I
Wind blew in the dry reedsbeside Lake Van whilegranules of sand stungmy face and hands,the hourglass of timefallen on its sideobscuring the movementof the Kurdish caravanin the distanceits past and futureetched in crimson,blue and russetagainst the tawny hillsof Noah.
II
Soldiers lolled by beige tentsnear Erzurum, the pungentaroma of Bafra cigarettesfloating in the air,the sounds of dicestriking the backgammon board—tavla—expertly thrown. Thecall of the muezzin mergedimperceptibly with the songof the shepherd’s flute,ancient sounds locked foreverin the vastness of the valley.
III
The winter dawn, dampand grey, enfolded the grimy hulkof Istanbul, hiding a thousandsecrets and daggers.The cacophony of voiceshawkingçay and simit lostin the tumult of the harborwhere porters bent beneaththeir burdens, awaitingthe terrible clatterof the Janissary cavalry.
IV
Dizzy from rakı and cigarettes,the reverberating soundof amplified Turkish musicswirling in my head,we made our way unsteadily to a taxi,then to my room in Eyüp.In the sheltering darknessAyşe came to me,a glittering Circassian jewelnot unlike Loti’s Aziyadé.
V
The Army attaché in Ankarawith an intellect the sizeof a grain of sand,an ego bigger thana balloon character in theMacy’s Thanksgiving Day parade,took every opportunity to impresswith his aviation skills.So it was one daythat he landed safelywith the ambassador—at the wrong airfield.