The Istanbul Grift
Dear Everyone,
I’m sitting with Halim on the porch, beside him on a wooden bench. It is night, after dinner, about 9 pm. He has my headlamp proudly on his head. The tap up the street where we get our water has been off for two days, and our water supply has gotten quite low. Tonight it came on again, and he has been working since dinner to get every container full in the dark. Thus the headlamp. Now he is watering the garden and talking with me while the water soaks into the ground. We are talking about different people and which ones are happy all the time. I, according to him, am happy some days and some days not. Some days, he says, I am "very thinking, not happy."
"Sometimes I need to think," I say.
"Why?" he asks. "You not married, not children... why think?"
Apparently, there are only two things that one could possibly be thinking about, and I can't plead either here.
"Some day you like this," he says, scrunching his shoulders down and furrowing his brow. "Very thinking, not good."
To be honest, this conversation starts to irritate me. How do I explain that I need to think about things that come up. Then I start thinking about them... what are they? What will I do when I get home? Will this person email me back in time? Will I have enough money? And so on... and it turns out that really these are not thoughts, they are worries. And all of a sudden, it is not Halim but Jesus sitting beside me: which of you can add a single day to his life by worrying?
Halim switches the headlamp back on, and gets back to the garden. Yesterday there was no water, today there is, and I bet it wasn't him worrying about it that brought it.
***
I arrived back in Faizabad yesterday. It took me a few days to get back from Budapest. I flew to Istanbul and tried to confirm my seat back to Kabul from there, but the person on the phone did not speak English, and when I finally got someone at the airport to help me, I found out they had overbooked the flight. Without me. So I had two days in Istanbul on my own.
The first day was the most interesting. I met a local guy named Oktay at a hostel, and he took me around to his friend's carpet shop. There are a million carpet shops in Istanbul and the owners will hang about on the street, insisting loudly that you come in to see their carpets - "just two minutes, sir. Sir! Two minutes!" - and ten minutes and a cup of apple tea later you might have escaped if you're lucky. This guy was different. His name is "mike" - obviously an American nickname - and he is operating in a completely different realm when it comes to carpets. He deals in carpets from all over: Uzbekistan, Turkistan, turkey, Afghanistan. He sells to international business people with lots of cash; he exports and imports all over the world. He is THE carpet dealer in Istanbul. He is also a collector. His attic looks like it contains all the spoil of central Asia and the Mid-east from the last 300 years, wall hangings, tapestries, lamps, pottery, ceramics, pipes, costumes, hats, and the floor covered in carpets, piled thick with them. He showed me one carpet hanging on the wall.
"Three hundred years old, this carpet."
"Wow."
"Yes. One American offered me 1 million dollars for it. I told him no."
Later he took me down to his carpet showroom and gave me a free lecture on how to choose a carpet.
"What you need is a lighter," he said.
"Pardon?"
"A lighter, with a strong, big fire - not small."
"Right."
He sat in an armchair directing his assistant with invisible signals to proceed with a demonstration, to scrape fluff off various carpets with scissor blades and light it on fire. How it burns shows you what it's made of. Polyester turns to charcoal dust, nylon melts, and pure wool will not burn, just spark and smell like burnt hair. Machine-spun wool has the lanolin taken out of it and the wool "has no life" he said and the carpet is garbage. Only hand-spun wool is any good, because the lanolin in the wool will make the carpet last one hundred years or more.
"It is an investment like this," mike tells me. "It will get even better the more you step on it. A good carpet should make you feel happy."
He tells me about colours.
"This is hard to teach," he sighs. "Look at this carpet. Look at these colours! Where else to find such hideous colours except in this carpet? Nowhere in the world you see such bad colours as this! This green! Have you ever seen this green? AnyWHERE? This carpet makes you nervous just to look at it. If you want to kill your enemy, you do not send a man with a gun to do it, you give him this carpet. After 2 weeks, 3 weeks, he is crazy, he has gone bankrupt!"
The true colours in the quality carpets are incredible. One has a patch of blue shaded so delicately it looks like water rippling. You want to dive in to it. It was hard not to spend hundreds of dollars right then and there. I dragged myself away. I will never look at carpets the same way again. I got his card, in case any of you are starting to dream...
