Hasim nodded and explained to Francis, “He say, when the men return from the furnace, they pour cold water over their heads.”
“Ah, I see.” Francis smiled. “Thank you so much for showing us the furnace.”
Hasim translated for him. The older man responded with a nonstop stream of thank you’s and a polite bow. Hasim talked with him a few more moments, then guided Francis away.
Francis was certain that Hasim was important and well known here, as more than just a repeat customer.
“Where to now?” he asked, as they hovered by the open back door. A bevy of smiling female attendants waited, poised, with smiles on their faces.
Hasim smiled only at him. “What should you like to go?”
“Well, uh, are you free? You don’t need to return to the cats?”
“No, no.” Hasim chuckled. “They will be fed. I go where you go.”
“Oh, well in that case,” Francis said, thrilled. “I should very much like to see more of your city. Maybe not too much sun, if that’s possible?”
Hasim nodded. “I know the very place. Come with me.”
Chapter 13
When Hasim had mentioned visiting The Grand Bazaar, Francis envisioned an outdoor marketplace in the sunshine, which was now shining hot, and steadily getting hotter.
Francis used his white veil over his face to protect his poor cheeks and nose, as they made a short dash from tram to street. They crossed a small sized, open square lined with modest market stalls selling trinkets.
In the back of his mind, Francis had expected something…grander.
But Hasim led him past those stalls and toward a tall, open entrance made of stone, atop which golden letters said something in Turkish, and the date 1461. There were two big words stamped in English on either side of the sign,Grand Bazaar.
“Aha, I see,” Francis said, as they passed under the archway and inside.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, Francis was delighted to see a bustling underground street, its curved roof decorated with colourful mosaic tiles, walls lined with trinket shops and stalls, with plenty of customers happily browsing and bartering in Turkish. The scent of spice was in the air, fragrant and tantalising. Music trickled down the street, echoing and overlapping with the excited chatter of the people. The atmosphere was simply buzzing, and it was blissfully cool inside, shielded from the sun and with a gentle breeze on the air.
Francis gratefully removed the veil from his face. “Hasim, this is incredible,” he said. “I’ve never seen an underground market.”
Beside him, Hasim grinned. “There are sixty-two streets,” he said. “Many, many shops. Four thousand shops.”
“Goodness,” Francis replied, excited to see them all. “Doyou have a favourite?”
Hasim considered, then nodded. “This way.”
They passed by stalls with stacks of vibrantly coloured sweets and fragrant spices piled high, the vendors calling to them with smiles on their faces. While they had a destination in mind, Hasim paused at one of the sweet stalls and bartered for a plate of samples to taste. They had a quick back and forth, both men speaking firmly yet casually.
Turkish sounds a lot like German sometimes,Francis thought. One might assume the two men were arguing but it was simply the way people engaged here: direct.
Hasim finally presented Francis with a small plate bearing different confectionery squares, some powdered, some with nuts in.
“Oh, is this Turkish Delight?” he asked, taking the plate. “Don’t you want some?”
Hasim shook his head with a chuckle. “I do not like,” he answered. “I like the pastry. As you can see.” He patted his round belly affectionately, making Francis grin.
“Where are the pastry stalls?” he asked.
“This way. Come,” Hasim said, striding off.
Francis wondered how Hasim had paid for the sweets, glancing back at the vendor. It was at this moment he recognised three of the women attendants from the hookah den, now wrapped in more modest cotton robes and shawls, their hair brushed and tied back neatly or hanging in loose waves. One of them was handing over coins from a heavy purse to the vendor, and instructing him to fill a bag, it seemed.
The attendants must’ve ridden in the other tram car. Francis hadn’t even realised.
