abi!”
And now even, while Kemal spoke to his cousin, he yelled into the phone.
“No,
abi
!”
He paced in front of Sinan, the phone to his ear, his head bowed to the dirt. His right cheek was covered in a large bandage, and streaks of blood stained the gauze.
“Good man, yes.” He spun a circle in the dirt and threw his hand in the air. “No! He’s a friend. At least two hundred.”
He nodded and smiled at Sinan.
“No.” He nodded again. “Of course, of course.”
Then he took the phone from his ear and hung up.
“Okay, my friend.” He slapped Sinan on the back. “You have a job. I’d take it myself if my back wasn’t so bad.” He shook his head. “Allah, Allah, one day a businessman, the next day a mule.”
The next morning, Sinan took the two-and-a-half-hour ferry ride tostanbul, and by nine found himself descending the stairs into a Byzantine cistern in the Bazaar Quarter of the city. He was amazed that the cistern had not collapsed in the quake, but nothing in the center of the city seemed to have been damaged. Above him a small exposed bulb dangled from the brick ceiling and cast the only light on the steps. The cavern was eight hundred years old, musty, with green moss clinging to the cracks in the mortar, but where water was once stored, Sony televisions now stood stacked ten high from floor to arches. A leather harness tugged against his shoulders, and a kind of saddle, with a twelve-inch shelf nailed to the base, lay across his back. His job was to strap two televisions onto his back—three, if he could manage it—and carry them from the back streets of the Bazaar Quarter down to the electronic stores of Sirkeci—a good kilometer walk downhill. Then, do it over and over again until the end of the business day.
When he met the owner of the operation, a man known as Aslan, Sinan hid his foot behind a table so the man wouldn’t notice. With a cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth, Aslan Bey felt the muscles in Sinan’s arms, slapped his back, and even rubbed his hands along his spine, but he never checked Sinan’s legs. Sinan would work on commission, one hundred fifty thousand lira per television.
“I was told two hundred,” Sinan said.
Aslan sucked on his cigarette, pulled it from his lips, and exhaled before answering. “One hundred fifty.”
Sinan thought of accusing the man of cheating him, but thought better of it out of respect for Kemal.
“One-fifty,” he said, nodding.
Now at the bottom of the stairs, Sinan spun around and a man positioned the first television on his back. One television was no problem, just a little pinch in his kidneys, two was heavy, but three sent a sharp pain down his left side that exploded in his foot. The man tried to convince Sinan to take only two, but Sinan insisted. The three boxes were fastened together with bungee cords, and he struggled up the stairs, out into the alleyway, and down the hill toward the ferry landings. He dodged shoppers—women lugging bags full of lingerie, men being fitted for Levi’s jeans, tourists carrying neatly wrapped boxes of dried-out spices. He sidestepped carts of shaving razors and others full of pirated American DVDs. Once he got hung up on clotheslines from which cheap sweatpants dangled for sale. He leaned for a moment like a tower slowly toppling, before two men working a kebab stand jumped behind him and righted the teetering boxes. It was the steepest part of the hill, cracked brick stairs and splashing gutters, and one of the men helped him down to the flats, offering his hand as he descended the stairs. Even so, he kept twisting his ankles in the sunken mortar between bricks.
“You’re better off than the people who buy these televisions,” his helper joked.
“Why’s that?” Sinan said.
“You get strong, while they sit on their asses getting fat.”
“Would you mind getting fat?” Sinan said.
“Truthfully,” he laughed, “not at all,
abi.
”
He wasn’t able to stop for
And now even, while Kemal spoke to his cousin, he yelled into the phone.
“No,
abi
!”
He paced in front of Sinan, the phone to his ear, his head bowed to the dirt. His right cheek was covered in a large bandage, and streaks of blood stained the gauze.
“Good man, yes.” He spun a circle in the dirt and threw his hand in the air. “No! He’s a friend. At least two hundred.”
He nodded and smiled at Sinan.
“No.” He nodded again. “Of course, of course.”
Then he took the phone from his ear and hung up.
“Okay, my friend.” He slapped Sinan on the back. “You have a job. I’d take it myself if my back wasn’t so bad.” He shook his head. “Allah, Allah, one day a businessman, the next day a mule.”
The next morning, Sinan took the two-and-a-half-hour ferry ride tostanbul, and by nine found himself descending the stairs into a Byzantine cistern in the Bazaar Quarter of the city. He was amazed that the cistern had not collapsed in the quake, but nothing in the center of the city seemed to have been damaged. Above him a small exposed bulb dangled from the brick ceiling and cast the only light on the steps. The cavern was eight hundred years old, musty, with green moss clinging to the cracks in the mortar, but where water was once stored, Sony televisions now stood stacked ten high from floor to arches. A leather harness tugged against his shoulders, and a kind of saddle, with a twelve-inch shelf nailed to the base, lay across his back. His job was to strap two televisions onto his back—three, if he could manage it—and carry them from the back streets of the Bazaar Quarter down to the electronic stores of Sirkeci—a good kilometer walk downhill. Then, do it over and over again until the end of the business day.
When he met the owner of the operation, a man known as Aslan, Sinan hid his foot behind a table so the man wouldn’t notice. With a cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth, Aslan Bey felt the muscles in Sinan’s arms, slapped his back, and even rubbed his hands along his spine, but he never checked Sinan’s legs. Sinan would work on commission, one hundred fifty thousand lira per television.
“I was told two hundred,” Sinan said.
Aslan sucked on his cigarette, pulled it from his lips, and exhaled before answering. “One hundred fifty.”
Sinan thought of accusing the man of cheating him, but thought better of it out of respect for Kemal.
“One-fifty,” he said, nodding.
Now at the bottom of the stairs, Sinan spun around and a man positioned the first television on his back. One television was no problem, just a little pinch in his kidneys, two was heavy, but three sent a sharp pain down his left side that exploded in his foot. The man tried to convince Sinan to take only two, but Sinan insisted. The three boxes were fastened together with bungee cords, and he struggled up the stairs, out into the alleyway, and down the hill toward the ferry landings. He dodged shoppers—women lugging bags full of lingerie, men being fitted for Levi’s jeans, tourists carrying neatly wrapped boxes of dried-out spices. He sidestepped carts of shaving razors and others full of pirated American DVDs. Once he got hung up on clotheslines from which cheap sweatpants dangled for sale. He leaned for a moment like a tower slowly toppling, before two men working a kebab stand jumped behind him and righted the teetering boxes. It was the steepest part of the hill, cracked brick stairs and splashing gutters, and one of the men helped him down to the flats, offering his hand as he descended the stairs. Even so, he kept twisting his ankles in the sunken mortar between bricks.
“You’re better off than the people who buy these televisions,” his helper joked.
“Why’s that?” Sinan said.
“You get strong, while they sit on their asses getting fat.”
“Would you mind getting fat?” Sinan said.
“Truthfully,” he laughed, “not at all,
abi.
”
He wasn’t able to stop for
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