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The Son of the Carpet Merchant During the course of a trip that my wife and I took to Istanbul a couple of decades ago, we were "adopted" by a very young street hustler who appointed himself our guide to the city and its charms. We were quite happy with the arrangement, one that in many wa...

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The Son of the Carpet Merchant Andrew Calimach

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The Son of the Carpet Merchant During the course of a trip that my wife and I took to Istanbul a couple of decades ago, we were "adopted" by a very young street hustler who appointed himself our guide to the city and its charms. We were quite happy with the arrangement, one that in many ways worked out to everyone's satisfaction — until it didn't. As a wiser head might have foreseen, a mixed bag of unpredictable adventures ensued, escapades that could have been lifted out of a tale from the "One Thousand Nights and a Night." Even were they inscribed with needles at the limits of sight, they would still be a lesson for whoever would take heed. Entrusting your foreign vacation plans to a young teenage boy is not all that different from letting him take the controls of a jetliner. At best you are in for a very rough ride! Suffice it to say that while Turkey may well be in Europe, Europe is most definitely not in Turkey. I wrote this story in spring of 2020, when death lurked everywhere and one false move could mean a grisly end. My work would take me out everyday into the emptied-out city, and I got accustomed to living with danger. One day it struck me that I should set these experiences down on paper, since the risk of writing a story such as this, where I speak that which most people leave unspoken, paled before the risk of daily existence. Why stumble over a story of forbidden sentiments, when every day we danced with death? I took great pains to describe events, and emotions, and thought processes as precisely as possible, without any watering-down or veiling. It brought to the fore to what extent social life and inner life is woven of white and black lies, and it required effort, and discipline, and letting go. It is fashionable these days to say that writers “speak truth to power.” That is not exactly accurate. What writers actually do is to speak truth to liars. You know who you are.

It is late autumn of 1995. I escape the suffocating daily grind of gray, grimy Bucharest to unwind for a week in sunny laid-back Istanbul. Nina, my wife, accompanies me. We have our similarities and our differences. We are both somewhat old-fashioned. We both enjoy slow-paced, uneventful trips, un-modern places, un-luxurious hotels. And Nina is old-fashioned enough to indulge my fascination with boys. A predilection of mine that is itself rather old-fashioned.

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It is our first time in Istanbul, and I confess that I am curious to see how boys are treated here. I know that the Turks are different in many ways. For example, I have been told that I can not leave Nina alone in public, it will scandalize the locals to see an unaccompanied woman on the street. And I know too that in Romanian the everyday word for “boy,” a loan-word from when the Turks invaded the land, is “pushti”. It comes from the Turkish word for “rear end,” to put it politely. I find myself hoping that the Turks have mended their ways in the intervening centuries. We take lodgings in a small private hotel in the old part of town, where the muezzin’s call to prayer floats through the open windows at dawn. The hotel keeper, a taciturn, sharp eyed fellow, points us to our room one flight up, right at the head of the stairs. Through the thin door we can hear everything going on in the lobby, but that only adds to the charm of the place. Beside, there are not many guests, hardly anyone goes in or out. The neighborhood is thick with ancient storefronts overflowing with oriental carpets in rich earthen colors, or tacky souvenirs, or honeyed Middle Eastern delicacies. Tea boys run trays filled with steaming hourglass-shaped glasses from shop to shop, street hawkers peddle their wares with their sons in tow, and shoeshine boys point down at your shoes, accusing, “They are dirty!” It feels like a medieval bazaar. It is a medieval bazaar. Just down the road rises the elegant dome of the old Queen’s Hammam, transformed into an oriental carpet gallery. Nina and I wander around and inhale the exotic atmosphere. We dally in the small shops where we are invited to lounge and debate politics with the endlessly sociable carpet-sellers over cups of elma chai, an aromatic apple tea, and where we can not resist buying a carpet or two to take home. For the rest of our stay these carpet-sellers will invariably smile and greet us each time we meet, like old friends. Everywhere I see young boys running errands or tending shop. They usually work under the watchful gaze of an older man, whom I take to be the father or an uncle. Packs of chattering young boys run through the streets, dipping and diving through the crowds like flocks of sparrows on some secret mission. The mission becomes apparent when the clouds shake out an unexpected rainshower. As soon as it begins to pour, the boys produce a cluster of umbrellas as if out of thin air, and start hawking them to the increasingly soaked tourists for outrageous prices. We haggle, but the youths drive a hard bargain. Later that afternoon, while Nina’s attention is drawn by a store window filled with colorful fabrics, through the open door I catch sight of two teenage boys, maybe sixteen 2

