Turkey Trove

By Rob Walters

Turkey, the historic bridge between Europe and the East, excites the imagination.

In a collection of ten short stories Rob Walters provides a fascinating glimpse into the culture and characters of this special country. The tales embrace everything from ants to fireflies, ferocious dogs to rutting bulls and natural aphrodisiacs to underground cities; all based within this secular, Islamic nation.

Though firmly based on the author’s experience of the country each tale has an imaginative and sometimes shocking twist. This is not a travelogue, though the backcloth moves across the entire breadth of Turkey embracing the account of a young woman stranded in an alien culture, the stoning of a less than generous tourist and the mystery of a vanishing minaret. Many of the stories are written from the traveller's viewpoint; others slip inside the skin of the modern day Turk.

In this unique compilation you will get a glimpse into the mind of a Turkish tourist tout, experience an echo of the Ottoman society, face the danger of taking a lift with strangers, enjoy the delight of slipping into a welcoming community, share the fun of debunking local myths and the dangers of avoiding honey traps.
This collection will make you think. It may also persuade you to visit Turkey – or maybe not.

Here are the story titles:

Culture Clash
The Secret Garden of The Dogs
Fisher of Folk
The Missing Minaret
The Tourist Touch
Abduction
Shop Club
The Stoning
The Fallen Frenchman
The Invitation
The Last Ottoman
Rutting Bulls

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Walters
• Release date: Jul 21, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301673520

Rob Walters

I always wanted to write, even as a kid, and now I do. I can transfer the desire to other projects and often do - but if there is nothing much on then I need to write. In my past life in the technical world I was often puzzled by colleagues who hated writing in the way that some people hate maths.They were forced to write whereas the pen had to be wrested from my hand. When my children were young I wrote for them. I clearly recall reading the second chapter of a book I started on the lives of a family of city foxes. I had almost finished reading a section in which most of the cubs were gassed in their earth when I looked up and was amazed to see tears streaming down the faces of my two daughters. The power of the written word? My first full book was published in 1991, It followed many technical papers and articles and was followed by two newsletters which I edited, and mostly wrote, for the next ten years. Four more technical books appeared after which I abandoned the world of technology and began doing my own thing. I travelled, became an Oxford city guide, and wrote a number of books and articles, some fiction, some non-fiction, some published, some not. See my bookshop on the web for all of my books and a shocking experience in an online pub.

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Turkey Trove

by Rob Walters

Smashwords Edition 1

First published as an eBook in 2010

Copyright © Rob Walters

The moral right of Rob Walters to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

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The Stories in the Trove

These stories are based on the author’s travels in the Middle East. However, they are fictional and any similarity between the characters (including his own) portrayed in these pages and living persons is purely coincidental.

Culture Clash

The Secret Garden of The Dogs

Fisher of Folk

The Missing Minaret

The Tourist Touch

Abduction

Shop Club

The Stoning

The Fallen Frenchman

The Invitation

The Last Ottoman

Rutting Bulls

Chapter 1 Culture Clash

Sefer's dark stare crossed the room like a spear pinning Fabienne to the wall of the large, rather sumptuous, room. Nevertheless she seemed quite unaware of him; she continued knitting automatically and smiling at me in an interested, attentive manner. I sat next to her on the traditional floor-level cushions vaguely missing the European style sofa that I was accustomed to yet relishing the feel of the soft carpet beneath my bare feet.

She had asked where I had dined and what I had eaten: subjects that I did not find particularly interesting. In fact, I had found the town crassly touristic and grossly over supplied with dubious restaurants: restaurants so starved of clientele that the proprietors did everything short of kidnap in order to get people into their deserted establishments. The one I had chosen had captured a few customers, but it served nondescript food from an over-descriptive menu.

I found a place in the centre of the town near the clock tower, I said evasively. It was OK.

This provided a version of my evening that was a little more positive than reality. I was wary of offending her and reasoned that since she had chosen to work in this pension she must have some loyalty to the town.

The town is a bit of a dump, she responded, having correctly picked up my negative undertones. The tourists mostly visit the ruins of Ephesus on day trips nowadays; they stay in hotels on the coast and eat there. We have too many restaurants now, but no one is willing to close down. They think that things will change. Having invested in the restaurant they feel that by closing down they would lose everything and then what else would they do?

I could sense Sefer rising like a cat which sees an approaching dog, You are wrong, he spat, the tourists do not come because of Bush and his crazy soldiers. The tourists will be back. I know this.

Until this outburst I had not realised that he could speak anything but osmotic English - the standard tourist vocabulary that almost everyone seemed to pick up just by being around English speakers. But Sefer's English, though deeply scarred by a very strong Turkish accent, emerged as rich and intelligible.

