“Don’t you worry, Cemile Abla,” he said with a grave expression once they had made their final descent. “I’ll drop these straight into the current at the mouth of the Bosphorus. Nobody will know.”
When they ran into one another around noon three days later, they didn’t mention it; Captain Hasan just shook his head as if to say, Mission accomplished. And though she could hardly conceal her curiousity, Cemile Abla never asked: Had he simply dropped the bags into the strait, or had he untied them and dumped out the contents?
Thankfully, nobody called to ask about the second potential groom. And this time around Cemile Abla was more experienced; she didn’t even attempt to carry down the three large, black bags she’d set in front of the house. She went straight down to the shore and found Captain Hasan. She didn’t need to say a word; she gave him a certain look, and he immediately understood that she needed his help once again. Captain Hasan seemed to handle the bags with more ease this time; in only fifteen minutes he had taken all three down and loaded them onto the boat without shedding a single drop of sweat. “I should set off before sunrise,” he said. “I’ll take care of these and then come back and pretend I forgot something and pick up that lazy-boned boy.” The car-fanatic apprentice had just started work earlier that week.
When Cemile Abla got down to the shore, she found four fishermen settled in front of one of those hollows in the Hisar walls covered by iron bars; they were conversing in low voices, their eyes turned to the waters painted orange by the moon-light. When she reached them they greeted her as joyously as ever; she accepted their invitation to join them and sat down on the edge of a blanket. They chatted about this and that as she sipped the rakı in her tea glass. For a moment her eyes met those of Captain Hasan. Cemile Abla turned her head before anyone noticed, and began telling a funny story about her father. She was sure that the captain understood.
When she got home, she began trying to tape the cover back onto an old book, just to pass the time. It was an hour before sunrise when she heard the light knock at her door.
“You’ve got some packages that need to go down, Cemile Abla?” Captain Hasan asked. His cheeks were red from the rakı.
“I hate to trouble you...”
“No reason for you to come out, I’ll take care of it.”
Because she knew that he was too bound by the rules of etiquette to come inside, Cemile Abla dragged the bags to the front door herself. She was in a cheerful mood, relieved at not having to climb repeatedly at the crack of dawn. When she went to the living room to open the curtains, a tiny glinting object caught her eye. She had picked up the tea glasses, plates, forks, and knives earlier, but the wedding ring was still there on the edge of the coffee table. She thought about what she would tell Nalan. She was sure her telephone would ring before the clock struck noon; in fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if Nalan came all the way over here just to gossip face to face.
“I guess I’m just not meant to marry,” she’d tell her friend. “They all just slip right through my fingers. It’s as if, just when it’s all about to happen, poof, they evaporate into thin air, just like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not taking you for granted, but please, let this be the last one,” she’d say. “Don’t introduce me to anyone else. Really. You think I’m not saddened by this, but really, it weighs so heavily on my conscience.”
All quiet
by Jessica Lutz
Fatih
Privileged, that’s what I am. I pray in the Conqueror’s Mosque, the most honored one in the whole of Istanbul. Look at its simple, vast courtyard. There’s nothing to distract a man from his mission, just the sober beauty that reminds one of the Greatness of God. Of why I have to perform my difficult duty.
At the fountain I have just completed my ablutions, a ritual that soothes me. A little cat came up and licked the water drops off my bare foot. I thought it to be a good omen even if I had to wash again. I love cats. I thanked God when I was praying inside, surrounded by the thick walls laced with five rows of arched windows that support a dome so high, it must have been a miracle half a millennium ago. Fatih Mehmet, the Conqueror, built this tribute to Allah after the greatest city of the infidels surrendered to the relentless blows of his army. Our army! We, the Muslims, arrived, and Constantinople became Istanbul. Some claim the architect failed to make the first mosque of Istanbul higher than the infidel’s biggest church, the Hagia Sophia. They say the Sultan ordered his hands to be cut off, but I think that’s just malicious slander invented by the infidels.
I must go now. No time to linger. I’m quiet inside, focused. I have the address written on a piece of paper, but I don’t need it. I know where to go. I leave the outer courtyard of the mosque through the gate at the right, which brings me into Darüşşafaka Avenue. Isn’t that a beautiful name, Abode of Dawn? I walk past Wednesday Market with its small shops. Dried fruits and nuts, frilly dresses for little girls, a toy shop — didn’t have those when I was small — the tulumba shop. Maybe I could stop for some of those sweet syrupy balls. I’m sure my assistant would like to. But no, I mustn’t indulge.
Evil tongues say I know little mercy. That’s not true. My assistant will testify that I find my task hard. He’s a reliable young man. But it must be done. God’s soldiers must be tough. We cross the Yavuz Selim Avenue straight into the Manasyazade Avenue past the İsmail Ağa Mosque. I know that at the back of its courtyard, the old medrese is still being used for teaching. One of our finest Quran courses is given there. Perhaps on my way back I could pay a visit. The teacher is a friend of mine.
Look at the pretty ladies in the sun, their faces framed by headscarves and reddened by the icy wind that’s blowing. I disapprove of those young, slender girls who wear their long coats so tight that a man needs no imagination to know what’s inside. They send my blood racing. Very bad. They’re asking for something to happen to them. We’re nearly there, I think. Left off Fethiye Avenue, at the end of this street we go right, and then left again.
Here’s the place. First on the left after the big grocery. Its stands of vegetables nearly blocking the pavement. As I expected, a decent, modest street. Is it surprising? If you remember, back in the Conqueror’s time this was the first neighborhood of the city that was populated by Muslims. No fancy houses, no showcases for wealth, just as God commands. Behind these metal-framed windows live good folk. My assistant knows the address too; he’s spotted the door already. I let him press the bell. He likes that.
“Who’s there?” I recognize Zekeriya’s drawling voice.
My assistant announces our arrival. It takes awhile before the buzzer sounds. I’m not worried. I know our friend will let us in. He has erred, but he’s not lost. I’m here to bring him back to the flock. Third floor. My assistant presses the button. He likes that.
I suspect Zekeriya hesitated before opening the door because he thinks little of me and my assistant. There are some who think the boy is retarded, but I can tell you he’s not. And of course Zekeriya’s wife hates me. I guess she’s at home. She once criticized me for my black beard that makes me look much older than her husband, even though I’m ten years younger. She said I was faking, despite my skull cap, my pious robe. She said I’m not a real Muslim. The nerve.