Cribo Vagabond

Saturday 14th: Inside the inside of the Bizarrest of the Bazaar

The Bazars District, if possible, it was even more chaotic then the traffic on road and in the maze-like streets put together.
It was as if all of the shops I saw before were pulled and pressed together, squeezed and then crammed inside this bursting market.
Once again, an abundant variegation of dribs and drabs was widely available; with silk, lamps, jewellery, bags, tiles, souvenirs and spices being the predominant goods sold by these polyglots shopkeepers. It doesn’t matter where you come from, they always have a catchy speech to lure you to their colourful showroom and products. “Italiano? Guarda che belle lampade!” “Êtes-vous français? Regardez quel beau tapis j’ai ici.” “Español? Mira qué bonitos son estos portavelas” “Nohonjin des ka? Kono tairu wa hontou ni utsukushii desu ne?”. Yet, not a lot of English, or maybe it just happened that I did’t meet any of those who spoke it.
I was genuinely impressed by several of them. Their foreign vocabulary wasn’t limited to a few scattered words like “hello/how are you?”, or a number of swear words which are always popular and easy to remember for anyone who’s learning a new language.
A spice seller was able to carry out a not-so-basic conversation in Italian with me. “My brother leaves in Italy, so I have to learn a bit the language to be able to talk with my nieces and nephews”.
What a carrying personas these Turkish people are. I’m very found of them already.
And I love the way they express “thank you”, “Teśekkür ederim”: they shake your hand, make a little bow with their head and then rest the same hand they used to shake your on their hart. I found it so brotherly and uniting.
While aimlessly strolling around this jammed bazaar my eyes stumbled upon a tiny, narrow, poorly lighten shop. If all the other shops were eyes catching, full of colours, lights and music, this was the opposite: thigh, barely lighten, weirdly quiet and entirely empty. In its uniquenesses it was unmissable.
It was shoved between a spices stall and a tile vendor; it appeared to be selling carpets, paintings and lamps; although the lamps were all turned off. The only exception was for the one sitting on the top of a counter at the far end of the store. Nobody was in there, no customers, no strollers, not even the shopkeeper was anywhere to be seen, the room was deadly silent, but the sign on the door unmistakably read “OPEN”.
It had a strong appeal to me. I don’t know what it was, it had almost an ominous, grim, foreboding vibe to it, nevertheless, by some means or other, I was powerfully drawn to it, as if an intense, invisible force was calling me from the inside; like a black hole sucking in anything within its event horizon. I mused about Ulysses’s Sirens; him too couldn’t see the source of those hypnotic singing, yet he was forcibly pulled towards them.
I had no options, I had to enter that shop.
As soon as I pushed the door open a doorbell signalled my presence, to whom, however, I had no idea. I peeked a bit around, delving into the carpets. I had not (and still haven’t got) any knowledge about carpet making, thus I couldn’t assess the quality or estimate the age of these rugs; but they were unequivocally âgé, and unarguably well kept. Presumably the lights were all off in order to avoid damaging their quality. At least that what they do with many paintings and frescos; the lights have to be of a specific strength not to damage the oils and temperas. All the lamps too, looked as if they were from a bygone era. In fact they were not electric lamps, they were those out of date kerosene lamps or even older Turkish lamps that required oil or a candle in order for them to provide any form of illuminations; to have them turned on and lighten up the whole space was, doubtlessly, something that the department of safety for fire hazard regulation would have foremost forbidden. I also bet that any insurance would have more than a little hesitation about covering a place full of antique (likely expensive) carpets and artworks lighten with candles and oil lamp. Chances that something could go wrong were simply too high.
Looking around I came across a painting  that, even if I couldn’t recall where, I had seen before. Perhaps t’was just a picture of it in some book or on the internet, but it definitely had a familiar look. How to connect that familiarity though, was out of my ability. It will pop into my mind at the most unpredictable moment. It’s always like that.
The illustrated scene was of a young Samurai stabbing (possibly to death) a grey-haired nobly dressed man; two other figures were in the frame: a pretty lady dressed in a cream colour Kimono with pink sakura flours in her hair; and a long-faced man popping out from what looked like a trapdoor on the ground. The blood flowing from the aged man’s chest was painted with a particular acrylic varnish (painting, neither, is my field of expertise) that made it look real. I felt a fervent urge to touch it, I wanted to be sure it wasn’t real blood. I untied my arms from behind my back and extend my right index finger.. “Look, but don’t touch!” A voice coming from the back advised. “Inevitably abi has heard this sentence before”. It had an high pitched timbre, yet, for some reason, I knew it belonged to a senior fellow. I turned around and surely enough, a long in tooth, stubby, little man was observing me from behind the counter, the one where the only source of light was nested upon and beaming from. I could see that he bared no hard feelings, an amicable smile was courteously composed on his face. “I’m sorry.” I offered apologetically, nodding my head and joining the palms of my hands in front of my face as to transmit my sentiment. “No need to be sorry” he instantly replied “abi hasn’t done anything wrong.” He attested in a docile mood.
