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This story was originally published in Litro Magazine, one of the UK’s leading literary and creative arts magazines.
Below is the full version of the story. Enjoy!
Welcome to Istanbul: Quote
WELCOME TO ISTANBUL. DO NOT BETRAY THE NOISE...
By Javi Reddy
"Shisha?"
"Shisha."
"Başka bir şey?”
"English, please."
"Food?"
"Yes. I'd like a burger. Chicken. Not beef."
"Ok, ok."
"How can you make it spicy for me?”
The waiter's pure hazel eyes gaze blankly at me, padlocked in a silence that feels as though it may stretch out for an eternity. There are two sounds in Istanbul. The noise. And the noise that comes after the noise. There is not meant to be silence in this part of the world.
Welcome to Istanbul: Welcome
Amidst the glorious blaze of watermelon and mint shisha, I adroitly cup my lips over the light blue hookah pipe opening, before releasing a stream of perfect smoke into the hot, sticky air of the cafe. The music beats on hard and implores me to smoke more, whilst making my burger taste better than it actually is. It's not a fillet. And it's hardly spicy. How could it be?
Language- it's different to so many people. Silence- it universally penetrates the ears.
As I sink my teeth into this mundane burger, with its mundane crumbed battering, I sit in my own silence.
Yet the noise rages on, as my outsider scent brings with it tinges of hushed discomfort, that only a non-Istanbulite would bring to these shores. My reservedness becomes contagious to the locals and disrupts the flow of a city that thrives on organised chaos. The soundtrack is skipping. The vinyl momentarily derailing from the needle, as my cloddish fingers slip themselves into pockets of this society. If one’s tongue rolls off the English language; if one hesitates within the bustle of the yellow street cabs and frenzied pedestrians; if one refuses to succumb to the explosively bright market stalls and all their big and hopeful promises; if one tries to evade the deepened scent of old sea bass; or if one refutes the blaring and eternal noise ringing in the ears; then one is to betray this city. I am the one who adds to the silence. I betray.
The waiter clears my plate from the miniature table that has no space for the hookah. As it rests peacefully on the ground, a cat sidles towards me. Her semi-ruffled greyish coat, streaks of black stripes and innocent emerald eyes appear closer and closer as she waits for me to lower my hand with any morsel left from my meal. There are no strays here. The cats live amongst the locals as family. There’s even a profession entitled ‘mancacı’, which translates to catsitter. Istanbul's feline friends are thought to have originated from Egypt, where they were first domesticated. The ancient Egyptians considered cats sacred beings, and in ancient Mesopotamia, they helped to protected crops from rodents. I had tracked many a cat during my time here. The unafraid and almost determined strut towards whichever human they saw fit to share the afternoon with. The confidence of appearing anywhere in public at any time. The purr whenever they receive the affection of the locals. Knowing I can not blend in like them, I drop some Turkish lira on the table and leave with my back firmly turned towards the cafe.
The shisha has not yet clogged my arteries which means I can venture further through Istanbul. I carve out an afternoon stroll near the Bosphorous river and wonder if I may cross over from the Europe end of the city towards the Asia side. My thoughts press hard onto my temples and imprint themselves deep within my mind, as I put one foot down in front of the other. The dilapidated buildings, the ceaseless traffic and the locals splashing down yesterday’s dirt at their store entrances with buckets and hosepipes, all whizz by me. As I move another foot forward, I am now on the Asia side.
Welcome to Istanbul: Text
A bazaar bellows to me, with its exploding, vibrant colours and its exotic nostril-tickles. I feel the afternoon heat on my back, scorching through the wilting cotton of my collared shirt. The hard, uneven ground presses against my leather shoes. I have now betrayed the first rule of travel: dress comfortably. The path, trail or adventure is often anywhere. No matter, I’m sure there’s shisha to be found within. As I saunter within the maze of unexplored stalls, I slip my hands into my pockets, and when the right is far emptier than the left, my heart begins to cannon out my chest.
“My wallet’s gone.”
I say it out aloud to no one in particular and the thought of being pickpocketed before I’ve even entered the bazaar is a failure all unto itself.
My shoulders droop, as my stare fixes into the distance beyond any sight in particular. My ears pull me back as his voice sings to many, but… he is calling out to… me. I know it. I believe it.
“Senden ne bir haber…”
I listen.
“Ne selam gelir oldu.”
I move in closer.
“Yoksa yerim mi doldu?”
He is asking something of me and I oblige by making sure I get to him.
His voice comes from a stall where leather products are being sold. The voice is being belted out from a large speaker near the stall. On the other side of the speaker sits a man, smoking shisha.
“Heelloo” he says in the most refined English he can muster up.
“I…I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I have no money.”
“But you dress nicely. Why, no money?”
“I mean. I don’t have my wallet.”
“So you need a wallet. But you cannot buy one.”
There’s that silence again. Then we both burst out in laughter.
“Where are you from?”