Oktay walked around the city with me, showing me everything. He even bought me lunch, Turkish pizza, which comes on a thin flexible crust and you eat it rolled up. We bought it at a place that the tourists don't come to.
"In touristic place, they give you this, twice this price, and not so fresh!" Oktay said, as I munched appreciatively. I felt like a real insider. You can't pay for this kind of thing; God has to just give it to you.
It was a great day. I decided to cap it off by sitting out by the Blue Mosque and write in my journal as the sun went down, then go to bed. As it turned out my evening was not so calm... for this story I will turn to my journal...
May 15, Istanbul. 8:30pm, Sultanahmet - the blue mosque.
a man in a tan suit, untied black loafers, and handsome features sits on the bench next to mine, lights a cigarette, minds his own thoughts. After a while he asks for the time, in Turkish. I’ve heard this one before: I will say I don't understand, he will look astonished and say that I look Turkish, and then try to sell me something. I shake my head.
"English," I say.
"Sorry," he says. "I ask you for what time is it."
"830."
"You look Turkish," he says. Here it comes, I think. But it doesn't. He seems just to want to chat. His name is Erman. He is 24,just finished university, and he hopes to be a teacher. He is waiting right now for a letter from the government, telling him he has a job, a class to teach. He has a head full of plans: to create a computer program to rival Windows, to create TV talk shows and sell them to Turkish TV. But he is not trying to sell me anything. Weird.
After awhile, he asks if I want to walk with him, maybe get a drink. I’m tempted to say no, to just stick with the plan, go back to the hotel and climb in bed with a good book, and fall asleep. but then every travel writer I’ve ever read, every story I’ve ever heard crowds up in my mind and insists that I take this adventure, go into this unknown with this stranger. Sorry mom.
"One drink," I say.
We walk along and chat about turkey and his life and his family. Most young men live with their parents until they are married, he tells me, but he lives alone, unmarried, even though his parents live in Istanbul as well. He likes his space. I’m not quite sure of him. He’s definitely not dangerous, it's not that. He just seems...what is it? Like he's naive, but invincible and world-wise in his own mind. He tells me never to buy anything in Istanbul without first asking the price. Then we get to the nightclub and he never asks for a menu.
The nightclub is small and dark, full of mirrors and American top-40 music and cigarette smoke. There is a disco ball hanging from the ceiling. Skin-tight girls sway to the music and watch themselves in the mirrors, sneaking peaks around at the men to see if they are looking at them, and of course, they are. The waiters are all swarthy men that look like mobsters with their shirts open like that. We take a corner booth, and Erman asks what I want.
"A beer," I say.
"Why not Turkish wine? Nice, not very alcoholic?"
"Ok, you're buying," I say. You see that, right there, is me making an assumption: he knows what he's doing. And that, right there, is me making a mistake.
The wine comes in what looks like small champagne bottles in a bucket of ice. The waiters pop the corks. It tastes like tonic water, but not as good, and I don't like tonic water. Europeans do, though, and I drank loads of it in Budapest. So it's not impressive, but it's definitely not very alcoholic either, so I’m not going to get hosed here and lose my wallet. Right then two of the mirror-dancing girls come up and slide in beside us.
"I’m Nadia," says the sturdy blonde one now sitting too close to me. She says it with a very thick Russian accent, which might have been charming if her face wasn't so close, and if Katie had not already charmed me completely long ago. I adopt a closed body position, and start talking, to give her the tip off.
"I’m Ryan. I just got back from Budapest. I was visiting my GIRLFRIEND. It was great. I loved it."
"I am from Russia." Really?
"What do you do, Nadia, are you a student here?"
"I work here."
"Here? In this place?"
"Yes. Cheers!" Erman, the young swish, has bought them Turkish wine as well.
"Um... what is your job?"
"I am...what do I say? I am a... companion. For men." She smiles.
Right. Time to go. I nudge Erman.
"Let’s go."
"Yes, I think so too." He calls for the check and the badness starts. It’s 450 000 000 Turkish lira. It takes me a minute to calculate: the bill is more than 300 USD; each one of those little champagne bottles full of bad tonic water was 75 American dollars! I look at Erman. He looks worried. It’s not a good sign. He calls the waiter, the waiter calls the manager, and the manager comes and sits down, apprises the situation, and starts yelling at us.