or seventeen years old. They are standing face to face in the back of the empty shop talking, gazing into each other’s eyes, holding hands. Then one makes to leave, but as they draw further and further apart their hands remain clasped, until their interlaced fingers slowly, reluctantly, slide apart. How eternally human, how natural, how sane, and yet how unimaginable in the “liberated” West where I come from! To think that I have to come all the way to Turkey to see such beauty of emotion, such authentic tender-hearted sentiment. Is it friendship? Is it love? Where do you draw the line? That glimpse alone has made my whole journey worthwhile. After a good few hours of sightseeing, Nina needs to rest. I am just getting started. I can not get enough of this world. I have travelled a great deal, I have seen much of Europe, North America, Central America, but this is the first time I ever had the feeling that I was not in the West any longer. How ironic that I should discover this new world practically on my doorstep, so to speak. I take Nina up to our room, and set off to find an internet cafe to catch up on correspondence. I walk downstairs to the lobby, ask the hotel keeper the way. I walk out hoping to figure out his intricate directions, but not too concerned. The main thing is to be outdoors again, to be free in that exhilarating way one is free when alone in a foreign country. Open to happenstance, inquisitive, carefree, unafraid to make a fool of oneself. If necessary, one can always fall back on the defense of being a stranger in a strange land. I walk down the street a ways and I notice three men sitting on the curb, chatting. I approach them for directions. Irresistibly, my eye is drawn to the youngest one. He is just a boy, maybe fifteen or so, in the bloom of beauty. Lithe, olive-skinned, dark curly hair, chiseled features. My eyes linger on him maybe a second too long, then I pull my gaze away and turn to his older companions to ask if they know the way to the internet cafe. The boy jumps up and volunteers to take me there. I can not believe my luck, but try to not let it show. We go off together, he waits for me while I deal with emails, and then we walk back. His English is very acceptable, and he is a bubbling fountain of information. His name is Jalal, he is from a town called Izmir, his father owns a carpet shop, and he wants to show me the greatest place in town to have dinner. I feel like I have stepped into a tale from the Arabian nights. I tell him that my wife and I were planning to have dinner in an hour, and I walk upstairs to our room hoping against hope to find Jalal that evening. I am not in love, but my heart has joined the game. It does not take much, a thirsty man in the desert runs after every mirage. Upstairs, I tell Nina the 3

good news, we have a young guide! She smiles, and as we walk out the front door of the hotel, there is Jalal, waiting faithfully. Off we go, the three of us, the lady on my right, the lad on my left. I feel just a bit guilty, grateful that Nina is there to provide cover while I delight in the presence of the animated boy. At the restaurant, an open-air terrace with a stage, Jalal is in his element. He explains the unfamiliar dishes, and instructs me how to ask the waiter in Turkish for a backgammon board and for a hookah. I draw deep the apple-flavored smoke through the bubbling pipe, while the stately andante of the lutes drones on and on its hypnotic lullaby, alike to the gait of the long-journeying camel, and the robed dervishes on stage soundlessly spin and spin to the monotone staccato of muffled drums. I watch Nina and Jalal play backgammon, but it is Jalal who fills my eyes. I photograph the two of them absorbed in the game, the lens focused on the high-cheekboned boy, the shadow of a future mustache softly outlined on his upper lip. I am the caliph of Baghdad. The hour grows late but no one is in a hurry, least of all the boy. I muse that “bedtime” must be a Western concept, but say nothing so as not to ruin the magic moment. Nina is a crack backgammon player. Jalal is OK, but she beats him handily. That is a good thing, it gives me more space to be with the boy. If Jalal had beaten her that may have been the end of him. She is patient and kind, but she has her limits and her pride. That becomes clear the next day when all three of us go to the local history museum. There I lose myself in explaining to Jalal what this or that object signifies, until the neglected Nina explodes and storms away. After several minutes’ frantic searching up and down the crowded museum halls Jalal and I despair of finding her and walk out the front door in confusion. There, in front of the museum entrance, stands Nina, puffing vigorously on a cigarette. As if by magic all is forgiven, and we wander away down the boulevard, only to learn from Jalal that he really needs a new pair of jeans. And maybe a shirt. So off to the Mavi Jeans clothing store we all go, where Nina picks out first one thing and then another for Jalal, and I end up spending on the boy quite a bit more money than I intended. Clothes in Istanbul are expensive. Or maybe Jalal did not take us to the cheapest shop in town. It is my turn to feel a bit worn and tired. We leave Jalal laden with an armful of new clothes and return to the hotel. Later that afternoon I ask Nina if she would like to join me for a visit to the hammam. For me it is a must, all my life I have wanted to go to a real 4