“South Africa.”
“Sud Afrika. Where is that?”
“You know Africa?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“It’s somewhere there.”
He nods politely before exhaling thick grey smoke from the pipe to match his coarse, silver hair and beard.
“You want to smoke?”
He must have caught the yearning in my eyes which I thought I had disguise with a stiff look. Eventually, I take a seat next to him and soon we are puffing smoke towards the onlookers who are making their way through the stalls.
“Can you play that song again?”
“Tarkan. You like him?”
“I’ve just met him.”
He nods politely again and moves into the stall to fidget around. Before I know it, the man’s voice is serenading us both, from the speaker.
“What is he singing about?”
The man inhales the cherry tobacco hard and looks on at the many women using the bazaar as a catwalk to show off their modern outfits, in their low-cut tops, white sneakers and designer shades.
“He sings about the worry he has. That the woman he loves may forget him. And he is begging her not to forget how much he loves her. He worries she will remember less and less, how much he loves her. It is a scary thought, no? Feeling like you are not loved anymore.”
I stare blankly once more into the distance.
Welcome to Istanbul: Welcome
There are two sounds in Istanbul. The noise. And the noise that comes after the noise. Tarkan continues as I begin to recognise the visitors. The tourists. Their silence pries through the bazaar, trying to spend their lira wisely. On anything and everything they can take back as conversation-starters from their mysterious travels to an exotic destination. Quiet here; loud at home. Betrayers of the noise.
“What would you be doing now, if you had your money?”
The man’s words appear through another cloud of fog that makes him all the more captivating.
I close my eyes. “I’d be caressing the leather from your stall. Trying to find something here that I cannot find anywhere else.”
“And then?”
“And then…the smell of fresh fish would move me over to the market side. I’d like to make my own dinner tonight. Can you believe since I’ve been here, I haven’t had sea bass?”
“Hmmmm.” The man hints at a smile through the smoke.
“I especially like the colours of the fruit here. They spring to life from the dull wood upon which they lay. They beckon you towards them, to hold them in your hands and explore their grooves and fresh skin.”
“What’s your favourite?”
“I like the dates. They’re not even that colourful but it’s like you’re savouring a moment of fresh promise in your mouth.”
He smiles again. Language is different for everyone. But music; food, well, they have their own power.
“Can you play the song one more time?”
He shakes his head ever so lightly and wags his finger gently. He turns off the music completely. And then the air becomes slightly cooler, the humidity of the day taking a bow. And a man, chanting, takes over. The ezan arises from the Blue Mosque- a call to prayer. Swiftly, the city abides and falls into line. Everyone turns their music off. Only the pure and undulated chant echoes through Istanbul.
“Follow the voice. It will take you back. And when you go, walk proudly.”
The man begins to clean out the old tobacco at the top of the pipe with a toothpick.
I gift him the polite nod, he bestowed upon me on my arrival and make my way back to the European side of Istanbul.
Welcome to Istanbul: Text
Wandering both aimlessly and with conviction, I find myself at the Galata Tower in Karakoy. I carefully run my fingers over its masonry rubble and look up towards its majestic presence. I step back, heel by heel onto the cobbled surface, to gain better sight of its magnitude and how it illuminates perfectly in the evenings. The top half of its steeple cascades lights around its openings, whilst the pointed tip at its highest end stands all the more boldly erect in the night. This is one of the oldest towers in the world. Built during the Genoese colonial times in Roman style in the 13th century, it was seized by the Turks in the Conquest of Constantinople in the 15th century and turned into a prison. It was then used by the Ottoman empire to lookout for fires, even though, in ironic fate, it was destroyed during a fire. It was restored after that and today it gives one a full view of the city.
But what makes its beauty so understated, is that the noise from the nearby cafes, pubs and ice cream parlours, allows it to quietly sit in the background and watch over the city, like an older sibling or aunt, not needing to scream to be heard, but knowing its importance to everyone else. It takes in the Istanbulites unfiltered and ever-boisterous footsteps and bellows daily and continues to be a backdrop to the noise. The noise that matters.
As I head back towards my hotel, I pass the restaurant I had smoked shisha at earlier. The waiter who served me in the day, animatedly moves towards the entrance to beckon me in.
“Sorry, my friend. Not tonight.”
“You sure?”
He holds out my wallet to me. I strip it open and gaze upon every single lira and US dollar still there, grinning back at me. I smoke shisha and forget about pickpocketing, bad burgers and how sore my lungs might be tomorrow. The purple sky is fresh, as the stars and Takren’s voice watch over me. I pay my bill and tip more than I have done so this entire trip. On my walk back to the hotel, a hapless man crouches over in rags with his hands cupping out to me in bare hope. I take off my shoes and gave them to him. In my room, I fill up a jug, sit on the balcony and pour the cool water over my chapped feet.
And I wait for the noise after the noise.
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Welcome to Istanbul: Welcome
Welcome to Istanbul: Quote
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