“Spend your money! Madam, Sir, Hello, MADAM!”
I turned my head.
“Please,” he said softly, his eyes glittering, his hands together, as if in prayer.
I stopped and looked at him.
His mouth moved into a smile, “leave your money HERE!”
I jumped. Z took my hand. Another man in grey stubble swept through the scarves and saffron, lanterns and locum, with his tear-drop tray tipping, collecting abandoned glasses of tea.
We ducked out of the close gold light of the Bazar.
“So bazaar, means market?”
Bizarre, I thought. For me it still means crazy.
Behind the Bazaar the shops were full but the streets were empty. Naked mannequins, and plumbing parts, coats and carpets and vacuum cleaners and samovars stacked quietly behind glass.
“What’s next?” I asked.
Z looked at the map. “The Mosques. Suleymaniye is closest. It’s just around the corner.”
I nodded and sighed as we climbed the hill. When I looked up two women were walking down the street past us. The older covered her head. The younger, the daughter maybe, did not.
Z looked at me.
“Should I cover my head?”
“If you want to.”
I wrapped my scarf around my hair, knotted it in the back, and brought the tails into my coat like a scarf. I was sure it looked wrong. But Z nodded. And you should know he is very honest.
Suleymaniye was quiet, almost empty. Slabs of grey marble rose into the distance and slim spires rose into the sky. Long thin grave stones leaned against one another, like they had been blown over in the wind. Dry leaves danced around them.
“What is he doing?” I asked.
A man sat on a small stool in front of a long wall of taps.
“Cleaning himself,” Z said. “Before prayer.”
We passed a great pile of carpets, removed our shoes and stepped inside. The ceiling domed upward like a great round breast. Large gold lanterns floated down, like jeweled earrings. The windows glowed blue and green and gold. Red carpets covered the floor.
No nave, no cross, no echoing footsteps. Silent. Still. A place to look inside, not out.
Z read the sign in a whisper. “Built in 1550… the biggest dome at the time of construction…the carpets are gifted by the faithful.”
A man rose from his prayer. His long white cotton dress flowed.
Z turned to me.
I took his arm. “Can you imagine all of the prayer it would take to wear out a carpet?”
Z reached for the shelf where our shoes were stacked.
“Taking our shoes off probably helps,” he said, “keeps them clean.”
Then he pointed to a vacuum in the corner. The cord plugged directly in the mosque wall.
I turned to him to smile and headscarf almost slipped off.
“I guess they’ve upgraded since 1550,” Z said.
Bizarre, I thought. Imagine the noise.