rectangular garden, I had to let myself be sniffed by a large Kangal mastiff named Arrow. âOtherwise, God forbid, he might tear you to pieces,â said Halukâs long-time factotum. The man was Zakir by name, and hailed from Bitlis in the east. Having mentioned in passing that he could hit the eye of a blackbird from 300 yards but, alas, was incapable of mastering a cellphone, he said, âIf ya donât mind me askinâ, sir, what is it ya do for a livinâ?â When I said that I was a retired Air Force officer and pilot he declared, âAllah be praised!â and fell in two steps behind me until we came to his boss.
Each fine old olive tree that caught my eye looked at first like a unique grotesque; taken as a group, however, I saw that they all moved in harmony like figures in a melancholy painting. About the time the underappreciated baroque composer Viotti popped into my mind, I came face to face with Haluk Erçelik, who stood waiting for me in the doorway of the two-story stone house.
He was tall and fit. I tried to associate this handsome man with the name of a particular movie star, but couldnât. Then it came to me why. It was because, with his long silvery hair gathered at the nape of his neck and the perfect features of his proud face, he resembled nothing so much as a statue of Apollo.
Actually those piercing green eyes might not have been so benevolent a gift from God. His tone was peremptory. He tried to reduce the tension of my surprise visit by donning a mock sincerity. The walls of the study we entered were covered with books. BereketâZakirâs wife, I assumedâoffered home-made lemonade, her sidelong glances meanwhile betraying the fact that this was a house not used to lavish hospitality. I found myself suddenly missing Balat.
When I disclosed to him the news about the $1.3 million something about the way he chuckled, like a person responding courteously to a clumsy anecdote, struck me. I tried to provoke a response by repeating word for word what his once-close friends had said.
When he saw that Iâd uttered my last sentence he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. He didnât open his mouth until Bereket appeared with a small bottle of
raki
, a glass of the turnip juice they drink with it in the south, and a bowl of nuts. As I awaited his next move the oil painting behind him caught my eye. Had that young, beautiful, and seemingly blind girl been eavesdropping on me? Was she now looking at me sympathetically?
I relaxed as Haluk shut his eyes and took a long sip of
raki
. I guessed I was going to hear more than Iâd bargained for.
âWhen my father, a sailor from Hopa, on the Black Sea, married my mother, whom heâd met during his military service in Diyarbakir, they were disowned by both families. Their penniless friends took turns hosting them until eventually they found shelter in a rented flat in Balat. My fatherâs lifelong dream was to work with his cousin on long-haul cargo ships until he was thirty, and then open a fancy fish restaurant in Salacak on the Asian side of Istanbul. I was just five when the news arrived that heâd been killed in an accident at a South Asian port.
âAs a boy I was the mascot of the Balat streets. The lord of the district, Count Nadolsky, showed his affection for me by calling me
belka
ââsquirrelâ in Russian. His offer to become our benefactor shocked us at first. But my mother took over running his house, and slowly became attached to this White Russian who had saved us from going to live with my dictatorial grandfather.
âHis exiled majesty, who ordered me to call him Vlad Baba, was forty-six when he came into our life. He was a charming vagabond, energetic but also fickle. He looked after me well, yet on occasion would order me around like a lowly conscript. When he acquired Turkish citizenship after twenty years of sanctuary in Istanbul, he drew himself up as if
Each fine old olive tree that caught my eye looked at first like a unique grotesque; taken as a group, however, I saw that they all moved in harmony like figures in a melancholy painting. About the time the underappreciated baroque composer Viotti popped into my mind, I came face to face with Haluk Erçelik, who stood waiting for me in the doorway of the two-story stone house.
He was tall and fit. I tried to associate this handsome man with the name of a particular movie star, but couldnât. Then it came to me why. It was because, with his long silvery hair gathered at the nape of his neck and the perfect features of his proud face, he resembled nothing so much as a statue of Apollo.
Actually those piercing green eyes might not have been so benevolent a gift from God. His tone was peremptory. He tried to reduce the tension of my surprise visit by donning a mock sincerity. The walls of the study we entered were covered with books. BereketâZakirâs wife, I assumedâoffered home-made lemonade, her sidelong glances meanwhile betraying the fact that this was a house not used to lavish hospitality. I found myself suddenly missing Balat.
When I disclosed to him the news about the $1.3 million something about the way he chuckled, like a person responding courteously to a clumsy anecdote, struck me. I tried to provoke a response by repeating word for word what his once-close friends had said.
When he saw that Iâd uttered my last sentence he put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. He didnât open his mouth until Bereket appeared with a small bottle of
raki
, a glass of the turnip juice they drink with it in the south, and a bowl of nuts. As I awaited his next move the oil painting behind him caught my eye. Had that young, beautiful, and seemingly blind girl been eavesdropping on me? Was she now looking at me sympathetically?
I relaxed as Haluk shut his eyes and took a long sip of
raki
. I guessed I was going to hear more than Iâd bargained for.
âWhen my father, a sailor from Hopa, on the Black Sea, married my mother, whom heâd met during his military service in Diyarbakir, they were disowned by both families. Their penniless friends took turns hosting them until eventually they found shelter in a rented flat in Balat. My fatherâs lifelong dream was to work with his cousin on long-haul cargo ships until he was thirty, and then open a fancy fish restaurant in Salacak on the Asian side of Istanbul. I was just five when the news arrived that heâd been killed in an accident at a South Asian port.
âAs a boy I was the mascot of the Balat streets. The lord of the district, Count Nadolsky, showed his affection for me by calling me
belka
ââsquirrelâ in Russian. His offer to become our benefactor shocked us at first. But my mother took over running his house, and slowly became attached to this White Russian who had saved us from going to live with my dictatorial grandfather.
âHis exiled majesty, who ordered me to call him Vlad Baba, was forty-six when he came into our life. He was a charming vagabond, energetic but also fickle. He looked after me well, yet on occasion would order me around like a lowly conscript. When he acquired Turkish citizenship after twenty years of sanctuary in Istanbul, he drew himself up as if
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