"WHAT IS THIS PROBLEM? THIS IS NOT MY PROBLEM! WHAT YOU DO? WHAT YOU THINKING? YOU COME HERE, YOU ORDER DRINKS, AND YOU CANNOT PAY? WHAT DO I DO, YOU THINK? YOU THINK I PAY FROM POCKET, THESE DRINKS? I AM WORKING MAN! NO! I WORK ALL WEEK TO MAKE THIS MONEY! THIS IS YOUR FAULT! YOU PAY NOW!"
and all of a sudden I get it: I am in a foreign country, with a guy I just met, where I don't know the laws or the procedures or what this big yelling man will do if we actually can't pay. I can feel the adrenaline twitching my fingertips. I feel something I haven't felt in a long time. It is deep and primal and uncontrollable. I feel afraid. Really, really afraid.
The manager makes us turn out our wallets. Not even 50 bucks between us. Then he sees my visa card.
"You can pay with visa card." the manager says. This is not what I want. I want Erman to pony up and say he has a way out of this. I don't want to be that way, not me or my visa card. This is his country, his idea, I mean, come on man!
"It’s too much," I say to Erman. I start to panic a bit. "You brought me here, didn't you know how much it cost? Do something!"
"Ryan, I am very sorry, very sorry. This situation is my fault. I am sorry." he is starting to break down. I get a hold of myself. We can't both lose it here.
"Ok. Ok. How can you get money?" I ask him.
He thinks. "I will call my father," he says. The waiter takes him. The manager stays right where he is, he even lights a cigarette. Erman returns. "Ok, my father is very angry, but he has 240 000 000." There is a pause. "I must go now with the waiter, in a car, a taxi, and go to my father's house to get them money. Only ten minutes I am gone. I will leave you my jacket." The thought that this is all just an elaborate con job jumps up front and centre from where I’ve been pushing it away. At this moment, it's all I can think of. If he goes away, if he doesn't come back, they know I have a visa. I will have to pay the whole thing. My head churns. On the other hand, if he DOESN'T go, we have no money and they'll make me pay the whole thing anyway.
"Ok." I look him straight in the eyes. "Erman. if you run away...if you don't come back, you know they will make me pay for all of this, and you brought me here, you said you were paying... that would be a really bad thing for you to do."
"Ryan, you must trust me. I will leave my jacket. I will come back in only ten minutes. I will make you trust me." He is very earnest. I am very nervous.
"Ok."
"Trust God first, then yourself, then me," he whispers at me, then he is gone.
I look at the manager. I am his hostage with nothing but a thin suit jacket and a whisper of trust to guarantee my release. It’s pretty thin hope, and the jacket isn't worth even half that bill. Trust God first, he said. Ok. I lean back, and start praying, in tongues, under my breath. Even if you don't believe in praying, or tongues, I advise doing this. It’s far superior to thinking in such a situation; even if you could think, everything you thought would scare you. The manager asks me if I want tea. I gape at him. "On the house," he says. Oh. I watch my hand shake as a lift the glass.
Nadia and the other girl have sidled away to a table full of girls, who shark around periodically for new prey between mirror dances and cigarettes. They all work here, I realize. You come in, they join you, chat you up, and you buy more drinks. They must have seen that we were high rollers, ordering the expensive stuff and come like flies to honey. This whole place has become sinister. All the men in here are bouncers, all the girls are... companions. Every one stalks.
I look at my watch. I can't remember when Erman left. I can't even figure out what time it is NOW. Sometime after ten, I think. I keep praying. After a short eternity, Erman comes back. He has the money. The manager counts it. We are still short 215 million. He looks at me. I know what he's thinking.
"Now you pay for you," he says. I look at Erman.
"The only way we can leave is if I pay, right?"
"This is all my fault, all my fault, I’m sorry, Ryan, I’m sorry." his fingers are nervous things, worrying his hair. If he's scamming me, he deserves an Oscar for this performance.
"Ok, look. Erman! I forgive you, but right now I need to know: can you get any more money or do I have to pay this?"
"You forgive me, but I do not forgive myself. I did this to you..."
