Authors: Ian Mcdonald
The Dervish House (26 page)
The meal is served in a long, elegantly minimal dining room. One wall is smoky glass that softens the lights of the Marmara shores to glow-worms, the other is worked from the raw rock of the island. Ayşe runs her finger surreptitiously along the grain of the table. It confirms the evidence of her eyes and nose; the table is one single piece of Lebanese cedar. Glass mosque lamps hang overhead; at first the arrangement seems uncharacteristically design-free, then Ayşe’s long unravelling of the meanings hidden within elaborate Arabic scripts unlocks the concealed pattern. The arrangement of oil-flames mirrors the spring constellations.
The seating plan has placed her as far as etiquette will permit from Adnan. Ferid Adataş presides at one end of the table, Ayşe to his left. Opposite her, Mrs Çiller, the general’s wife. She has wide country hands and a wise light in her eyes. Ayşe thinks she will like her. To Ayşe’s left is Ertem Bey, himself a well-regarded reviewer and poet. Onwards, clockwise around the cedar rectangle; the elegant and disdainful Mrs Güney, then General Çiller himself.
What is it about the military
, Ayşe thinks,
that they can carry the stiffest of uniforms with grace and bearing but when they are put in a suit, no matter how well cut, they rumple up and crease?
Süreyya Hanım, all charm and skill, is at the opposite end of the table from her husband. To her left, across the long diagonal from Ayşe, is Adnan. To his left, the professor. Beside Professor Budak is Munir from the EU Commission, and back to Ferid Bey’s coterie of ladies. Eurocracy, military, liberal arts and an unapologetic capitalist.
What is it about the military
, Ayşe thinks,
that they can carry the stiffest of uniforms with grace and bearing but when they are put in a suit, no matter how well cut, they rumple up and crease?
Süreyya Hanım, all charm and skill, is at the opposite end of the table from her husband. To her left, across the long diagonal from Ayşe, is Adnan. To his left, the professor. Beside Professor Budak is Munir from the EU Commission, and back to Ferid Bey’s coterie of ladies. Eurocracy, military, liberal arts and an unapologetic capitalist.
Ayşe twists her water glass ninety degrees. Adnan doesn’t miss a beat as he charms hostess and general but she knows he saw it. Just testing. She had devised the code with just such a seating plan in mind. She had rehearsed Adnan on the boat over. Glass, earlobe stroke, ring twist, necklace touch, ear-ring flick.
‘And this one?’ A finger touched almost absent-mindedly to pursed lips.
‘Shut the fuck up right now.’
‘I must admire your jewellery, Mrs Erkoç,’ Ferid says. ‘Is that a Greek cross?’
‘It’s Armenian, twelfth century,’ Ayşe says. Mr Güney and Mr Budak sit upright, sharp as meerkats, their political sensibilities alerted. ‘Probably from the workshop of the Church of St Hripsime.’
‘It’s very lovely,’ says Mrs Budak. ‘I do so love old, traditional pieces. How did you come by it? I never have any luck with things like that. They have either long gone by the time I get to them or they’re Bulgarian or Kurdish fakes.’
‘A good place to start is with the grape bunches at the base of the cross.’ Ayşe leans forward. ‘See? There should be six on one bunch, five in the other; for Christ’s Apostles, minus Judas the Betrayer. The points will always end in three loops, for the Holy Trinity, so they say, though it has much older roots than that, all the way back to old solar religions, when these were sun discs. If it doesn’t have those, then it certainly is a fake. Then again, I do have an unfair advantage when it comes to pieces; I own a gallery.’
‘What, antiques?’ says Güney.
‘No,’ says Ayşe carefully. ‘A gallery. I specialize in religious art; miniatures and calligraphy mostly, but it’s hard to resist a good cross when it comes, and they don’t come half as often as I’d like.’
‘Well, if that cross is anything to go by, I shall certainly come to call on you,’ Mrs Çiller says.
The first course is served. It’s small and exquisite as brooches. Ferid Bey leans confidentially over his plate. He’s a toucher; his fingers rest lightly on Ayşe’s wrist. ‘What Tayyibe doesn’t say is that she deals in religious curios herself.’
They’re not curios
, Ayşe is about to say,
they’re the words and aspects of God
, but Mrs Çiller breaks in with an exasperated, ‘Oh Ferid!’
, Ayşe is about to say,
they’re the words and aspects of God
, but Mrs Çiller breaks in with an exasperated, ‘Oh Ferid!’
