Istanbul 5

March 13, 2013

Father’s birthday.

Was not wakened by the muzzein this morning. Inured already.

Downloaded my photographs, and found that of the hundred or so I must have taken, 24 were in the camera. The memory card had been faulty. A the pictures left were in the camera’s memory, only the most recent. Lost are the basilica cistern and grand shots of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque and street life and faithful Armagan. Lost most considerably, irretrievably, agonizingly is Troy. The spirit went out of everything. Once again I congratulate God on his aim.

Armagan picked me up yesterday and we strolled the city. The plaza between Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque is breathtaking, one of the great spaces in the world. I entered the basilica cistern not knowing what to expect. It is a masterpiece of Roman art, and full of apparently gratuitous architectural playfulness (now lost in the hell of cameras) such as sideways Medusa and shimmery free-form columns among the rhythmic identical ones. The water is haunted by gigantic carp and goldfish, gliding through the near-darkness. They were there in Byzantine times, for the Ottomans didn’t know the cistern existed until they discovered people were pulling water and fish up through holes in the pavement. The atmosphere of the place is otherworldly, dark, holy, beautifully lit by the municipality to make the maximum effect. The Blue Mosque is light as sea-foam, all pale and blue and happy, youth itself. It must be a joy to pray in. The crowd was too thick and Armagan too visibly patient for much contemplation. He took me to the archaeological museum, where there is a wondrous bounty of sarcophagi. The day was glorious. Armagan took me to his favorite kebab restaurant.

He mentioned Hussein, from whom I, after being delivered by Armagan on Sunday, had bought carpets, wanted to have wine with me. “Fine,” says I, thinking it some sort of tradition, “but I don’t want him to try to sell me any more rugs.” We did have wine, and I heard about his wife’s cancer treatments. And then, lo and behold, he tried to sell me another rug. I was polite as long as I could be, polite to the end, I think, but I did stalk out leaving the wine undrunk and Armagan walking the street beside me,  trying to make a date for the next day. “I enjoy your society,” he says. Does he? It’s hard to see our relationship thus far as much more than a prelude to exposure to Hussein, whom A describes as “his friend,” but who is probably a patron or a kind of godfather. I turned these things over in my mind as I prepared for what turned out to be an oddly un-relaxing Turkish bath.

I went out in the evening. When I step out the hotel door I’m accosted by Osman, who quizzes me on where I’m going and with whom. I answer, thinking it’s kind of sweet, and he warns me against the dangers of the street. I tell him where I’m going and he wrinkles his brow, assessing, finally giving grudging assent. Am I his little brother? His mark? A random target for his overflowing energies? Istanbul is a curious place. The people are far more open then the Maltese, far friendlier, but the intricacies of the relationships built even in a day here are too complicated for me– in fact, byzantine.

Last night I walked out and was for the first time on my own. Walked the streets past Ayasophia, took in the sights. I looked at a young man, because he was so strikingly beautiful and it could not be helped. He looked back and called to me. He tried to guess where I was from and settled on Canada. Angelus is from Cyprus, half Greek and half Turkish. His beauty was incandescent, almost ludicrous. Angelus is 22. He asked what I was doing, and when I told him (essentially “nothing”) he said that I should go to a club with him and pick up some Turkish girls. Laughing inside, I said, “sure.” We went to his hotel so he could get something. Angelus did not want to go to a club and pick up Turkish girls, at least not at the moment. I was grateful. Happy and grateful. Satisfied and happy and grateful. But I told God, “Nice try, but if you think this makes up for the Troy photos, you’re wrong.”

Caught myself walking down the night streets of Istanbul singing “For He’s Going to Marry Yum-Yum.”