rail. Her legs looked thick and ugly to Lilly. In an instant they heard her splash as she dove into the water.
They sat, all of them, silent at the table. Lilly’s mother was rolling bits of bread into balls. Gerta lifted the tray of figs and passed them around. Lilly took two more, one in each hand, and bit into them—first one, and then the other. Both were ripe and sweet, their dark, rough-skinned pouches satisfying to her mouth. Her teeth ground the seeds to syrup.
Harrison said, “We’re all getting a little stir-crazy, I think. Let’s go look at Turkish carpets this afternoon. Something innocuous and touristy…we can satisfy our needs by shopping.”
*
When Izak helped them into the Zodiac after lunch, Marianne was not present. Reluctantly, Lilly climbed the shaky ladder down to the rubber boat, let Izak take her by the hands, seat her on the air-filled edge. She did not meet his eyes, but stared down at some muddy water at her feet. The days of this sailing trip were beginning to wear on her, days too long, too repetitive, too dangerous. How much longer was this vacation? Another week to go? Could she bear to stay here one minute longer? Could she bear to leave when it was over?
*
The carpet dealer’s shop was an oasis of quiet. Cooled by a strong air-conditioner—with carpets hanging on the walls and rolls of them piled on the floor, with padded benches all around the edges of the room—it seemed a refuge, more peaceful than the Blue Mosque or the Hagia Sofia. The owner, a mustached Turk with piercing black eyes, invited them to sit on the benches, then called out a directive and shortly a much younger man arrived with iced Coca-Colas for the women. The owner tactfully pointed out the WC should they need to use a toilet.
He waited while they sipped their colas and stared around the room. Against the backdrop of the brilliant woven designs, Lilly saw the absence of Marianne’s face, saw her not here, but still on the Ozymandias with Izak.
She could barely pay attention as the owner of the shop described the many qualities of fine rugs, those of pure wool, or wool and cotton, or wool and silk. He spoke of how many knots there were per inch, and how the fibers were dyed and how many years went into the making of each rug.
“Some are colored with tobacco dyes, some with henna,” he said. “Let us show you.” He called his assistant to perform: “Meti, the wedding rug.”
The young man lifted a rolled carpet from a pile against the wall and flung it forth with a “whoosh”—so that it unfurled before them like a peacock’s fan. Their eyes were dazzled with swirling geometric designs, lush colors, squares and zig-zags, flowers and entwined vines, the shapes of tassels and wine vessels.
“Another!” called the magician, and his assistant threw forth another woven rug. It exploded over the first, with new and dizzying designs. “This one took five years to make! Now another!” Soon the room was covered in rugs, four and five layers high, their knotted fringes peeping out, one from under another. Each rug called to them “Buy me! Ride me! I’m the Magic Carpet that will take you to the promised land, to the land of your dreams.” The sun, coming in the shop’s windows, lit up the colors like fireworks.
Lilly lay her head back against the wall, caught up in the spectacle of the show.
“For the last rug, we will show you the silk,” said the proprietor, and she watched the young man unroll one more rug which was snapped at them like the cape of a bullfighter. It spread itself on the floor before them in tones of cobalt blue, red, orange, green, its pattern the most intricate of all. “Now rotate” said the magician, and, with another flip of his two hands, the assistant rotated the rug a quarter turn and now it appeared as a brilliant pastel, pink and sky-blue, shimmering with light. It seemed as if it could be swum in, so deep and fluid were its blues.
“Only silk can do this. It is
They sat, all of them, silent at the table. Lilly’s mother was rolling bits of bread into balls. Gerta lifted the tray of figs and passed them around. Lilly took two more, one in each hand, and bit into them—first one, and then the other. Both were ripe and sweet, their dark, rough-skinned pouches satisfying to her mouth. Her teeth ground the seeds to syrup.
Harrison said, “We’re all getting a little stir-crazy, I think. Let’s go look at Turkish carpets this afternoon. Something innocuous and touristy…we can satisfy our needs by shopping.”
*
When Izak helped them into the Zodiac after lunch, Marianne was not present. Reluctantly, Lilly climbed the shaky ladder down to the rubber boat, let Izak take her by the hands, seat her on the air-filled edge. She did not meet his eyes, but stared down at some muddy water at her feet. The days of this sailing trip were beginning to wear on her, days too long, too repetitive, too dangerous. How much longer was this vacation? Another week to go? Could she bear to stay here one minute longer? Could she bear to leave when it was over?
*
The carpet dealer’s shop was an oasis of quiet. Cooled by a strong air-conditioner—with carpets hanging on the walls and rolls of them piled on the floor, with padded benches all around the edges of the room—it seemed a refuge, more peaceful than the Blue Mosque or the Hagia Sofia. The owner, a mustached Turk with piercing black eyes, invited them to sit on the benches, then called out a directive and shortly a much younger man arrived with iced Coca-Colas for the women. The owner tactfully pointed out the WC should they need to use a toilet.
He waited while they sipped their colas and stared around the room. Against the backdrop of the brilliant woven designs, Lilly saw the absence of Marianne’s face, saw her not here, but still on the Ozymandias with Izak.
She could barely pay attention as the owner of the shop described the many qualities of fine rugs, those of pure wool, or wool and cotton, or wool and silk. He spoke of how many knots there were per inch, and how the fibers were dyed and how many years went into the making of each rug.
“Some are colored with tobacco dyes, some with henna,” he said. “Let us show you.” He called his assistant to perform: “Meti, the wedding rug.”
The young man lifted a rolled carpet from a pile against the wall and flung it forth with a “whoosh”—so that it unfurled before them like a peacock’s fan. Their eyes were dazzled with swirling geometric designs, lush colors, squares and zig-zags, flowers and entwined vines, the shapes of tassels and wine vessels.
“Another!” called the magician, and his assistant threw forth another woven rug. It exploded over the first, with new and dizzying designs. “This one took five years to make! Now another!” Soon the room was covered in rugs, four and five layers high, their knotted fringes peeping out, one from under another. Each rug called to them “Buy me! Ride me! I’m the Magic Carpet that will take you to the promised land, to the land of your dreams.” The sun, coming in the shop’s windows, lit up the colors like fireworks.
Lilly lay her head back against the wall, caught up in the spectacle of the show.
“For the last rug, we will show you the silk,” said the proprietor, and she watched the young man unroll one more rug which was snapped at them like the cape of a bullfighter. It spread itself on the floor before them in tones of cobalt blue, red, orange, green, its pattern the most intricate of all. “Now rotate” said the magician, and, with another flip of his two hands, the assistant rotated the rug a quarter turn and now it appeared as a brilliant pastel, pink and sky-blue, shimmering with light. It seemed as if it could be swum in, so deep and fluid were its blues.
“Only silk can do this. It is
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