How long has he been observing me? I wondered. Necessary long enough to realise that I was about to touch that paint. “Welcome to me humble shop.” He enthusiastically exclaimed opening his short arms and proudly looking around the entire store.
He was a man in his mid-to-late 80s if I had to guess; about 1.50m tall, plump, with brisk white hair hanging around his big ears, which charmingly decorated his large, pleasantly rounded, bald head. “The eighth Hill of Istanbul” most likely than not some of his mates had nicknamed him like that at some point of his lengthy life. A long pointing beard decorated his calm face. A handful of wrinkles popped up around his eyes as he smiled and more of them find their way on his broad forehead. His eyes were black with a bright sparkle coming from within. Queerly, he reminded me of the Sultan in Aladdin, Jasmin’s father. Despite his age, I could sense a vigorous, young spirt inside him.
It appeared that the universe was throwing a very specific ilk of people in my way lately: elderly, friendly, hairless, talkative men. “Is there any reason for that?” I ruminated. Was the Universe trying to convey something or I simply had a sort of magnetism that attracts those breed of characters?. There will always be something we’ll never know.
“Thank you Sir! Veeery fascinating place you have here.” I asserted, nodding, again, and moving my head all around, gazing nowhere in particularly and inspecting, once more, the poorly lighten place. “A notch too dark if I might say.”
“An extraordinary, exceptional, peerless emporium, it is indisputably presented in front of your very own eyes.”  He proclaimed exuberantly. “I” continued with more placidly tone “am barely the modest keeper of these aging walls.” He announced and performed an utmost gracious bow.
He had a marked rolling “R” and a unusual way of speaking, but I took for granted that English wasn’t his first language, as certainly it ain’t mine neither.
“I can’t have strong lights inside here. Undeniably it would make these beauties stand out even more, but it would also damage their colouring. Plus, chances for a fire to find its way in would be enormously high. Insurance companies were very straight about it: -No smoking, no open flames inside!-” He uttered holding his index finger straight up as when angry parents scold their kids. “These bee’s knees are awfully antiques.” He informed me with mysterious emphasis.
Regardless my also lack of knowledge for antiques, I was confident that he wasn’t lying. “Sadly enough though, business is not as good as it used to be in the good old days” he reported with a resigned sigh. “Frankly” he continued as if revealing a secret “I have more than an hunch that people do not care about carpets and oil lamps anymore.” “You don’t say!” Unquestionably , demand for oil lamps must have plummeted many years ago with the introduction of electricity in general households. “How long have you been open?” I inquired intrigued. “Positively a tRRemendously long time ago that was.” He confessed with a delighted smiled.

“May you please have a look around” he generously invited. “You see!? These crafts are thoroughly special and unique. They have a very unordinary charge of power!”. I couldn’t fully comprehend the sentence, perhaps it was a literal translation from an old Turkish’s proverb? Like, in Italian, we don’t say “Break a leg!”, but “in the mouth of the wolf”; or “got the wrong end of the stick” becomes “mistaken fireflies for lanterns”; on the other end we say “you wanted the bicycle.. now pedal” which’s the English equivalent for “you made your bed, now lie in it” and “in the small cask, there is the good wine” means “good things come in small packages”; my favourite will always be the one that declares the eternal defeat of the bullock cart: “tira di piú un pelo di fica che un carro di buoi”.
Nevertheless I got an idea what he meant: looking at these paintings, carpets and lights; these crafts has he had called them, felt like being on a psychedelic trip: the colours melting and mixing into each other, the patterns on some of the carpets looked as if they were moving and the picture themselves were stirring to life..
Music too, was coming from somewhere within these beauties.
 The whole experience reminded of that time we ate mushrooms and then went to see a Van Gogh’s exhibition at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam; when shapes, colours and patterns had danced into the tridimensional world.
After a few moments of trance-like I was once again facing the canvas I was drawn to when, not long ago, I entered this site. “I know it will come to me. I have it on the tip of my tongue.”
And then, as the “Postman” -that had hanged next to the more renowned “Starring Night” that day in Amsterdam- had vibrantly called my attention, so did the painting next to this (the one I was now facing), greatly tickled my curiosity.
“You like that, don’t you?” The shopkeeper immediately sensed my intrigue. Years of being in this business he must have developed something similar to a superpower that allows him to distinguish someone who’s “just looking” from a potential customer. Like a wild animal sharpening and fine-tuning a fundamental survival instinct.
He was precisely right: I quite liked it.