hammam. As a boy I would read the ancient stories about old Arabia, and dream about roaming through labyrinthine bazaars and bathing at steamy hammams. Nina is not interested. We would be in separate baths anyway, she on the women’s side and I on the men’s, and mingling undressed with strangers is not a comfortable scenario for her. I am more relieved than disappointed. This afternoon I need the space to let things take their course without having to worry about Nina. I need to be free of that cocoon that insulates you whenever you travel with a friend from home. I walk out of the hotel looking forward to being on my own for a few hours, but find myself face to face with Jalal. It is obvious that he has been lying in wait. “Where are you going???” he insists on knowing. I am somewhat embarrassed, all the more so since I do not want to seem like I have designs on the boy. If I let him know I am on my way to the hammam, it will sound like an underhanded ploy to seduce him. I am well aware that many hammams are notorious for such goings-on. So I explain gently, “I am going some place where you are too young to go.” Jalal is beyond offended. He must know this very instant just what kind of place I am planning to visit. My defenses crumble and I reveal to him I am going to the hammam. “Oh, the hammam! You can be ANY age and go to the hammam! You can be one year old and go to the hammam!” I think to myself, “Perhaps, but not in the company of a stranger.” Yet it is absolutely impossible to resist the double attack, of the boy, and of my own desire to see more of him. I tell him I am headed to the historic Çemberlitaş hammam. Unsurprisingly, he knows exactly where it is. He threads his arm through mine and off we go. Arm in arm with a handsome teenager, walking down an elegant boulevard in Istanbul as if I owned the place, the two of us headed to spend the afternoon at the most famous hammam in town. It is as if I had lived all my life for this moment. We enter the ancient building, I buy two tickets, and we are each handed a neatly folded towel. I peer carefully at the hammam keeper, but he does not bat an eyelash. So far, so good. We are given keys to separate dressing rooms to leave our clothes. We each come out naked but for the small thin towels wrapped around our loins, as is the custom. Jalal leads me into an antechamber, and shows me how to ladle water from an elegantly carved marble basin and pour it over my body. “This is wonderful,” he sighs, as he pours the warm water over his head, grabbing his member through the wet towel. I enjoy the sight of his supple, downy body, “smooth as a gold coin,” as the ancient Greek poem goes, and notice he is already beginning to get a bit of a pot-belly. Jalal then leads 5

me into the main hall, with a raised marble dais in the center, heated from below. We lie upon it, soaking in its gentle warmth, and the tellak, a short, swarthy, burly man neither young nor old, approaches with his scrubbing cloth and bucket of soapy water which he proceeds to foam up. He scrubs me first, and then the boy. I wonder which of the two gives him more pleasure, but he is inscrutable. I enjoy watching him rub down Jalal’s smooth limbs, and think I would not mind doing that myself. We get up to rinse off, and just then two tall blond Scandinavian tourists walk past us. Jalal greets them like a couple of old friends, and they respond in kind. I am taken aback and can’t help feeling a touch jealous. After we rinse off with fresh water from another marble basin we each return to our dressing rooms. I dry off, get dressed leisurely, comb my hair, and then head towards the stairs, only to see Jalal stick his head out the door of his room. I am surprised to notice that after all that time he is still naked but for his towel. “Where are you going?!” he asks in a peeved tone. “Down for some tea.” I say. “Wait for me!” He throws his clothes on in an instant, we walk down the stairs together, and step out into the cool evening air. As we walk down the street Jalal announces he is cold, and asks me to buy him a new sweater. The boy knows me better than I know myself. There is a part of me that delights in caring for him, and he is tapping right into that vein. I almost say yes, but then I catch myself and refuse his request. I have had my fill of spending money on him, but he is relentless. I try to reason with the pushy brat, “Don’t you think you’ve gotten plenty already? Yesterday I bought you clothes, today I took you to the hammam. Enough is enough.” My words fall on deaf ears. Jalal is arguing like a teenager certain he has been cheated of his rightful due. It is an uphill battle to get him to stop haranguing me. “Good thing I gave him no ammunition,” I think to myself. He finally relents, but has one last request: “OK, fine, but tomorrow you have to come with me to my father’s carpet shop.” I am intrigued by the idea of meeting his father and agree to join him the next afternoon, then I return to share Nina’s lair for the night. The following day, our last in Istanbul, I grab my camera to take a few more pictures of Jalal, and tuck a frisbee in my belt so he and I can have a game of toss. Nina would rather rest and pack our bags for the return trip, so I leave her to her own devices. As soon as I step out into the street, Jalal is there. We head to his father’s shop. I am looking forward to striking up a friendship with Mehmet, the boy’s father, but Mehmet, unlike all the other carpet-sellers, is unpleasantly close-mouthed, if not downright surly. After barely 6