Fabienne turned slightly towards him, her knitting needles frozen in mid-stitch. She began to talk to him in fluent Turkish, or so it seemed to my untrained ear. He spat back grudging responses. Not understanding this interchange I studied Fabienne's face: now in profile. It was not a beautiful face, but she was certainly attractive. She had medium-length, dark-brown hair cut into a fringe just above the eyebrows; her nose was pert; her chin softly rounded with a very slight doubling which predicted plumpness as she matured. She was, I guessed, in her late twenties. If at that moment someone had asked me to guess her country of origin I would have guessed correctly: she looked, and was, very French. She had the gestures of a French woman and spoke English with the delicious accent that only the French bring to the language.

I looked down at her hands - the knitting intrigued me. All the women of this place were knitters: Sefer's sister, his mother and the women who helped to clean and cook. I had asked Fabienne about it, but she merely said, It helps to pass the time.

I had responded, a little philosophically, Is time for passing?

She simply smiled at me in her uniquely enigmatic way, a smile which signalled an end to that particular strand in the conversation. Many things intrigued me about this woman, and not the least of these was her role in the pension. She seemed to be second in command to Sefer's sister who was, with her brother, joint owner of the place. Yet she could be quite cutting when interacting with her presumed manager. The sister exhibited a surfeit of energy, both physical and mental. Earlier in the day this tendency had come close to eruption when she had skipped up to Fabienne saying, I am so happy, so full of joy. Soon I feel I will have to dance.

Then dance, was the clipped reply from the Frenchwoman as she pushed past her effervescent boss in order to clear one of the tables.

The sister did execute a little twirl, but it was obvious that Fabienne's terse reply had punctured the balloon of emotion that was swelling within her.

The conversation with Sefer came to an end. He sat on the other side of the room glowering at Fabienne. She resumed her knitting and turned again towards me.

Did you enjoy the ruins? I think maybe you saw them today.

Yes, I saw them. They are impressive, but there were just too many people there: too many tour groups, coaches, cameras, children. I did not enjoy my visit as much as I had hoped.

She nodded in silent agreement. I found this woman very easy to talk to; she had a calm aura, and a genuine, unhurried interest in what I had to say that made me feel good. I really wanted to know more about her. As if sensing my interest Sefer leapt to his feet, shot one last angry glance at Fabienne, then charged noisily out of the room. My concern at the man’s strange actions no doubt showed on my face, but she was unperturbed and continued our conversation as if nothing had happened.

I have spent many years backpacking, she said with dreamy eyes, her mind no doubt reverting to those travelling days. France is no longer home to me, the world is my home, she continued profoundly.

And here? I ventured.

Here? she repeated, looking curiously around the large, ostentatiously Turkish, room as if looking for an answer to my question. Perhaps no answer came, in any event she brushed the question aside as if I had never asked. Instead she laid down her knitting and said brightly, We used to live on deserted beaches: making music, making love, catching fish from the ocean and cooking them over a driftwood fire - so delicious, so fresh.

She was silent for a moment as if savouring the taste of the ocean fish; recalling the love; hearing the music. Then her features softened as she returned to the present by asking, And you. Where are you making for?

Eastward, ever eastward.

India?

No, Syria. I am in a hurry to get there before it gets too hot.

She clapped her hands together in a girlish way exclaiming, Syria! Oh, I do envy you. I want to go there: the people - so friendly, the crusader castles, the history. Her eyes gleamed as she thought about this little known country. A country that beckons many travellers, yet tends to repel tourists.

Without the slightest premeditation I said, Then come with me. She smiled dreamily and looked away. Then, as if on cue, Sefer crashed back into the room throwing himself onto the cushions opposite, staring darkly at Fabienne and ignoring me just as she ignored him.

When are you leaving? she continued.

Tomorrow morning. I think that there is a bus to Konya at eight-thirty.

She nodded as if she were making a note of the time and place, then Sefer suddenly joined the conversation.

There is no bus to Konya at that time, he growled whilst staring at Fabienne, I know all of the buses from this place. This is my town, my home. There is no bus to Konya. He must go to Izmir, there he must change to a bus that goes to Konya. I know this, he finished prodding his chest sharply with his right index finger. He had a tendency to overstate things in this way as if there might be some challenge to what he said. It was an irritating characteristic; so too was his tendency to direct everything he said toward Fabienne when he was really talking to me.

As Sefer's speech ended a man quietly entered the room. He padded across the deep carpet on his bare feet and sat next to Sefer, first kissing him on both cheeks in the Turkish style. They were very similar, perhaps brothers, but where Sefer was angry, dark, sullen, this man was polite, smiling, servile. He nodded pleasantly to both Fabienne and myself. She exchanged a few words with him in Turkish, but the conversation was quickly over and he turned to Sefer who, I was now sure, was his brother. They began an intense, whispered conversation which plainly excluded Fabienne and me. They lit cigarettes and then doused them well before they were finished. Finally, they sat silently for a few moments until the brother rose, kissed Sefer again, then left the room nodding and smiling goodbye to the two of us as he passed.

