The Story of the Turk

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The Story of the Turk

On the night of Christmas Eve, I joined my father, sister, and aunt for a party onChicago’s North Shore. It was the house of a Turkish businessman that we were lookingfor as we drove through the extravagantly lit-up neighborhood with cobblestone streets.The large and imposing mansions on manicured plots aroused our awe and curiosity.Brown paper bags with candles in them were set up along the sidewalks and the frontwalkways to the houses, but I noticed that a couple had fallen over and small fires were burning here and there. My sister thought that we should stop the car to put out the firesalong the way, but my father insisted we keep driving because he wanted to be on timefor the party. It was hard for me to convince my father that the actual time a party is saidto begin is not the time that you are supposed to arrive. “If you’re going to arrive ontime,” I asserted, “than at least you should come fifteen minutes later. It’s only polite.”But he didn’tunderstand this tact. Instead he dashed the car through unnamed streets untilhe came into the vicinity where he believed the Turkish family resided. He stopped thecar in front of an Italian villa style home and asked my sister to run up to the door andcheck the number. In one of her characteristic moods, my sister stubbornly refused to get

out of the car and we were stuck in front of the lit-up mansionwith paper bags fallen over on the walkway and little fires burning. For several minutes, the car was stalled in themiddle of the street. My father stretched his elbow across the passenger seat to gaze atthe dark figures which appeared in the tall windows. “That’s her,” he exclaimed. “Irecognize that woman. This is the house.” It was the Turk’s mother my father had finallyrecognized. All of us in the car, including my aunt, let out a sigh of relief.

The moment we stepped into the house I was struck by strangeness of the familymembers themselves. As I predicted, we were the first to arrive and therefore it was usand them standing side by side. Before mewas a chubby little boy in a suit and tie. Hehad a mischievous grin on his face as he tottered back and forth on the balls of his feetand rubbed his hands on his belly. Later I would find this same boy downstairs in the basement wielding a giant plastic sword at his girl-cousins. My sister and I exchanged aknowing glance. Beside the dressed-up boy was his older sister. She looked out of place,as if she might be unrelated to the family, or if she was related, than maybe she wasn’thealthy like the rest. That is to say, maybe this poor girl had autism or some other isolating disease. The first thing that I noticed was her stony, emotionless face, and howshe wasn’t wearing nice clothing like the others. I thought that maybe she was thecleaning lady. She looked about high school age and had wiry head phones hanging fromher neck. She wore a plain sweater and casualjeans. After her little brother opened thedoor for us and we stood in the main hall wondering what to do, she didn’t say a word.

Luckily the Turk sprang around the corner, showering us with compliments andholiday chatter. He wore a cashmere vest and a light green tie and his black shoes

reflected the world upside down. In a sprightly and talkative manner, he reached for our jackets and began to hang them in the front closet. Then his wife appeared and handledthe coats much more expediently. She was giant, towering woman with large, impressivelimbs. She wore loose flowing black pants and a leopard patterned silk tunic that felldown the length of her blouse. I watched the little tip of the tunic dangling between her legs. She seemed to reach with a hundred hands for the rest of our coats. As her husbanddallied and talked about the holidays, she stuck our coats on several gold hangers like bending back a bow and shooting several arrows at once.

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And then there was the Turk’s mother and father who were equally strange. Neither of them spoke English which added to their strangeness. They had a brooding presence as they stood on the thresholdof every room we came into and they watched usas if we were aliens from another world. My father tried to speak Arabic to the Turk’sfather. The Turk’s father had a noble dignity about him and was a short man who dressedmeticulously. Later I heard that he used to bea tailor in the old country. A gold watchchain hung from his vest pocket, and he his belly protruded lightly against the fine cottonof his dress shirt, but the way he held himself seemed to disguise the weight. His facewas clean-shaven and his expression changed very little during the time we were at the party. The Turk’s mother was the woman my father noticed from the car. She was a stoutwoman, short like her husband, with a stern, unsmiling face. She hobbled around therooms much like the character in a fairy tale.

