued for food. In his hand was the white ticket he had been given when he entered the terminal.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
Without looking up from his telephone, his father answered:
“I don't know.”
“When are we going?”
“When they make the announcement.”
“What if we don't hear it?”
This time, his father put down the telephone.
“We will.”
“Does everyone leave?”
His father looked around the lounge. Opposite them were people sleeping, eating and arguing, and others who never looked at the large board at all.
“Yes,” he said. “I think everyone does.”
“Then why do they behave as though they live here?”
His father did not answer.
A little later, Mert began playing between the seats. On an empty chair he found a toy aeroplane someone had left behind. When he bent down to pick it up, he saw an old ticket wedged beneath it. The name had almost faded away. The departure time and destination were still blank.
He took the ticket to the information desk.
“Can you find the person who lost this?”
The attendant looked at the ticket.
“That passenger left long ago.”
“Without taking his ticket?”
“Once he was called, he no longer needed it.”
Mert placed the toy on the desk as well.
“He didn't take this either.”
“Most people who leave here abandon even the things they loved most.”
Mert looked into the attendant's face. She had said it as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
By afternoon, the terminal had grown more crowded still.
New passengers entered through the revolving doors at the main entrance, and attendants directed them towards the lounges. Each carried the same white ticket. Their names were written on it; all the other lines were blank.
A young couple who had just arrived asked where they should wait. The attendant indicated the lounge.
“You will be called when your gate is assigned.”
“How long will we wait?”
“We have not been told.”
The couple thanked her as though there were nothing unusual in the answer and disappeared among the seats. First they bought coffee, then began looking into the shop windows. They thought they had a long day ahead of them.
At that same moment, a very young passenger was waiting at Gate 7. His relatives insisted that the name had been read incorrectly and asked the attendants to check the board again.
“He only just arrived,” one of the women said. “It cannot be so soon.”
The attendant checked the ticket number once more.
“Sometimes the wait is brief.”
“Is there no order?”
“Calls here are not made according to the order in which passengers enter the terminal.”
When the gate closed, the young couple who had just arrived were still looking into a shop window.
As the hours passed, the restaurants filled again. A group waiting for their flight pushed several tables together for a birthday celebration. A large cake stood in the middle. The man's friends applauded as he prepared to blow out the candles.
“Many happy returns,” they said.
The man blew out the candles.
At that very moment, an announcement began.
Everyone at the table fell silent. The first name spoken belonged to someone else. They laughed with relief and turned the music back on. The passenger whose name had been called was a woman eating alone a few tables away. She rose before she had time to ask for the bill. The waiter carried her unfinished plate to the kitchen.
The celebration continued.
The man who had blown out the candles raised his glass.
“As you can see, we're still here.”
No one asked, “For how long?”
Late in the afternoon, two men began arguing beneath the departures board. One accused the other of placing a bag on his seat. Their voices rose, and soon a small crowd had gathered around them.
“That seat has been mine for a long time,” one of the men said.
“Is your name written on it?”
“Everyone knows I sit here.”
“I'm sitting here now.”
The argument dragged on. A security officer came and separated them. Neither would agree to sit elsewhere; each accused the other over those few inches of space.
Soon afterwards, a name came over the loudspeaker.
The older of the two men fell silent. He looked at the board, then at the seat he had been fighting for only seconds before, and finally at the man opposite him.
He picked up his bag.
“It's yours,” he said.
The other man did not reply. As the older passenger walked away, he sat down, but the seat no longer felt comfortable. He waited with his hands resting on his knees, listening for the next announcement. A few minutes later, he rose and moved elsewhere.
The seat remained empty.
Mr Rauf ate dinner in the VIP lounge.
The lease for the adjoining lounge had been signed, and a small table had been laid in celebration. His children and grandchildren were with him. He was explaining which part of the new lounge each of them would use.
One of his grandchildren went to the wide window and looked down at the crowd.
“Grandfather, are the people downstairs going where we are going too?”
Mr Rauf smiled.
“No one knows where anyone is going.”
“But our gate will be different, won't it?”
Mr Rauf was about to answer when he heard his own name over the loudspeakers.
Everyone in the lounge froze.
The announcement was perfectly calm. The voice neither hurried nor consoled him. It simply gave his name, his gate and his departure time.
Mr Rauf took the ticket from his pocket. The lines that had stood empty for so long were now filled in.
His assistant sprang to his feet.
“There may be a mistake. We'll speak to them and have it postponed.”