Mrs Çiller raps the back of Ferid Adataş’s hand with a spoon. ‘We’re moving into property, is all. Buying those new apartments in Mecca. It’s a boom business; you wouldn’t believe the number of people who want to retire to a quiet and pious life with a balcony view of the Grand Mosque. We can’t keep up with demand.’
After the plates are removed by the silent and swift waiting staff, General Çiller leans forward and says across the table to Güney, ‘What’s this I’m reading in
Hürriyet
about Strasbourg breaking up the nation?’
Hürriyet
about Strasbourg breaking up the nation?’
‘It’s not breaking up the nation. It’s a French motion to implement European Regional Directive 8182 which calls for a Kurdish Regional Parliament.’
‘And that’s not breaking up the nation?’ General Çiller throws up his hands in exasperation. He’s a big, square man, the model of the military, but he moves freely and lightly ‘The French prancing all over the legacy of Atatürk? What do you think, Mr Sarioğlu?’
The trap could not be any more obvious but Ayşe sees Adnan straighten his tie, the code for,
Trust me, I know what I’m doing,
Trust me, I know what I’m doing,
‘What I think about the legacy of Atatürk, General? Let it go. I don’t care. The age of Atatürk is over.’
Guests stiffen around the table, breath subtly indrawn; social gasps. This is heresy. People have been shot down in the streets of Istanbul for less. Adnan commands every eye.
‘Atatürk was father of the nation, unquestionably. No Atatürk, no Turkey. But, at some point every child has to leave his father. You have to stand on your own two feet and find out if you’re a man. We’re like kids that go on about how great their dads are; my dad’s the strongest, the best wrestler, the fastest driver, the biggest moustache. And when someone squares up to us, or calls us a name or even looks at us squinty, we run back shouting ‘I’ll get my dad, I’ll get my dad!’ At some point; we have to grow up. If you’ll pardon the expression, the balls have to drop. We talk the talk mighty fine: great nation, proud people, global union of the noble Turkic races, all that stuff. There’s no one like us for talking ourselves up. And then the EU says, All right, prove it. The door’s open, in you come; sit down, be one of us. Move out of the family home; move in with the other guys. Step out from the shadow of the Father of the Nation.
‘And do you know what the European Union shows us about ourselves? We’re all those things we say we are. They weren’t lies, they weren’t boasts. We’re good. We’re big. We’re a powerhouse. We’ve got an economy that goes all the way to the South China Sea. We’ve got energy and ideas and talent - look at the stuff that’s coming out of those tin-shed business parks in the nano sector and the synthetic biology start-ups. Turkish. All Turkish. That’s the legacy of Atatürk. It doesn’t matter if the Kurds have their own Parliament or the French make everyone stand in Taksim Square and apologize to the Armenians. We’re the legacy of Atatürk. Turkey is the people. Atatürk’s done his job. He can crumble into dust now. The kid’s come right. The kid’s come very right. That’s why I believe the EU’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us because it’s finally taught us how to be Turks.’
General Çiller beats a fist on the table, sending the cutlery leaping.
‘By God, by God; that’s a bold thing to say but you’re exactly right.’
The main course arrives. It is small and dark and sculptural. Adnan catches Ayşe’s eye. She turns a fork upside down.
Don’t push it
. The general and Mrs Adataş have drawn Adnan into an intense debate which consists mostly of Çiller talking fast and low and jabbing a punctuating finger. Mrs Çiller is asking Ayşe about her gallery.
Don’t push it
. The general and Mrs Adataş have drawn Adnan into an intense debate which consists mostly of Çiller talking fast and low and jabbing a punctuating finger. Mrs Çiller is asking Ayşe about her gallery.
‘The gallery is in an old converted tekke in Eskiköy in Beyoğlu. I’m sure there are a few of the old Mevlevis still hanging around, and any amount of djinn. What’s a tekke without a few resident djinn? There’s definitely something about the place, sometimes when I catch sight of the Sephardic Kabbalist pieces out of the corner of my eye I see the text moving around, rearranging itself, rewriting itself. I’m always very reluctant to sell them.’
‘Oh, how can you work there?’ Mrs Çiller says. ‘It would scare the wits out of me.’
Mr Budak cuts in. He is a tight, snippy man who loves an argument.
‘But sell them you do. You’re not a museum, you’re a commercial enterprise.’
‘I have a bespoke network of collectors.’
‘Yes yes yes, I’m sure they’re all the most refined and cultured of connoisseurs, but, ultimately, it’s about treating religious art, sacred writing - precious cultural artefacts to the people who made them - as nothing more than supermarket goods.’
‘There is a huge difference between a Koran cover and a pot of yoghurt.’