It was only natural for the Turk to want to show off his house. And so, right after they had taken our coats from us, we went on the full tour. All of us were in awe of thegrand living room with its high ceilings and brilliant turquoise walls, tall glass vasestwisting upwards like ice sculptures, and a black marble fireplace inlaid with gold. Myfather clumsily fell behind the giant arm chairs and had to pull himself out of the heavy

drapes. The Turk spoke about his recent investments and the renovation of this 1924house. As we moved into the four-season room, he pointed to the space where the wallshad been knockeddown.

The immense four-season room had one wall of rough, white stones, and the restof the walls were long, vertical glass panels. The tiles were earth-toned and the roomgave the general impression of a small green-house. As my father and the Turk weretalking, I noticed the huge curtain of darkness surrounding us. There was no perspectiveoutside and you couldn’t see anything but depthless darkness. The windows looked outinto this abyss no matter what room we stepped into. It was as if the Turk’s mansion,extravagantly lit up from the inside, was suspended in a pool of black, oily darkness.

The Turk led us into thehome theatre room. By the tone of his voice, I could tellthat he poured large sums of money into thespeaker system and high-definition television.He even opened up a long cabinet with six or seven pieces of stereo equipment onseparate shelves and a laser blue light shinning on each metal box and told us that thesound system in this room cost over thirty-thousand dollars. My father guffawed at the price, and complained about his own sound system which came with a universal remotethat he had to pay somebody elseto program. I sat on the leather couch and puzzled at thegiant screen of the high-definition television. Then it occurred to me that the screen wastoo big for the room. I had to turn my head every time an image came across it. Itseemed as if the Turk was unconscious of this slight problem.

As the others saunteredinto the kitchen, I remained sitting on the couch. I keptthinking about how far technology hadgone to reproduce life. I flipped to the NationalGeographic Channel to test the quality of the screen. The camera was steadied on a

couple high-definition jackals curled up in a mountain pass at night. A family of muskrats scampered across the dry ground below, but the jackals did not budge. Thecamera showed the muskrats running free. The dancing screen continued to amaze me but all the amazement eventually tired out my eyes and I found myself looking back intocurtain of darkness beyond the windows. The Turk came into theroom to offer me adrink. “You know we have a pool out there,” he said.

“Really. I didn’t know that.”“Yeah, last year my wife and Ibought the adjoining lot.”



My tired eyes couldn’t see a trace of anything outside.I pulled myself out of the bulbous, leather couch and went into the kitchen. I

drank a can of Pepsi over the marble countertops and looked at the giant modern stovewith its stainless steel panels and sleek red dials. There were pans of spinach casseroleand layered noodles laid out on the countertop. The Turk’s wife stormed into the kitchenand took several of the casseroles out of the oven. I continued to sip my Pepsi off to theside.

The dining room had dark, mahogany wood and thick gold curtains. A full buffetwas laid out on a longdining room table. At the front of the table was a silver platter of rare roast beef. It seemed to be waiting for the guests to come over and devour it withtheir hungry maws. Further down, there were cold vegetables, crackers, and cheeses.There was a dish of hummus and a dish of baba ganussh. The moment the Turk’s wifelaid down the noodle dish, I reached for a paper plate and silverware. The noodlecasserole had five layers with cheese in between each layer. Ever since we got in the car to come to this party, my stomach was growling for sustenance and now that arich buffetwas laid out before me I felt a twinge of self-abandon.

There was also a dessert table, which never escaped my attention. My father,

sister, and aunt hovered around the buffet, adding things to their plates, or they sat downin the tall arm chairs to eat. Despite the grandeur of the Christmas Eve dinner, we werein a hopeless and awkward state. The paper plates kept slipping from our laps and I can’tsay that eating in front of the Turk’s stolid mother was all that enjoyable. The other guests began arriving, nearly forty minutes later. I nudged my father and told him with amouthfull of noodle casserole, “See. We got here too early.” It was obvious that we hadarrived too early because we were eating before anyone even stepped through the door.My father went off in a corner and spoke to the Turk’s father in Arabic.