Two scenes, entirely in contrast were refigured: On the top right corner there was the killing Venetian Merchant: a thick moustached Ottoman Janissary, using his long, sharp kilij, pierces through the chest of a paunchy, old man dressed in sumptuous, lavish clothes. The skewered trader, instead of pouring blood had heaps of golden coins flushing out of the wound and down they fall in a nearby river. The soldier clutches a precious scroll holder behind his back; protecting it from unworthy hands.
On the bottom left corner of the canvas there were two dancing figures. One, seen from the back, doesn’t reveal any of his (or her) features. The other one, who’s face was visible, was clearly a good-looking, radiant woman. Her gaze looked vaguely familiar. Sturdily vague; yet solidly, intensely familiar.
The whole prospective was somewhat deceptive and confusing: the blokes of the killing Venetian Merchant were slightly bigger in comparison to the dancing duo; the latter were intentionally placed on the foreground and made with such a realistic technique that made me question whether they were painted at all or it was actually a photography.
The balance and harmony of the tableau shifted back and forth between the bigger, violent pair and the realistic, joyful one. It was a mesmerising artwork.
Dragged into it, I linger on what I considered the most enthralling part: the dancers.
Their dresses were beyond my ability to tell if that outfit was more suitable for male or female. Or more honestly my instincts were wrong. I initially believed that it was a male dress; and I had naively assumed that it was a male-female duet; but the fact that they wore the same dress made me, consequently, think that they were of the same sex. Still the visible figure was female. Couldn’t they be worn by both genders? Possibly. Either way it didn’t really matter. They were remarkably beautiful; truthfully superb; astonish to use the first adjective that came to my mind.
From the vivid and considerably flamboyant colours, I gathered they were some kind of traditional celebratory dress belonging to the Turkish culture. No shoes were adorning neither of the four dancing feet.
The trousers were legs-length and pompous that could be mistaken as a ballon skirt. Deep ocean green-blue was the base colour with big silver mandala embroidered on them and shiny golden hems. Long sleeved, orange-gold abayas covered the moving arms; on the front-viewed gal, it was generously open on the chest and a pair of healthy, ample breasts were evidently noticeable. Her eyes were peering out of the frame in a way that I have experienced before. Weird.
A pleasant electrical shock run down through all my spine.
The person portrayed from behind was wearing an incredibly cool gilet. The background colour was black with a mix yellows, purples, and whites embroideries. Or maybe the background colour was the yellow and black was a secondary colour. Hard to tell. It looked as if the painter had used a very fine brush to occupy the space on the canvas and alternated those colours with each strokes: one brush stroke with the yellow, one with the purple, one with the black, one with the white, and had repeated the sequence for -I don’t know- 200-250 or perhaps even 400 strokes. Each one it was made with such a precision and majesty that it was almost disturbing.
Both individuals wore a red and white striped fez (or tarboosh), with a golden tassel hanging on one side.
“That’s a very good gilet, isn’t it?” My fellow clerk stroke again. He asked almost rhetorically, promptly catching my interest once more.
He was good as his job and seemed pleased about our current situation.
“It’s really cool!” It was all I came up with.
And then it hit me: they were the very same eyes I saw yesterday night. It took me a while to recognise them. And it will take even longer to metabolise this fact. Who that hell was her?
I needed more informations.
Immediately a very smart question made its way through my fogged mind: “Who made this?”. That was a witty question to ask: the author must have some relevant knowledge or connection to the depicted subjects I thought; but I was out of luck: “Believe me or not I got this treasure only yesterday. So I can’t really tell you much about it. Not at this stage at least. They guy who sold it to me affirmed it’s from “Ime Shikoyaab”, have you heard of her?” I didn’t. “Anyway, that could just be some bull crap he put in to words as a motivational leverage. I know the guy, and I can vow he’s a professional when it comes to selling stuff!”.
Trading must be a standing pillar in the Turkish society. I, on the other side, was absolutely in no position whatsoever to judge any of my surroundings: lamps, carpets, paintings, salesman.
“Soon I’ll have it analysed and hopefully I’ll able to know how old the canvas is, the paint used, the wood, or any other essentials those professional people will be able to extract from it. But honestly, I don’t know how long that will take. We are in Istanbul my abi: chaos reigns supreme. It might take three to four weeks. At the same time it wouldn’t surprise me if it takes 8months. Hell! Maybe even one or two years. Who knows with these ağabey people nowadays?” Obviously time was a lose concept when estimating how long it would take to thoroughly and professionally analyse a painting in this part of the World. At least this is what my chare-abi friend here is telling me.
“At any rate, if what the guy claims it’s true, then it’s a very sought-after and coveted painting.” He proclaimed more and more satisfied.
“She’s a very talented woman. Legend has it that one night she met an exotic traveller and they deeply fall in love with each other. But, as you might expect from a legend, something didn’t work out and they were force apart. As a cure for her broken heart she started to portray important events of the Turkish history.”