Why don't you call your friend at the otogar about the Konya bus? suggested Fabienne when the brother had gone.

I have many friends at the otogar and I know these buses. All of them. he responded haughtily, though a little less aggressively than before. And, although he had rejected Fabienne's suggestion, he then contrarily took out his mobile and made a call. There was a rapid exchange in Turkish following which he placed the phone back into his shirt pocket and sat looking towards the curtained window.

Well? asked Fabienne with the first display of irritation towards him that I had detected.

He too seemed to notice the irritation. Flashing a triumphant smile in her direction he announced, There is no bus to Konya at eight-thirty. He must go to Izmir at that time and change there for Konya. I already know this, I have told you this. I know these buses: every one of them.

This time he shifted his dark gaze to me as if daring me to challenge the confirmed piece of information. When I said nothing he shrugged, rose to his feet and slammed out of the room once more.

What is the matter with him? I asked Fabienne, genuinely puzzled by his angry impulsiveness.

He has many things on his mind, she said. Then, after a pause, she continued: He is my boy friend.

I was shocked, yet felt that a more observant person might have found this relationship obvious. I was also confused. How on earth could this relationship work? She was, after all, clearly a liberated western female, whereas he, equally clearly, was a traditional Turkish male. I felt that I had to say something to fill a void which was encompassing the room and that could quickly lead to embarrassment.

How long have you been together? How did you meet?

Here, we met here. I came to the pension whilst on my way to Syria. Now here I am - beached. I never made it. I've been here for about eighteen months now. She shrugged unhappily. I thought it best to say nothing.

After a long pause she turned her eyes to where Sefer had been sitting and said sadly, He is forever going out with his male friends, but he will not take me. I say to him, 'where are you going?' and he says 'to a barbecue,' or maybe a football match, or swimming, or walking. I say that I want to come along. He says that this is impossible, his friends are men, and they would not want me there. There is no place for a woman on these outings even if she is European.

What do you do with yourself?

I stay with the women: his sister, his mother, the neighbours. That is what he expects; that is what women do here. They attend to the needs of the men and, when the men go out to attend to their other needs, the women stay at home: gossiping, bitching, talking about the men. A few weeks ago I said to his sister, 'Let's go out. Let's go to the seaside - catch fish and cook them on the beach.' Do you know what she said?

I shook my head, though I could have made a guess at the essence of the energetic sister's response.

This is what she said, continued the Frenchwoman, she said 'why would we do that Fabienne? We have fish in the fridge.' God in heaven. These women they have no sense of adventure; they do not want adventure; they are content with the home, the family. Everything here centres on the family. I am now part of the family so I don't get paid. I have to ask to ask Sefer if I want money. He gives it to me, but the act of asking for it marks the money as family money. It is not my money; everything here belongs to the family and, of course, the man is always the head of the family.

Is there no one else like you in the town: no European women, no liberated Turkish women?

She looked at me for a moment; her shapely lips were tightly pursed as if she were deciding how much to tell. There is a woman, she replied slowly, her eyes drifting towards the window. She lives in the house opposite. You can see her place from your bedroom window. She is from Istanbul. I think she is a designer of some sort: something to do with houses. She lives an independent life. She wears short skirts. She even has male friends to stay.

So, can't you become her friend? You could go to the beach together: catch fish, fry them on the beach.

She smiled a little at my mention of the beach, but quickly became serious as she responded, The women here hate her. They ignore her in the street then constantly spy on her and gossip about her and her way of life. She knows this and doesn't seem to care. She ignores them in her turn; she is not interested in their opinion of her. She has her own house and her own car: she is independent. If she and I were to become friends then the women here would ignore me. I would be shunned, excommunicated. I would be letting the family down and Sefer would tell me that I was disloyal. It would be as if I had taken a lover! Maybe worse!

She looked at me glumly. What could I say? The solution to her problems seemed obvious to me. She was an independent girl: a traveller. Her mind was quite unencumbered with the sense of duty that ruled this house and the people in it. Rather than stating the obvious, I decided to change the subject.

Have you ever been to Konya? I asked lamely.

She seemed relieved at the opportunity to talk about something else. Oh yes. It is quite interesting there. Everyone who travels across Turkey must go to Konya to visit Mevlana, the burial place of Rumi, one of the most famous members of the Sufi sect. The Turks venerate him, though most of them know little about him: him or his writing. But they all seem to know the story of his burial. When he died he was interred in Mevlana, the holy burial place that he had built for his father. It is said that Rumi himself was so beloved, so holy, that the coffin of his own father rose from the horizontal to the vertical to salute him. And that is how you will see it in Mevlana. You must go there. It is on your way.

How did you travel? By bus?

"No, we drove. Sefer