A Twist in the Tale

“Thank God they’re not on our flight.”

“Bermuda or the Bahamas would be my guess,” suggested Christopher.

A voice emanating from the loudspeaker gave Margaret no chance to offer her opinion.

“Olympic Airways Flight 172 to Istanbul is now boarding at Gate No. 37.”

“That’s us,” said Christopher happily as they began their long route-march to Gate No. 37.

They were the first passengers to board, and once shown to their seats they settled down to study the guidebooks of Turkey and their three files of research.

“We must be sure to see Diana’s Temple when we visit Ephesus,” said Christopher, as the plane taxied out onto the runway.

“Not forgetting that at that time we shall be only a few kilometers away from the purported last home of the Virgin Mary,” said Margaret.

“Taken with a pinch of salt by serious historians,” Christopher remarked as if addressing a member of the Lower Fourth, but his wife was too engrossed in her book to notice. They both continued to study on their own before Christopher asked what his wife was reading.

“Carpets—Fact and Fiction by Abdul Verizoglu, seventeenth edition,” she said, confident that any errors would have been eradicated in the previous sixteen. “It’s most informative. The finest examples, it seems, are from Hereke and are woven in silk and are sometimes worked on by up to twenty young women, even children, at a time.”

“Why young?” pondered Mr. Roberts. “You’d have thought experience would have been essential for such a delicate task.”

“Apparently not,” said Mrs. Roberts. “Herekes are woven by those with young eyes which can discern intricate patterns sometimes no larger than a pinpoint and with up to nine hundred knots a square inch. Such a carpet,” continued Margaret, “can cost as much as fifteen, even twenty thousand pounds.”

“And at the other end of the scale? Carpets woven in old leftover wool by old leftover women?” suggested Christopher interrogatively.

“No doubt,” said Margaret. “But even for our humble purse there are some simple guidelines to follow.”

Christopher leaned over so that he could be sure to take in every word above the roar of the engines.

“The muted reds and blues with a green base are considered classic and are much admired by Turkish collectors, but one should avoid the bright yellows and oranges,” read his wife aloud. “And never consider a carpet that displays animals, birds or fishes, as they are produced only to satisfy Western tastes.”

“Don’t they like animals?”

“I don’t think that’s the point,” said Margaret. “The Sunni Muslims, who are the country’s religious rulers, don’t approve of graven images. But if we search diligently round the bazaars we should still be able to come across a bargain for a few hundred pounds.”

“What a wonderful excuse to spend all day in the bazaars.”

Margaret smiled, before continuing, “But listen. It’s most important to bargain. The opening price the dealer offers is likely to be double what he expects to get and treble what the carpet is worth.” She looked up from her book. “If there’s any bargaining to be done it will have to be carried out by you, my dear. They’re not used to that sort of thing at Marks & Spencer.”

Christopher smiled.

“And finally,” continued his wife, turning a page of her book, “if the dealer offers you coffee you should accept. It means he expects the process to go on for some time as he enjoys the bargaining as much as the sale.”

“If that’s the case they had better have a very large pot percolating for us,” said Christopher as he closed his eyes and began to contemplate the pleasures that awaited him. Margaret only closed her book on carpets when the plane touched down at Istanbul airport, and at once opened file number one, entitled “Pre-Turkey.”

“A shuttle bus should be waiting for us at the north side of the terminal. It will take us on to the local flight,” Margaret assured her husband as she carefully wound her watch forward two hours.

The Robertses were soon following the stream of passengers heading in the direction of passport control. The first people they saw in front of them were the same middle-aged couple they had assumed were destined for more exotic shores.

“Wonder where they’re heading,” said Christopher.

“Istanbul Hilton, I expect,” said Margaret as they climbed into a vehicle that had been declared redundant by the Glasgow Corporation Bus Company some twenty years before. It spluttered out black exhaust fumes as it revved up before heading off in the direction of the local THY flight.

The Robertses soon forgot all about Mr. and Mrs. Kendall-Hume once they looked out of the little airplane windows to admire the west coast of Turkey highlighted by the setting sun. The plane landed in the port of Izmir just as the shimmering red ball disappeared behind the highest hill. Another bus, even older than the earlier one, ensured that the Robertses reached their little guesthouse just in time for late supper.

Their room was tiny but clean and the owner much in the same mold. He greeted them both with exaggerated gesturing and a brilliant smile which augured well for the next twenty-one days.

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