“In this one we can suppose -from their dressing, that they were having a celebration: possibly something good had happened, or something propitious was demand to happened. It is clearly connected with the Killing of the Venetian Merchant up in the top corner. Either way it carries a positive vibes with it, does it not?” . Once again I couldn’t disagree with him. She looked happy and content. Happy ever after as they say in various fairytales. For all the time he spoke I was carried to a far away place. Presumably not as far in space as far in time. Maybe back to the time these crafts were made.
I could see a person working on one of them, hunched over an easel, laboriously applying the right stroke of paint onto the right spot; a much harder task than it looked. It required a lot of concentration, precision and attention to details. The curved profile was meticulously carrying out its duty, composing the artwork in accordance of predetermined idea. Moving closer to that person I could glimpse she was a woman, but I couldn’t make out her face. She was so completely immersed in her labour that she didn’t notice me. I was totally invisible to her eyes. Or perhaps I was not there to begin with. Her hands were dotted with henna tattoo and moved fast and expertly, remaining elegant; not a single movement was wasted. Yet she appeared in haste. Only then I realised that she was crying. Tears had traced long lines on her redden cheeks. Again a piece of the Odyssey came to my mind, this time it regarded Penelope, Ulysses’s wife. A pool had formed under her chair, her bare feet soaking into it. I, myself was getting my feet inside that pool that had become a little stream inside the room.
The afternoon Ezan broke the spell…
At set times throughout the day Mosques call their devotees to gather and pray. The Adhan comes from several amazingly loud speakers efficiently positioned inside the minaret, making inescapably hearable from all over the city.
The first few times I heard this chant I found it rather disturbing, even scary; it has haunting mood to it, almost eerie. After that, somehow, I grew fond of it.
Its monotone reverberating frequency has a mesmerising, spellbinding power: wherever you are, you can’t escape its enchantment. Relentlessly Muslims flock in like birds attracted to seeds.
“Time to pray.” He announced. “Are you alright?” He quizzed with a smile. “It look like you’ve seen a ghost.” And bursted in an exaggerated laugh.
And just like that, without warning an other bright question found its way through my neuronal connections’ box, aka my brain: “Is it as self-portrait?” Looking backward I still remember how dump I felt as soon as the words left my mouth. “Who the heck knows? I just told you that I don’t know who the author was. Were you paying attention to me lan?” He bursted annoyed. But I had genuinely listened to his explanation. He must have understood that right away because he tenderly added: “Even if it was a self-portrait what difference would it make?”And even threw in a warm, comforting smile.“But seriously, I must attend to my prays now. Which means I have to close.”
And he moved toward the door, holding it open for me to exit. “Please come back to see me again. And bring money next time to buy something from me.” And loudly laugh a third time. Come to think of it, he hasn’t even tried to sell me anything!
Almost automatically I reached towards the bowl sitting on the counter under the lamp that was filled with many Allah’s Eye beads. 2 Lira a piece read the handwritten sign. I took one and made the move to take out my coins pouch.
“No need to pay for that one. Take it as a welcoming gift. It’s believed to bring luck; one’s never too full of luck.” He declared laughing one more time.
“I quite enjoyed conversing to you. But now, prithee leave.” He insisted, and to make things even clearer he scooped his left ear with his left hand, and then with the same hand pointed at his right wrist where a watch should have been, but he wasn’t wearing one. Time to go.
He closed the door behind me, and turned the sign from “open” to “closed”. No other information was there, would have it be closed for 5’ or for whatever long the salah has to be, or was him done for the day? With a cordial smile on his face, he pulled a thick curtain over the door, and the inside of the store was all hidden at once.

What has just happened? I thought. What have I seen in that shop?
How long have I been inside? Who made that painting? Who was the dancing girl in it? Could there be a connection between them: the dancing girl, the painter and the girl who starred at me last night?
I was dumbfounded. I had to walk those thoughts off. The shopkeeper seemed to have read my mind a couple of times too.. but that could’ve simply been his talent has a salesman. Although, again, he didn’t sold me anything, actually he gave me this eye for free. What has just happened? I repeated out loud.
As always the bazaar was brimming with people going about their business. No one took heed that a small boutique have pulled down its curtains and closed. Only then I became aware of the fact that it was the single shop that had closed for prayers, all the others were efficiently conducting their trades loudly and skilfully. What was the time now?
My phone was out of battery and neither I was wearing watch. Inside the bazaar the sunlight was coming in filtered through opaque glassed window that made it impossible to guessed the position of the sun in the sky. As I was working my brains around those recent events I came to an opening; the sun was still up but not as intense as before, around 5pm I guessed: good time to make my way back to the hotel and get a more than necessary refreshing shower. This heat went to me head.

I’m leaving on shortwave streams tonightI’m leaving on shortwave streams tonight