"Erman! Tell me!"
"There is no more money."
"Ok." Suddenly I feel the calm that comes from being resigned to my fate. My bank account is going to be almost 200 dollars emptier, but we'll get to leave. Might as well try to get a deal; I’m in central Asia after all. I look at the manager. "How about 200 million?" I say. It’s a nice round number. He sizes me up, then shrugs.
"Ok. 200 million. I give you discount."
We are amiable as he walks me to the bank machine. He says he is sorry, but what can he do? I slap his back and say I am new here, what can I do? He laughs and shrugs. The camaraderie is weird enough to take my mind off my shaking knees. I take out the money and we walk back to the table. There is an unspoken agreement that I will not just give him the money on the street. We count it out. 200 million.
"Finished?" I ask him.
"Finished. You like more tea? From me," he says. "Turkish hospitality." Actually, funny enough, but I just want to leave. Ah, but you see, the tea is already here. So we have tea, Erman and I. He insists that I give him my address in Canada.
"After one month, two months, I will send you this money. I am a responsible person, I will show you."
I guess I could think that he was a con man, that it was all an act. I’m sure someone made some extra money tonight, and maybe he was in on it, but if he wasn't... I understand that he needs to do this, that this will make him the man he wants to be, responsible, dealing with his own mistakes. And that kind of man I can stand with, so I nod and allow him to be that.
"I will expect it to come, Erman."
I hug him when we part.
"At least I will never forget Istanbul," I say. "God go with you, Erman."
"God guide you," he replies.
Earlier that evening, we had talked about the wars that are fought between Christians and Muslims. Look at us, he said, I am Muslim, you are Christian, and we are walking together, we are not fighting. Why do they fight? It is bullshit."
So we parted. A Muslim who had either made himself more of a man or a lot of money, and the Christian who decided to trust him, against the odds. But the one thing we didn't do was fight. I imagine the God who watched it all, who was there with us, was pleased about that.
The next day the plane came, and then I was back in Afghanistan. Two days later I am sitting on the porch with Halim, beside him on a wooden bench. It is night, after 9 pm...
Love you all,
rjs
I’m sitting with Halim on the porch, beside him on a wooden bench. It is night, after dinner, about 9 pm. He has my headlamp proudly on his head. The tap up the street where we get our water has been off for two days, and our water supply has gotten quite low. Tonight it came on again, and he has been working since dinner to get every container full in the dark. Thus the headlamp. Now he is watering the garden and talking with me while the water soaks into the ground. We are talking about different people and which ones are happy all the time. I, according to him, am happy some days and some days not. Some days, he says, I am "very thinking, not happy."
"Sometimes I need to think," I say.
"Why?" he asks. "You not married, not children... why think?"
Apparently, there are only two things that one could possibly be thinking about, and I can't plead either here.
"Some day you like this," he says, scrunching his shoulders down and furrowing his brow. "Very thinking, not good."
To be honest, this conversation starts to irritate me. How do I explain that I need to think about things that come up. Then I start thinking about them... what are they? What will I do when I get home? Will this person email me back in time? Will I have enough money? And so on... and it turns out that really these are not thoughts, they are worries. And all of a sudden, it is not Halim but Jesus sitting beside me: which of you can add a single day to his life by worrying?
Halim switches the headlamp back on, and gets back to the garden. Yesterday there was no water, today there is, and I bet it wasn't him worrying about it that brought it.
***
I arrived back in Faizabad yesterday. It took me a few days to get back from Budapest. I flew to Istanbul and tried to confirm my seat back to Kabul from there, but the person on the phone did not speak English, and when I finally got someone at the airport to help me, I found out they had overbooked the flight. Without me. So I had two days in Istanbul on my own.
The first day was the most interesting. I met a local guy named Oktay at a hostel, and he took me around to his friend's carpet shop. There are a million carpet shops in Istanbul and the owners will hang about on the street, insisting loudly that you come in to see their carpets - "just two minutes, sir. Sir! Two minutes!" - and ten minutes and a cup of apple tea later you might have escaped if you're lucky. This guy was different. His name is "mike" - obviously an American nickname - and he is operating in a completely different realm when it comes to carpets. He deals in carpets from all over: Uzbekistan, Turkistan, turkey, Afghanistan. He sells to international business people with lots of cash; he exports and imports all over the world. He is THE carpet dealer in Istanbul. He is also a collector. His attic looks like it contains all the spoil of central Asia and the Mid-east from the last 300 years, wall hangings, tapestries, lamps, pottery, ceramics, pipes, costumes, hats, and the floor covered in carpets, piled thick with them. He showed me one carpet hanging on the wall.
