Day 4-Kilim Today, History Tomorrow

Here is a story I wrote for my class, "Imagining Place Through Travel and Literature."  It is about my fourth day in Istanbul and I thought it would be more fun for everyone to read than what I have been doing.  The picture actually has my Kilim in it, it is the one in the right most corner.  Enjoy!

 

 

 

“You don’t think he’ll mind, do you?”  Amanda said in a concerned tone as she opened the door to another carpet shop.

            “No, it’s fine to ask around and make sure you’re getting the best deal,” Catherine replied in her straight forward way.

            “It’s a lot of money, and we can tell you’re worried about the decision,” I added.  “So let’s just go in here and take a look,” trying to reinforce what Catherine just said.  

            Amanda had already committed, by way of a hand shake, to a beautiful silk rug from a man at another carpet shop down the street at the Kapali Carsi in Istanbul.  And she had every intention of buying the rug after we ate lunch, but panic set in as she realized the persuasion power the salesman had exhibited.  We all knew that hand shakes have meaning here, they act as a contract, an honor code, and it was this contract that Amanda had at another carpet store which made her nervous to enter another shop to compare prices. 

A bell rang as Amanda opened the door to Adnan and Hasan’s.  With its unobtrusive, wooden store front and carpets in the window the store, in a way, seemed honest and trust-worthy and this drew us even deeper into it.  Already this shop was different from the rest, lined in a deep brown wood and smelling musty, the shop had genuine character.  In every corner, stacked, were rugs of every color and texture.  A wooden staircase hugged the back wall and led to an unknown location, and we acquainted ourselves with the store by looking around and taking in the store’s beauty.

            “Can I help you?” A man asked, in a casual and unassuming way.  He was short with a small frame and his hair was black but it looked as though silver had been combed into it.  He had lighter eyes and a friendly face, and we felt at ease instantly. 

            Taking the lead Catherine said, “Yes! About how much would a four by six, silk on cotton rug cost?”

            Taken back by her assertiveness, but not entirely shocked, the man said, “Well, it really depends on the quality.  We only sell antique kilims here, but I can make a few calls.”  We knew from our experience in past stores that kilims are a traditional style Turkish rug, exhibiting meaningful signs and colors, and having more geometric patterns than the silk rugs we had been looking at.   

            As the man picked up a phone, the three of us looked at each other then began to look through the piles of rugs.  The rugs were soft and faded, yet it was this faded quality which meant that each had a story and a past.

            With each of us about a third through our stack, we heard the man hang up the phone and take a breath.  “Well,” he said, “the rug, with out knowing the quality, that you describe should run you about 1, 400 dollars.  But it’s not Turkish, it might be Afghani.”

            “It’s not from Turkey?” Amanda said in a loud whisper, for it was the birth place of the rug, not the price which surprised her.

            “Well let me make another call for you,” the man uttered in what seemed to be an attempt to remedy Amanda’s shock.

            The three of us turned to each other again, all with the same wide-eyed surprised look on our faces.

            “I don’t want a rug from Turkey made in Afghanistan,” Amanda said.

            “I know, well let’s wait to hear what he says,” I said, glancing over at the man on the phone, so eager to help us.

            “Yes, definitely not Turkish,” the man said turning from the phone.  “Authentic Turkish rugs are wool on wool and silk on silk, nothing else.  That rug could be made anywhere, maybe even China.”

            Seeing Amanda’s disappointment, Catherine quickly suggested that the man show us some of his rugs.

            “Would you like something to drink?” he offered.  We sat down on the kilim-cushioned bench and in a unanimous sigh said, “Yes!”

            He began unfolding one kilim after another.  There were green kilims, with blue and red details; orange with black and red designs, and purple accents; tasseled rugs with blue beads and star embroidery; and yellow with faded black geometric patterns.  There was a kilim for everyone at least that is the way it seemed after looking at so many of the carpets.  As he unfolded each rug it was as if he created another dimension to the chaos which was the show room.  A patchwork quilt of kilims lay before us, it was dramatic and confusing, yet exciting.  Which one did I love?  Truthfully I loved them all, they were like people, each with a story and a past, which I yearned to know more about. 

            One kilim struck me, it was blue, red and grey.  The harsh geometric designs, in this one, seemed to mesh together creating soft, almost floral patterns, and it spoke to me. 

            “What about this one, can you tell me about it?” I asked. 

            The man responded quickly, “This one is from Western Turkey, Usak area.  It is wool on wool, hand-woven and about twenty-five years old.  It has a tree of life design, which represents the belief in life after death.  There is the child motif here, showing the desire for fertility, the fetters represent the unity of the family, and the meandering water around the edge means long life.”

            He went on to describe the two kilims which Amanda and Catherine had picked out.  Amanda’s was almost square with 9 embroidered stars of different colors, and a purple background.  Catherine’s pick had vibrant and vivid colors, yellows, greens, oranges, blues, all outlined in black.

            We fell in love, in love with the kilims, with the process, and with the stories, and knew that we had to take these small parts of Turkey home with us.  Taking one home would intertwine the kilims past with my future, creating a new history unique to us both.  So our group of three made our way to the ATM; after all it is expensive to buy a kilim with a past. 

            As we walked to the ATM, a man stopped us it was the salesman from the original carpet store.  He grabbed Amanda’s arm and in an aggressive tone asked, “Where are you going?  Did you forget where our store is?”  He was young and dressed accordingly in a nice grey suit and gold chain hanging between the two unbuttoned buttons on his shirt, revealing a tuff of chest hair.  His hair was greased back emphasizing two deep brown eyes, eyes that seemed to question and accuse all at once.    

            Amanda was shocked and didn’t quite know where to begin, she quickly looked from me to Catherine, back to me. 

            “She changed her mind, the rug was too big,” Catherine stated, plainly. 

            “Come with me, the rug’s already packed it’s yours,” the man pushed.

            We tried to walk away, ignoring him, but this tactic didn’t work.  He pushed his way in front of us, stopping us with an extended arm and another plea to come back to his store.  “You committed, the rug’s beautiful and waiting for you,” he continued.

            The three of us came closer, pushing against each others shoulders for some kind of support.  Right then, when we had run out of excuses for the badgering salesman, a man from our shop, the shop we had fallen in love with, came, and in Turkish he began arguing with the man.  Although intention is the only thing I could decipher, I imagine that he came to protect us. 

            After a few heated words, the perpetrator left us alone.  We made our purchase and walked to the metro, escorted by a salesman, turned body guard.  Forearms aching from the weight of our new kilims, the three of us weaved our way in and out of parked cars.  I glanced back as we stepped on the metro and a small smile peeled across my face as I realized that unlike our rugs, which had been finished many years back, our friendship was just starting.  We had plenty of time to add new borders, fetters, and trees of life, before our kilims of friendship will be complete; creating our own stories and pasts and always weaving new futures.