acknowledging me he dismissively turns away to deal with other matters. Meanwhile, his son rushes me off to look at carpets rather than make small talk. It dawns on me that this is business as usual for the two of them. Unfortunately their plans do not pan out, as the prices in the store are easily double those in some of the other shops. I refuse to get anything, and head out the door. Undeterred, Jalal tags along. He clearly still hopes to get me to buy one of his father’s carpets. I get the sense that he will be in trouble if he does not make a sale. I invite him to walk with me to the Queen’s Hammam, the carpet gallery, so I can prove to him his prices are too high. We are like two business men. Jalal wants to sell me a carpet, and I want Jalal. So far I am winning and he is losing. We head off down the street, the Queen’s Hammam is a good half mile away. Who knows what new adventures we might discover along the way? By now I feel at ease in this land where I can walk down the street arm in arm with a youth, where I can freely wrap my arm around his shoulder and playfully tousle his hair. I breathe deep of a normality I have sought all my life, to be openly tender with a boy, neither of us afraid or ashamed. As we walk away I hear the sound of footsteps running behind us. Someone calls out. We stop, turn around. Two fellows, one short and skinny, the other tall and fat, catch up to us. Do they have something interesting to offer? I am eager to find out. The short one speaks up, “Do you like to fuck boys?” I stare speechless at the man. “Why were you doing like that?” and he waves his fingers to show the way I had been ruffling Jalal’s hair. “We Turks are doctors when it comes to boys,” he adds. A cutting repartee forms in my mind, to assure the two of them, “Don’t worry, the whole world remembers just what kind of doctoring you Turks administered to the sons of the locals in every country you invaded.” Caution wins out. I stifle my contempt and remain silent. The fat man speaks up, “We know his father. We are going to tell him about this.” I look at the pair for two, maybe three endless seconds. I search for something to say to calm the waters. A thousand thoughts swirl through my head. Anything I say will only make matters worse. Abruptly I turn on my heel and leave without a word, without a look back, abandoning Jalal to his fate. The camera and the frisbee weigh heavy on me. I go directly to the hotel, climb the stairs to the room. Nina is waiting for me. I tell her nothing. I feel empty. I am glad our flight home is at six o’clock the next morning. I no longer want to do anything or see anybody. I visualize Nina dragged into some sordid scandal, her feelings of betrayal, my aura of competence shattered, me publicly paraded 7

as a molester of young boys. The innocence of the facts will make no difference. No one will believe me once they find out I took him to the hammam, no one will believe Jalal’s tearful denials, our guilt would be a foregone conclusion. But it is dinnertime, so we head out through the busy, noisy street to look for a restaurant. It is a relief in a way. I feel like I can lose myself in the crowd, and once again begin to breathe more freely. We walk past the old shops, I look hopefully at the owners for a token of normality, but not a single one of my carpet-seller friends greets me. They all seem to look through me without seeing me. After dinner we return to the neighborhood, but the familiar bustle is gone. The stores are oddly closed, the streets feel oddly empty. I wonder whether I am having delusions of reference. I resign myself to whatever may happen. We reach the hotel, greet the hotel keeper, and climb the stairs to our room. A moment later I hear the front door of the hotel open and close. I hear the loud voices of several men talking with the hotel keeper. I wonder whether I should go downstairs and explain my...