"Three hundred years old, this carpet."
"Wow."
"Yes. One American offered me 1 million dollars for it. I told him no."
Later he took me down to his carpet showroom and gave me a free lecture on how to choose a carpet.
"What you need is a lighter," he said.
"Pardon?"
"A lighter, with a strong, big fire - not small."
"Right."
He sat in an armchair directing his assistant with invisible signals to proceed with a demonstration, to scrape fluff off various carpets with scissor blades and light it on fire. How it burns shows you what it's made of. Polyester turns to charcoal dust, nylon melts, and pure wool will not burn, just spark and smell like burnt hair. Machine-spun wool has the lanolin taken out of it and the wool "has no life" he said and the carpet is garbage. Only hand-spun wool is any good, because the lanolin in the wool will make the carpet last one hundred years or more.
"It is an investment like this," mike tells me. "It will get even better the more you step on it. A good carpet should make you feel happy."
He tells me about colours.
"This is hard to teach," he sighs. "Look at this carpet. Look at these colours! Where else to find such hideous colours except in this carpet? Nowhere in the world you see such bad colours as this! This green! Have you ever seen this green? AnyWHERE? This carpet makes you nervous just to look at it. If you want to kill your enemy, you do not send a man with a gun to do it, you give him this carpet. After 2 weeks, 3 weeks, he is crazy, he has gone bankrupt!"
The true colours in the quality carpets are incredible. One has a patch of blue shaded so delicately it looks like water rippling. You want to dive in to it. It was hard not to spend hundreds of dollars right then and there. I dragged myself away. I will never look at carpets the same way again. I got his card, in case any of you are starting to dream...
Oktay walked around the city with me, showing me everything. He even bought me lunch, Turkish pizza, which comes on a thin flexible crust and you eat it rolled up. We bought it at a place that the tourists don't come to.
"In touristic place, they give you this, twice this price, and not so fresh!" Oktay said, as I munched appreciatively. I felt like a real insider. You can't pay for this kind of thing; God has to just give it to you.
It was a great day. I decided to cap it off by sitting out by the Blue Mosque and write in my journal as the sun went down, then go to bed. As it turned out my evening was not so calm... for this story I will turn to my journal...
May 15, Istanbul. 8:30pm, Sultanahmet - the blue mosque.
a man in a tan suit, untied black loafers, and handsome features sits on the bench next to mine, lights a cigarette, minds his own thoughts. After a while he asks for the time, in Turkish. I’ve heard this one before: I will say I don't understand, he will look astonished and say that I look Turkish, and then try to sell me something. I shake my head.
"English," I say.
"Sorry," he says. "I ask you for what time is it."
"830."
"You look Turkish," he says. Here it comes, I think. But it doesn't. He seems just to want to chat. His name is Erman. He is 24,just finished university, and he hopes to be a teacher. He is waiting right now for a letter from the government, telling him he has a job, a class to teach. He has a head full of plans: to create a computer program to rival Windows, to create TV talk shows and sell them to Turkish TV. But he is not trying to sell me anything. Weird.
After awhile, he asks if I want to walk with him, maybe get a drink. I’m tempted to say no, to just stick with the plan, go back to the hotel and climb in bed with a good book, and fall asleep. but then every travel writer I’ve ever read, every story I’ve ever heard crowds up in my mind and insists that I take this adventure, go into this unknown with this stranger. Sorry mom.
"One drink," I say.
We walk along and chat about turkey and his life and his family. Most young men live with their parents until they are married, he tells me, but he lives alone, unmarried, even though his parents live in Istanbul as well. He likes his space. I’m not quite sure of him. He’s definitely not dangerous, it's not that. He just seems...what is it? Like he's naive, but invincible and world-wise in his own mind. He tells me never to buy anything in Istanbul without first asking the price. Then we get to the nightclub and he never asks for a menu.
