a piece of drain tile.
“My country is a very old place,” Meryem said. “You see this rock? I don’t know what you call it.”
“It looks like a tile. A drain tile.”
“Yes, this drain tile. You know what it is for?”
“The sewer generally. They’re used to connect septic lines from a house to the city sewer system.”
“But you know what it is for?”
“I have a general idea.”
“It is for shit. Shit flows through this pipe. But this is the difference between your country and my country. In America, the sewer pipes, they are new. Here, this piece of pipe is from the Greeks or the Romans, I do not know. What I am saying is, the shit has been flowing through my country for many thousands of years. Do you know what this means?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“My people, we are enthusiasts, no, we are experts in bullshit. When we see it, we know it. Do you know what I am telling you?”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter?”
“Yes. You understand. That is the expression I was looking for. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. As long as we tell each other the truth, we will get along. Are you at peace with this, Mr. Raptor?”
I didn’t need to think about it. “I am.”
“Then come,” she said. “I will show you my hand.”
Chapter 21
W E TOOK THE motorcycle to the village. I drove, wind in my hair, finally pulling over to the side of the narrow street behind a beat-up fire-engine red Fiat 500. Meryem hopped off and I kicked the bike onto its stand.
“Where to?” I asked.
“The arm,” she said.
“Arm?”
“Did you read your own journal, Mr. Raptor?”
“I skimmed through.”
“Then come. We have information regarding the arm.”
I thought back to the journal, remembering a graphic sketch of a human arm opposite some sort of schematic. The disembodied arm was bent at the elbow, an index finger pointed outward. It was reasonably well muscled and sawn off at an oblique angle at the shoulder, arteries and veins drawn in graphic detail. In effect, it looked like something that would be more at home in a Renaissance medical text than a technical journal.
What was strange, though, given the realism of the sketch, were the ovoid shapes in a ring around the arm. They looked like drops of blood or fruit. I hadn’t had time to consider what the shapes might mean. But Meryem had. That was obvious. So I followed her lead, down the narrow street to a storefront marked by a three-foot-high amphora on the sidewalk.
“We go here,” she said.
I followed her inside the shop, a tinkling bell announcing our arrival. Rough, hand-scraped timbers formed the floor, row after row of amphorae lining the plaster walls. These amphorae were filled with olives as well, some of them brined, some of them not. Oil-filled glass bottles stood on the shelves behind the amphorae. A persistent squeaking hum caused me to look through a wooden door into the back room. There I caught a glimpse of a large iron machine, its big steel counterweight spinning round and round.
“That is the press,” Meryem said. “The olive oil is very famous from this region.”
I heard the olive press shut down, and a wiry man with narrow-set eyes and wispy, flyaway hair entered from the back room. He had a huge gap between his front teeth and wore industrial blue pants and a ribbed undershirt. The knotty muscles in his arms glistened with sweat, an iron bar hanging low from his left hand. Given that he had shut the operation down to come out front, I surmised that he was alone or had, at most, a couple of helpers back there. The squeaky turn of the big counterweight slowly spun down until we were left with only the street noise. The guy said something in Turkish. Meryem answered him.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” I said.
“Nothing. I ask him about his oil.”
“What about it?”
“Family business,” Meryem said. “He has been making oil for twenty-five years. His father made oil
“My country is a very old place,” Meryem said. “You see this rock? I don’t know what you call it.”
“It looks like a tile. A drain tile.”
“Yes, this drain tile. You know what it is for?”
“The sewer generally. They’re used to connect septic lines from a house to the city sewer system.”
“But you know what it is for?”
“I have a general idea.”
“It is for shit. Shit flows through this pipe. But this is the difference between your country and my country. In America, the sewer pipes, they are new. Here, this piece of pipe is from the Greeks or the Romans, I do not know. What I am saying is, the shit has been flowing through my country for many thousands of years. Do you know what this means?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“My people, we are enthusiasts, no, we are experts in bullshit. When we see it, we know it. Do you know what I am telling you?”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter?”
“Yes. You understand. That is the expression I was looking for. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. As long as we tell each other the truth, we will get along. Are you at peace with this, Mr. Raptor?”
I didn’t need to think about it. “I am.”
“Then come,” she said. “I will show you my hand.”
Chapter 21
W E TOOK THE motorcycle to the village. I drove, wind in my hair, finally pulling over to the side of the narrow street behind a beat-up fire-engine red Fiat 500. Meryem hopped off and I kicked the bike onto its stand.
“Where to?” I asked.
“The arm,” she said.
“Arm?”
“Did you read your own journal, Mr. Raptor?”
“I skimmed through.”
“Then come. We have information regarding the arm.”
I thought back to the journal, remembering a graphic sketch of a human arm opposite some sort of schematic. The disembodied arm was bent at the elbow, an index finger pointed outward. It was reasonably well muscled and sawn off at an oblique angle at the shoulder, arteries and veins drawn in graphic detail. In effect, it looked like something that would be more at home in a Renaissance medical text than a technical journal.
What was strange, though, given the realism of the sketch, were the ovoid shapes in a ring around the arm. They looked like drops of blood or fruit. I hadn’t had time to consider what the shapes might mean. But Meryem had. That was obvious. So I followed her lead, down the narrow street to a storefront marked by a three-foot-high amphora on the sidewalk.
“We go here,” she said.
I followed her inside the shop, a tinkling bell announcing our arrival. Rough, hand-scraped timbers formed the floor, row after row of amphorae lining the plaster walls. These amphorae were filled with olives as well, some of them brined, some of them not. Oil-filled glass bottles stood on the shelves behind the amphorae. A persistent squeaking hum caused me to look through a wooden door into the back room. There I caught a glimpse of a large iron machine, its big steel counterweight spinning round and round.
“That is the press,” Meryem said. “The olive oil is very famous from this region.”
I heard the olive press shut down, and a wiry man with narrow-set eyes and wispy, flyaway hair entered from the back room. He had a huge gap between his front teeth and wore industrial blue pants and a ribbed undershirt. The knotty muscles in his arms glistened with sweat, an iron bar hanging low from his left hand. Given that he had shut the operation down to come out front, I surmised that he was alone or had, at most, a couple of helpers back there. The squeaky turn of the big counterweight slowly spun down until we were left with only the street noise. The guy said something in Turkish. Meryem answered him.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” I said.
“Nothing. I ask him about his oil.”
“What about it?”
“Family business,” Meryem said. “He has been making oil for twenty-five years. His father made oil
Similar Books