‘That’s my point. You see refined connoiseurism, I see cultural appropriation. You say you have Sephardic texts; what gives you the right to sell them? Have you considered the wishes of the Sephardic community, of any of the communities and cultures whose sacred things you sell in your gallery? Have you even thought of asking?’
The table’s attention is all on snippy, hectoring Budak, but Ayşe keeps Professor Budak in her peripheral vision. This is another setup. Ertem Bey goes in with the shock and awe; then Budak Hanım comes after and Haliburtonizes the place.
Budak Hanım says, ‘Historically, under the Ottoman millet system, where each religious and ethnic community was to a certain extent self-governing under the over-arching Sultanate, the idea of ownership, of property was much less clearly defined, isn’t that the case? In local communities, property was based on a sense of utility, not on an absolute market value for a commodity or service, but on its social value, its benefits over its life span to a group. What I believe economists call fundamental value, as opposed to “mark to market”? Isn’t that right Mr Sarioğlu?’
‘I’m a trader, not an economist,’ Adnan says. ‘I don’t talk about money, I’m too busy making it.’
‘Indeed. I’m no economist either. In fact, the point I’m making was that, historically, there was a third way between fundamental value - which can be value to an individual - and mark to market: which we could call the social market; value as a shared asset and as something that binds together and gives identity to a community. So, say a Greek icon, or an Armenian cross, has a social market value which the retail market values simply can’t reflect.’
Careful Adnan
, Ayşe thinks.
I see you bristling to my defence, hero, but I’m not the one under attack here
. Professor Budak is a natural communicator. Her low, quiet-but-carrying, self-deprecating but confident voice has quashed all other conversations. She commands the table. No one notices that the main course has been cleared away and small spoons of refreshing between-course foam have arrived.
, Ayşe thinks.
I see you bristling to my defence, hero, but I’m not the one under attack here
. Professor Budak is a natural communicator. Her low, quiet-but-carrying, self-deprecating but confident voice has quashed all other conversations. She commands the table. No one notices that the main course has been cleared away and small spoons of refreshing between-course foam have arrived.
‘It seems to me that this historic third way, of looking at economics in the social sphere rather than as a mathematical abstraction or a product of individual psychology, may be more fruitful for the real world. After all, a market is ultimately a social construct, isn’t it? I can’t deny the tremendous energy of Western individualism, but it’s not without a price. The shadow of the great crash hangs over our generation, yet here we are in a booming market utilizing even more complex and subtle and interlinked financial instruments. At some point it will inevitably crash again: as weapons of mass destruction go, unrestricted market economies are among the more subtle but sure. I can’t help but think that a socially mediated economy, one that costs-in common value, trust and mutual obligation, might be the model for the twenty-first century. Neither big finance nor small-is-beautiful, but something in between, something human scaled, something like the shared cultural identity and ownership of the Ottoman empire’s many cultures. Value is identity. What do you think, Mr Sarioğlu?’
Ayşe knows that shade of pale in Adnan’s face, the thinning of the lips. She twists her glass.
Be cool, trader
.
Be cool, trader
.
‘What do I think? I’ll tell you what I think. I am the money. As simple as that. I am the money. More money than the entire gross national product of our country passes through my accounts every day. Every single day. More money than you can imagine. Because I’ll tell you a thing about money. When it gets to that level, it stops being just money. It becomes something else. Something bigger, wilder, stronger and more beautiful. A storm of money. A hurricane of money. I don’t own it, I don’t control it, no one can control it, no one can master it. I close my eyes and I step into it and it takes me up and I ride it for a while - for a few moments because no one, no one can take more than few seconds without being cut to pieces - and then I step off again and when I open my hands, I’ve grabbed something out of it. Profit. It’s not a dirty word, it’s the only thing you can take from that storm of money. A single handful. You think I work the markets for that handful, that profit? I do it because it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful and it’s terrifying and it will cut you to pieces but for those few moments that I’m in it; I am the money. So you can talk about your fundamental value and your mark-to-market and your social markets and they mean absolutely nothing because the money doesn’t care. Simple rules, kids’ games - you give me that now, I give you this later - all play off each other and whirl up into something no one can totally grasp and no one can predict and no one can ever, ever hope to control. I think that is magnificent. Money. Raw money. That’s all there is. And you should be glad of people like me and Ferid Bey, because we face that every single day; we put our hands into it and we pull out the stuff that makes your world work. And if it ever stops, if it even slows down, if it ever shines a little less brightly; everything you know will end. So your theories are good and fine but when it all comes down, the money doesn’t care. And I don’t care, because I am the money. I make your world turn. I am the money.’
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