An old Russian writer and I sat in the hotel lobby kvetching about it all.
“To be honest, it’s really all the same to me,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’d just like to keep traveling while I still can, to write this or that while I’ve still got the juice in me. .” The phrase while I’ve still got the juice in me had an indecent, almost pornographic, ring. I didn’t respond. With a flirtatious kick, he got up and hobbled off towards the lift.
At an alfresco restaurant near our hotel a Bulgarian writer friend and I sat down and had a kvetch about it all too. He showed me a gorgeously illustrated picture book for which he’d written the text. It was the story of a fly that buzzed about everywhere, for the most part through European historical epochs.
“We wanted to capture a fly’s distinctive perspective,” said the friend, referring to himself and the illustrator.
“If it’s a fly’s perspective, then why is it making a school primer out of European history? It’s as if the fly is the class geek, and not a fly. .”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“That aside, do flies really land on masterpieces of European art like Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper? I mean, as a fly, surely you could’ve chosen something else, right?”
“It landed on a plate on the table. . there it is, there. .” said my friend sheepishly.
“Flies are conformists. .” I said, taking a mollifying tone. “But why then would you want a fly’s perspective!? Isn’t a fly just a means of transport for your perspective?”
It was a sunny day, Istanbul was experiencing an Indian summer, we were eating baklava, the golden wasps of Istanbul buzzed overhead.
6.
“Hey, pretty lady, stop a while! Come and take a look at my rugs. .” shouts the broad-smiling squirt of a man beckoning me into his shop. I don’t have the slightest intention of stopping; I’m on my way back to the hotel after a day spent playing tourist. I’m exhausted, and can hardly wait to get under a hot shower and into bed. Besides, I know the whole bazaar hustle: if I even think about stopping, it’ll be tough to wriggle out.
No, please God, no way — I find myself obediently stopping, as if someone had zapped me with the TV remote.
“You don’t have to buy anything, come in, take a look around, we’ll have tea. .”
The Turk was in his thirties, and I wouldn’t have remembered him had it not been for the floppy dumbo ears planted on either side of his shaven head.
“I can come in, but as I already told you, I’m not going to buy anything. .” I say, though I hadn’t actually told him anything yet.
The Turk lifted his arm protectively as if he was going to wrap it around my shoulder, leading me into a spacious and elegant rug shop. He sat me down on a cushion-laden sofa, clicked his fingers, and voila, a cute little boy sprang out from somewhere with a tray carrying small glasses of Turkish apple tea.
“You really are very gracious, but I’m not a buyer. .” I said.
Not batting an eyelid, the Turk again clicked his fingers, pointed to one of the shelves and nodded his head, yep, that one. The boy pulled out a rug, skillfully unrolling it. For a moment I thought we were all extras in an ad or an Orientalist film.
The Turk lets his rug story unfurl. He tells of rugs from the Balkans to Pakistan, the differences between Bulgarian, Turkish, Armenian, Persian, Egyptian, Israeli, Jordanian, and Indian rugs, of styles, shapes, stitches, knots, and fabrics, of wool, cotton, and silk, of thickness, length, and lustre. The boy is as agile as a gymnast, unrolling and re-rolling rugs in silence.
“There’s no point going to any effort, I’m not going to buy anything. .” I repeat.
“This is a magnificent, handmade piece. .”
“I doubt it’s handmade,” I said, slightly irritated.
“How do you know it’s not?”
“You can see from the underside. .” I bluff.
“You’re wrong, madame, you’re so terribly wrong. My mother wove this with her own hands,” said the Turk in a pained voice, as if I’d insulted him.
Choosing to let it go, he continued spinning a yarn about his mother who lives in a small village (his mother being a weaver, an artist, and the cornerstone of the family), about his brothers and sisters, about his family, family values, and his family lineage whose honesty is known far and wide.
“We’re in a recession — even if I wanted to, I couldn’t buy one,” say I, in lieu of an apology.
The Turk agrees, nods his head, turns the mother and family channel off and changes tack. Of course, yes, the recession, but you know a recession is exactly the right time to invest in things of lasting value; gold, paintings, precious rugs, that sort of thing. Rembrandt, Picasso, precious silk rugs, they’re all works of art. . And if you can’t afford a Picasso, why wouldn’t you buy yourself a rug?
“I know, but I’m not buying. .”
The Turk looks at me silently. I squirm on the sofa.
“I can’t. .” I add.
“And what, madame, do you do?”
Of course I hadn’t the slightest intention of telling him. Why would I tell him? I could invent any profession I like — tell him I was a waitress, for example.
“I’m a writer. .”
The Turk stops for a second and, for the first time, frowns a little, as if this wasn’t the answer he was expecting. With a theatrical wave of the hand, he dismisses the assistant.
“Do you write for a newspaper?”
Yes, I think; maybe it’s better to tell him I write for a newspaper. .
“I write books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Well, you know, novels, stories, and stuff. .”
He frowns again, as if rocked by unpleasant news, but recovers in a second and jovially declares. .
“I love novels too, and stories. . books should adorn every home, like rugs.”
“My book is in every bookstore in Istanbul; it’s been translated into Turkish,” I reply in a single breath, as if someone were forcibly dragging me along by my tongue.
“Bravo! Give me your name and the title, and I’ll buy it. . but did you know that rugs are books too?”
“No. .”
“All those fairytale heroes on flying carpets are actually flying on books, because actually, books are ‘the wings of imagination,’ are they not?”
The Turk hits a button on his invisible remote again. The boy reappears, unfurling rugs as if they were papyruses, laying them at my feet.
“There we go, madame, now tell me what they say,” the Turk demands.
“How am I supposed to read them?!”
“They’re all stories written by your sisters. And women being women, your sisters have woven all sorts of things into these rugs: young girls their dreams of love and marriage, young married women their dissatisfaction with impotent husbands and evil stepmothers, old grannies memories of their youth. Rugs are women’s diaries, you just need to know how to read them. But I see you’re illiterate in this area. You say you’re a writer, but you don’t know the alphabet.”