I must have eaten too fast because the only thing that seemed to relieve my fullstomach was a strong cup of coffee. I was the first to drink the coffee. The Turk’s wifehad brewed a seasonal blend and it flowed from a large silver decanter near the edge of the marble tabletop. Having drunk some of the coffee, I was intoxicated by the sweethazelnut smell and the warm feeling in my belly as I passed through several rooms of thehouse. I smiled at people I never met before and went downstairs into thefinishedbasement. A long, cavernous hallwaysplit off into separate rooms. These roomswere more like giant pits to play in. The chubby mischievous boy was striking swordswith some other boys his age. The high screams of his girl-cousins rang out when he pounced on them. Weird canopies hung from the ceiling and some dazed children wereresting in these pods. I turned the light on in another room which had four pinballmachines and a large-screen projector.

I decided to escape the chaos of the basement. There was a narrow staircase thatwent up the side of the house. Climbing this secret stairwell, I felt as if I was ascendingthe tower of St. John’s Cathedral. The lights on the second floor of the Turk’s house had

not been turned on. I wandered down a shadowy hall and slipped in between the crack of the library doors. I finished my coffee and placed it on top of the fireplace mantel.Above the fireplace was a contemporary painting of a rowboat suspended in dark, hazywaters. I listened to the crackling of the fireplace and studied the books on the shelves.There was a heavy silence in the room that seemed to penetrateevery object. I sat downin an armchair in the corner of the room and listened to the silence. Then my eyes weredrawn to a picture on one of the book shelves. It was a wedding photograph of a couplewho didn’t exactly resemble the Turkand his wife, but I couldn’t be sure. The woman in



the photograph immediately stole my attention and I got up from my chair and put the picture under a lamp to study her more closely.

It was one of those pictures where you look into it and see a whole world. Theexpression on the bride’s face was beyond interpretation. She looked into the camerawith her dark, slanted eyes, and laughter came out of them as she threw herself back intoa carefree pose. Her husband was also a dark, attractive man, but beside the bride he wasalmost non-existent.

“Who’s that woman in those pictures?” I asked.“That’s the bride of my wife’s brother.” The Turk chuckled. “Those are the kind

of women we have in Turkey.”“What do you mean?” I asked.“We have many beautiful women in Turkey. If you come to Turkey some time,

I’ll introduce you.”“My father was just in Turkey.”“I know. I tried to introduce him, but he was nervous and defensive.”“My father doesn’t go for younger women. He says he doesn’t want to have any

more children.”

The Turk laughed. “That’s true. An older man has to watch out.”We stood in silence for a moment. I studied the beautiful woman in the pictures.“But what about you?” He said. “Aren’t you looking for a wife?”“I’m too young to be thinking about marriage.”“Too young? Never too young. How about I arrange a trip for you to come to

Turkey to meet my nieces?”I couldn’t help but laugh at this sudden offer. The Turkish businessman sounded

completely serious. “I can’t do that,” I said. “That would be too weird.”“What if your father pays for the ticket? My family will take care of you once

you’re there. Just tell your father you’re going to find a bride. He’ll understand. Mynieces are very beautiful.”

“Like the woman in that picture?”“Oh, even more beautifulthan that. They’re angels from heaven.”The Turk was gloating.“What about your brother-in-law? Is he happy?”“He has a beautiful bride, and he comes from a family of jewelers . . . but I don’t

know if he’s happy. He’s had to struggle. We all do in life.”“I don’t know if I believe that. What would a man in his position have to struggle

for?”“Well, for one thing, he’s had to struggle with love.”“Did she marry him because he’s wealthy?”“That’s part of the problem. You see, my brother-in-law is a person given to

extreme skepticism. When he fell in love with this woman he couldn’t be sure what was

real and what was imagined.”“How can any of us know?”The Turk chuckled. “You are wise for your years. But my brother-in-law was

afflicted by a grave uncertainty. Instead of a ring, he gave his fiancé a camel-bone jewelry box.”