The nightclub is small and dark, full of mirrors and American top-40 music and cigarette smoke. There is a disco ball hanging from the ceiling. Skin-tight girls sway to the music and watch themselves in the mirrors, sneaking peaks around at the men to see if they are looking at them, and of course, they are. The waiters are all swarthy men that look like mobsters with their shirts open like that. We take a corner booth, and Erman asks what I want.
"A beer," I say.
"Why not Turkish wine? Nice, not very alcoholic?"
"Ok, you're buying," I say. You see that, right there, is me making an assumption: he knows what he's doing. And that, right there, is me making a mistake.
The wine comes in what looks like small champagne bottles in a bucket of ice. The waiters pop the corks. It tastes like tonic water, but not as good, and I don't like tonic water. Europeans do, though, and I drank loads of it in Budapest. So it's not impressive, but it's definitely not very alcoholic either, so I’m not going to get hosed here and lose my wallet. Right then two of the mirror-dancing girls come up and slide in beside us.
"I’m Nadia," says the sturdy blonde one now sitting too close to me. She says it with a very thick Russian accent, which might have been charming if her face wasn't so close, and if Katie had not already charmed me completely long ago. I adopt a closed body position, and start talking, to give her the tip off.
"I’m Ryan. I just got back from Budapest. I was visiting my GIRLFRIEND. It was great. I loved it."
"I am from Russia." Really?
"What do you do, Nadia, are you a student here?"
"I work here."
"Here? In this place?"
"Yes. Cheers!" Erman, the young swish, has bought them Turkish wine as well.
"Um... what is your job?"
"I am...what do I say? I am a... companion. For men." She smiles.
Right. Time to go. I nudge Erman.
"Let’s go."
"Yes, I think so too." He calls for the check and the badness starts. It’s 450 000 000 Turkish lira. It takes me a minute to calculate: the bill is more than 300 USD; each one of those little champagne bottles full of bad tonic water was 75 American dollars! I look at Erman. He looks worried. It’s not a good sign. He calls the waiter, the waiter calls the manager, and the manager comes and sits down, apprises the situation, and starts yelling at us.
"WHAT IS THIS PROBLEM? THIS IS NOT MY PROBLEM! WHAT YOU DO? WHAT YOU THINKING? YOU COME HERE, YOU ORDER DRINKS, AND YOU CANNOT PAY? WHAT DO I DO, YOU THINK? YOU THINK I PAY FROM POCKET, THESE DRINKS? I AM WORKING MAN! NO! I WORK ALL WEEK TO MAKE THIS MONEY! THIS IS YOUR FAULT! YOU PAY NOW!"
and all of a sudden I get it: I am in a foreign country, with a guy I just met, where I don't know the laws or the procedures or what this big yelling man will do if we actually can't pay. I can feel the adrenaline twitching my fingertips. I feel something I haven't felt in a long time. It is deep and primal and uncontrollable. I feel afraid. Really, really afraid.
The manager makes us turn out our wallets. Not even 50 bucks between us. Then he sees my visa card.
"You can pay with visa card." the manager says. This is not what I want. I want Erman to pony up and say he has a way out of this. I don't want to be that way, not me or my visa card. This is his country, his idea, I mean, come on man!
"It’s too much," I say to Erman. I start to panic a bit. "You brought me here, didn't you know how much it cost? Do something!"
"Ryan, I am very sorry, very sorry. This situation is my fault. I am sorry." he is starting to break down. I get a hold of myself. We can't both lose it here.
"Ok. Ok. How can you get money?" I ask him.
He thinks. "I will call my father," he says. The waiter takes him. The manager stays right where he is, he even lights a cigarette. Erman returns. "Ok, my father is very angry, but he has 240 000 000." There is a pause. "I must go now with the waiter, in a car, a taxi, and go to my father's house to get them money. Only ten minutes I am gone. I will leave you my jacket." The thought that this is all just an elaborate con job jumps up front and centre from where I’ve been pushing it away. At this moment, it's all I can think of. If he goes away, if he doesn't come back, they know I have a visa. I will have to pay the whole thing. My head churns. On the other hand, if he DOESN'T go, we have no money and they'll make me pay the whole thing anyway.
