Fall 2011. Istanbul, Turkey
More tourists at the Blue Mosque. And chestnut sellers and roast corn. The Hagia Sophia, and then a glass of tea from a small boy in a vest and a hat, like I imagine on a monkey. With sugar it smelled like bitter roses.
The air smelled like rain. Dirty puddles reflected dark clouds and tired faces.
In both places, I think I was meant to feel splendor. But I felt cold. When I looked up at the great domed ceiling all I could think about was the people who built it: their hands and their backs, those stones and those lintels.
Christian, then Muslim, then museum. Constantinople, Ottoman Empire, Republic of Turkey. Impermanence; even in a building so old that paths are worn into the marble.
Which is the trouble with monuments, mostly. By the time you are allowed to be there, their day is done.
In the windows, in the shops, there are round red fruits with stems that look like lips, in a pucker. They are made of ceramic.
I point. Zilla nods. “They used to fill them with rubies, to represent the seeds.”
I don’t know if this is true, but I like to imagine.
In the crates, in front of the stalls, the real red fruits are cut open, the seeds in shapes like henna on a hand.
I point. The man behind the counter nods.
He reaches for a pomegranate and slices it open. Several rubies fall out.
Quickly, he brushes them to the floor.
He puts the fruit in his juice press and pulls down the lever. Pure color drips out.
I hand him a lira.
He hands me the cup.
It is cold but his hand is warm.
Raspberries, sweet corn. Or pomegranate.
Maybe I have never tasted pomegranate before.
In the window, my lips are red. So were his fingers.