“What’s that?”“A jewelry box. You’ve heard of a jewelry box before. Well, this one was made

of camel bones. The ugliest thing you’ve ever seen. With brass hinges and two fake



rubies on it, like eyeballs looking out of a death’s head. He found it in a Turkish bazaar and the man who sold it to him said it came from Morocco.”

“But I thought you said your brother-in-lawwas from a family of jewelers. Whywould he buy his fiancé a cheap box from Morocco?”

“That is all part of the story . . . At the time, this beautiful woman you see in the photograph was expecting my brother-in-law to propose. But he was overcome withdoubt and paranoid fearsabout the marriage. He couldn’t make up his mind. One minute,he believed she loved him and the next he’d say such things as ‘I don’t want to marry aserpent.’ He was very unsettled and every little thing would set him off in another direction. He believed that if he could come up with a simple test, then he’d be able todetermine what to do. The box fell into his lap one day. He wasn’t looking for it. It justappeared. And then, he decided that he would use it to figure out whether his girlfriendwas really in love with him.”

“So, instead of the engagement ring she was expecting, he gave her a camel-bone jewelry box. At first this startled her, as it would anyone, I suppose. I was told by somerelatives that she screamed when she opened it. You see, there was a weird aura to this box, you know like ‘bad vibes’ or something. This eerie quality no one could explain.

Perhaps it was evil, or had evil spirits lurking inside. But, nevertheless, his girlfriendaccepted it.”

“But why would he want to give a box of evil spirits to his fiancé?”“I already told you. He wanted to test her. If you come from a wealthy family in

Turkey, you better be sure that your suitors are not outfor your money. With this box, he believed he could determine the true nature of her feelings forhim. If she rejected the boxthan that meant she was unfaithful and only wanted him for his money. If she accepted it,then she must love him.”

“How can you ever figure out if somebody loves you?” I exclaimed. “It seemslike an impossible test.”

“Maybe so, but my brother-in-law believed that it was possible and that’s what’simportant here.”

I looked at the wedding picture again. The woman in the photographs had eyesthat didn’t see anything in particular. Her gaze kept sinking back beyond some distant point and I could almost hear her muffled laughter. But her husband was smiling.

The Turk continued. “My brother-in-law was afraid that this ravishingly beautifulwoman wanted one thing from him and that was his family’s jewels. She must havedreamed of getting her hands on the most expensive pearls and diamonds. With suchriches, she could enhance her flawless beauty and make more men desire her . . . ”

“But your brother-in-law sounds crazy . . .”“I’ve often thought that my brother-in-law wanted what all of us want and that is

to know a thing for certain. He had his fears, like we all do. But he was willing to givethis woman the benefit of the doubt if she passed a simple test. And he expected her to

fail. I’ve met her before, by the way. When I met her, she came across to me as a kindand compassionate woman. I thought that she may very well have loved him and I askedmy brother-in-law to drop his insecurities. But it had become like an obsession to himnow.”

“The camel-bone jewelry box, aside from a little initial shock, didn’t faze her atall. The merchant in the Turkish bazaar had assured my brother-in-law that with itsmagical powers the box would repulse her, but there were absolutely no signs of that.She accepted the box whole-heartedly. My brother-in-law refused to believe it though.



He thought that she was putting on an act, that still she was deceiving him. He calledher aserpent again and again. In the weeks that followed she never showed any sign of aversion toward the box, but on the contrary, her whole character seemed to blossom and become more loving and more affectionate. But my brother-in-law remained in doubt,asking what she did with the box and where she kept it. ‘I put it on top of my dresser,’she would answer. ‘I put the rings my father gave me when I was younger into it.’”

“But by this pointit was impossible for her answers or her behavior to satisfy my brother-in-law. That’s when he went back to old man in the bazaar and told him heneeded a ring to match the ghastly repulsiveness of the box. He wanted a ring that wassure to shatter any possibility of ever getting married to this woman.”