"Ok." I look him straight in the eyes. "Erman. if you run away...if you don't come back, you know they will make me pay for all of this, and you brought me here, you said you were paying... that would be a really bad thing for you to do."
"Ryan, you must trust me. I will leave my jacket. I will come back in only ten minutes. I will make you trust me." He is very earnest. I am very nervous.
"Ok."
"Trust God first, then yourself, then me," he whispers at me, then he is gone.
I look at the manager. I am his hostage with nothing but a thin suit jacket and a whisper of trust to guarantee my release. It’s pretty thin hope, and the jacket isn't worth even half that bill. Trust God first, he said. Ok. I lean back, and start praying, in tongues, under my breath. Even if you don't believe in praying, or tongues, I advise doing this. It’s far superior to thinking in such a situation; even if you could think, everything you thought would scare you. The manager asks me if I want tea. I gape at him. "On the house," he says. Oh. I watch my hand shake as a lift the glass.
Nadia and the other girl have sidled away to a table full of girls, who shark around periodically for new prey between mirror dances and cigarettes. They all work here, I realize. You come in, they join you, chat you up, and you buy more drinks. They must have seen that we were high rollers, ordering the expensive stuff and come like flies to honey. This whole place has become sinister. All the men in here are bouncers, all the girls are... companions. Every one stalks.
I look at my watch. I can't remember when Erman left. I can't even figure out what time it is NOW. Sometime after ten, I think. I keep praying. After a short eternity, Erman comes back. He has the money. The manager counts it. We are still short 215 million. He looks at me. I know what he's thinking.
"Now you pay for you," he says. I look at Erman.
"The only way we can leave is if I pay, right?"
"This is all my fault, all my fault, I’m sorry, Ryan, I’m sorry." his fingers are nervous things, worrying his hair. If he's scamming me, he deserves an Oscar for this performance.
"Ok, look. Erman! I forgive you, but right now I need to know: can you get any more money or do I have to pay this?"
"You forgive me, but I do not forgive myself. I did this to you..."
"Erman! Tell me!"
"There is no more money."
"Ok." Suddenly I feel the calm that comes from being resigned to my fate. My bank account is going to be almost 200 dollars emptier, but we'll get to leave. Might as well try to get a deal; I’m in central Asia after all. I look at the manager. "How about 200 million?" I say. It’s a nice round number. He sizes me up, then shrugs.
"Ok. 200 million. I give you discount."
We are amiable as he walks me to the bank machine. He says he is sorry, but what can he do? I slap his back and say I am new here, what can I do? He laughs and shrugs. The camaraderie is weird enough to take my mind off my shaking knees. I take out the money and we walk back to the table. There is an unspoken agreement that I will not just give him the money on the street. We count it out. 200 million.
"Finished?" I ask him.
"Finished. You like more tea? From me," he says. "Turkish hospitality." Actually, funny enough, but I just want to leave. Ah, but you see, the tea is already here. So we have tea, Erman and I. He insists that I give him my address in Canada.
"After one month, two months, I will send you this money. I am a responsible person, I will show you."
I guess I could think that he was a con man, that it was all an act. I’m sure someone made some extra money tonight, and maybe he was in on it, but if he wasn't... I understand that he needs to do this, that this will make him the man he wants to be, responsible, dealing with his own mistakes. And that kind of man I can stand with, so I nod and allow him to be that.
"I will expect it to come, Erman."
I hug him when we part.
"At least I will never forget Istanbul," I say. "God go with you, Erman."
"God guide you," he replies.
Earlier that evening, we had talked about the wars that are fought between Christians and Muslims. Look at us, he said, I am Muslim, you are Christian, and we are walking together, we are not fighting. Why do they fight? It is bullshit."
So we parted. A Muslim who had either made himself more of a man or a lot of money, and the Christian who decided to trust him, against the odds. But the one thing we didn't do was fight. I imagine the God who watched it all, who was there with us, was pleased about that.
The next day the plane came, and then I was back in Afghanistan. Two days later I am sitting on the porch with Halim, beside him on a wooden bench. It is night, after 9 pm...
Love you all,
rjs
posted by rjs | 4:12 PM
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