“You know it cannot be postponed.”
“We'll ask for a private flight.”
For the first time, Mr Rauf saw clearly that there was no difference between the lounge downstairs and his own. The windows were larger here, the seats softer and the service more attentive. But time had passed at precisely the same speed.
One of his children began to cry.
Mr Rauf looked around him. The rooms he had worked so long to obtain, the pictures on the walls, the papers on the table—everything remained in its place. The only thing that was changing was that, in a little while, he would no longer be there.
“What will happen to the new lounge?” his assistant asked.
Mr Rauf left the contract on the table.
“Someone else will use it.”
On his way to the gate, he passed through the general lounge. People stepped aside for him. No one looked at the colour of his card. In his hand he carried only the white ticket he had been given when he entered the terminal.
In the queue at the gate, he found himself beside a woman who had spent a long time waiting on the hard seats. Her name had been called for the same flight. One had come from the VIP lounge, the other from the crowded waiting area.
The attendant checked both tickets in exactly the same way.
The gate opened to the same place for them both.
When night fell, the terminal's interior began to appear in the glass.
The shops were still open. Plates were being carried through the restaurants, coffee machines were running, and people were sleeping in their seats or making plans for the following day. Cleaners prepared the places others had vacated, while every few minutes the board lit up with another name.
The revolving doors at the main entrance had not stopped either.
One passenger entered from outside, received a blank ticket and found a place in the waiting lounge. Another rose because a name had been called and looked for the last time at what was being left behind.
Those arriving did not know those who were leaving. Most of those departing did not know who had passed through the same gates before them.
Because the terminal was crowded, people imagined that it never diminished.
But it was the terminal that remained undiminished.
Those inside it were changing all the time.
The suitcases abandoned that morning were put up for auction at a shop counter. A new name was placed on the private room in the VIP lounge. Another family sat down at the unfinished table in the restaurant. The attendant at the information desk placed Mert's toy aeroplane in the lost-property box.
At 23:58, one of the day's final announcements was made.
An elderly man sitting in the quietest corner of the general lounge raised his head. He had kept his small bag at his feet throughout the day and listened attentively to every announcement. When he heard his name, he was not surprised. He put on his coat, took his ticket in his hand and turned to the young man beside him.
“It is my turn,” he said.
The young man's expression changed.
“Aren't you afraid?”
The elderly man looked towards the gates.
“I am going somewhere I do not know. Of course I feel apprehensive.”
“Then how can you be so calm?”
“Because I never forgot that I did not come here to stay.”
The young man looked at the elderly man's tiny bag.
“Is that all?”
“It is as much as I can take with me.”
The second announcement was made.
The elderly man stood. Before walking away, he looked at the crowd around him. Some were asleep, some were shopping, and others were crossing the lounge in search of a better seat.
“Have you been here long?” the young man asked.
The elderly man smiled.
“It seemed long while I was waiting. Now that I look back, it was no more than a moment.”
He walked towards the gate.
By the time the final call was made, midnight had passed.
Seen from a distance, the terminal lights resembled stars.
As the view rose, the great hall grew smaller. Glass walls, gates and runways merged into one another. Then it became clear that the terminal was not a single building.
At the foot of mountains, on the shores of seas, in deserts and crowded cities, terminal doors were opening at the same time. In one place a new passenger entered; elsewhere a name was being called for the final time. Some passed their time in splendid lounges, others in modest waiting areas. Some had amassed many possessions; others waited with only a small bag.
Yet none of the gates remained unused.
Everyone who arrived would one day depart.
There were those arriving.
There were those departing.
There was no one remaining.
As the view rose a little higher, the sphere carrying all those halls appeared in the darkness. It turned silently, with its seas and continents and cities glowing in the night.
The great terminal that people mistook for a permanent home was called the world.
Inside, another name was announced.
Everyone looked up for a moment.
Then they went on waiting as though their own call would never come.
Every day, millions of people entered this terminal, and millions departed. None of those who arrived remained here, and none of those who left was the first to go.
Partings naturally brought sorrow. Yet those left behind grieved for the departed as though their own call would never come. But those who saw others off today would themselves be seen off tomorrow. Perhaps the hope of meeting again, at the same destination towards which the others had departed, lay hidden within these farewells. If only a person could understand this, what a great consolation it truly was to meet again.
No one remained in this terminal forever.
Everyone knew it.
For some reason, many passengers did not seem to think it applied to them.