“But I thought . . .”“Just wait. The man in the marketplace told him to return in four days. There

was some business he had to do outside the capital. After four days, my brother-in-lawreturned to the village. The old man closed his tent so that they could have some privacy.Then he took out an amber ring with three green stones on it. ‘These stones are found inthe mountain caves of Tabor,’ the old man said. My brother-in-law was giddy withdelight over the ring. He snatched it from the merchant’s hands, and was about to try it

on when the old man warned him not to wear it. ‘If you put on this ring,’ he said, ‘shewill never marry you. It is certain’ ‘But that’s what I want,’ my brother-in-law said,‘She’s not capable of loving me and I want to prove it.’” The merchant took his moneyand let him go. Outside the tent, my brother-in-law tried on the ring . . .”

“I don’t think you know what kind of yarn you’re spinning here!” I protestedangrily.

“What are you talking about? I’m telling you the true story of my brother-in-law’s marriage.”

“You must think I like hearing fairy tales. I’m not four years old.”“You’ve been to my house. You’ve seen my illustrious castle. You see the parties

I throw. There’s no need to convince you of anything more. Come with me to Turkey,and pick out one of my nieces to be your bride. Then tell me what is true and what isfairy tale.”

“Okay, go on with your story.”“My brother in law didn’t want to give his fiancé the ring that night. He wanted

wait one more night before giving it to her.”“Why?”“I don’t know. It’s not important. Just listen.”“Okay, go on.”“The next day he brought the ring to his girlfriend’shouse. Her father opened the

door. They lived in a modest house, nothing like the palace he grew up in. The father was an old, cranky man who never liked to be bothered. ‘My daughter isn’t home,’ hespat out atmy brother-in-law. After that the young man went home and waited to hear

from her.”“She went missing for three days, then four, and then a week. My poor brother-

in-law became upset and started to curse the relationship. He blamed himself for creatingthese obstacles. Now she was gone and all of his tactics were useless. The merchant had been right about trying on the ring. She would never marry him now. He blamed himself playing tricks on the woman who loved him and, he believed he was getting what hedeserved for trying to meddle with fate. He was on the verge of casting the ring into ariver by his house when she showed up at his door, out of the blue.”



“‘Where have you been?’ he said.”“In a hushed voice, she replied, ‘I had to go somewhere.’”“‘Where? You’re father didn’t know where you went. Why didn’t you tell

anyone?’”“‘It’s not so important right now. What’s important is that I can’t marry you. I’ve

met someone else.’”“My brother in law was deflated by these words. He knew that he was to blame

for making her run away.”“‘It’s thebox I gave you, isn’t it?’ He said. ‘I shouldn’t have given it to you.’”“‘No, it’s not the box. I’ve met someone else, another lover.’”“‘Stop! I’ll marry you. I’ll marry you right now if you want. You’ve proven your

love to me. That’s enough, I believe you.’”“‘But what are you talking about? I just told you that I don’t love you. I told you

I’ve met someone else.’”“‘Please marry me.’ My brother-in-law’s face was full of angst.”“‘I can’t marry you. I’m sorry. I’ve met someone else.’”“‘I knew it was wrong what I did,’ my brother-in-law said, sobbing tears of regret.

‘I’m a fool for not trusting you, a fool for not believing in your love. Please forgiveme.’”

“And he took the ring out of his pocket and he was about to cast it into the river when she looked at the glowing green stone and was immediately drawn to it. The dazzleof the green stone shone in her eyes and she threw herself down at my brother-in-law’sfeet, which symbolized to him, an act of true sacrifice.”

The fire crackled in the library and the some of the voices of the guest could beheard downstairs.

I turned to the Turk and said, “This is a beautiful story you have just told me, but Idon’t think I believe any of it.”

“That’s fine. Just tell me if you’ll come to Turkey next month to meet one of mynieces?”

As I stepped into the darkened hallway, I said, “I’ll think about it.”

CRA1/3/2008

The Story of the Turk

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