The chieftain rode down from the Anatolian hills. He came across a small settlement of tents, sheltered against a ridge. Outside one was a newly finished kilim, in vibrant shades of green, magenta and turquoise. The chieftain studied the patterns awhile, stroking his beard. He asked that the weaver’s father be brought to him.
“You must let her marry for love,” the chieftain said.
“But her love is as poor as we are!” said the father. “She is a beautiful girl, we hoped for a match that would improve our station.”
“Let her marry for love, and the rewards will be more than you can envisage now,” the chieftain said. “And child?” he added to the weaver, who hovered behind her father. She raised her eyes. “Show restraint when you weave the green next to the crimson.”
It was hot in the afternoon at Ephesus. Sarah had been travelling with a couple of Americans; they were fun, but their need to discuss every minute detail of everything at the top of their voices was beginning to grate.
“You know what?” said the American woman. “We need to stay somewhere with CNN. I wanna watch the candidates’ debate.”
“Yeah,” said the man. “I’m for Perot.”
“Are you kidding? It’s gotta be Clinton from Arkansas. He’s got charisma, that guy is HOT.”
Sarah didn’t offer an opinion. They would go their separate ways tomorrow; she would do the New Zealand rite of passage to Ҫanakkale and Gallipoli, they were heading inland to Cappadocia. It was a relief when Mehmet, the pensione owner, pulled into the car park. His Beamer was ancient but it had working air con. He’d edged out the other hotel owners touting for custom at the bus station, with his offer of transport from his pensione to Ephesus.
“Just one stop,” he assured them as they wilted into the seats. “Just my cousin’s carpet shop. You will love it, very authentic, real nomad carpets from Anatolia.”
At least it was cool in the shop. Sarah relaxed on a squishy couch, sipped her apple tea, and listened to the Americans haggle.
“You know, I had a look at some kilims in Istanbul. They were way cheaper than yours.”
“In the city, you don’t know where the carpets have come from,” Mehmet countered. “These all come with a full certificate of authenticity.”
Sarah would have loved one of the flat-woven colourful kilims for herself, but she was on a budget.
When the bargaining got serious, she paid more attention.
“Alright, alright,” said Mehmet. “If you buy one each, I will give you both a ten percent discount. So 300 American dollars.”
“What if I bought one too?” Sarah ventured. “Maybe fifteen percent each?”
The weaver put the heavy carpet to one side. Her fingers ached with the effort of the endless knotting. She entwined her fingers and circled her wrists away, feeling the luxury of the stretch. Her eyes lit up at the pile of leftover threads on the floor. With these end bits of wool, silk and goat hair she could work on her own kilim, a small one, just big enough to line the baby’s cradle.
One of my earliest memories is lying on my mum’s Turkish rug in the first house we lived in. I could trace my fingers over the panel with the animals woven into it: a bright pink horse with a golden mane and tail, a flock of birds flying above. I don’t remember a lot about living in that house, just that it was mostly quiet. Except for the time I spilt my lime green soft drink on the rug. I wasn’t usually allowed fizzy drink, but it was sort of a special occasion: there were visitors in the house. Mum moved quickly to blot it up with a paper towel.
The next day I remember Dad shouting. The green of the soft drink and the natural dyes of the rug had leached into the new cream carpet. Mum’s voice was low and reasonable, but his shouting went on and on.
The rug was one of the few things she brought with us when we moved out of that house. I remember the day clearly. Mum did all the talking, Dad stayed silent in the background.
“So I know it sounds scary,” she said. “But we are going to have a house where you live with me, and you’ll come back here to stay with Dad on some weekends.”
The house we moved into was cold. Mum lit a fire in the wood burner, and told me to pull the curtains closed. In the lounge, there were two types of carpet, joined through the middle of the room. Mum spread the rug over the join, and announced that we were home.
Namir thought he would never be warm again–but it was a small price to pay. In every other way, his life was better. He was one of the lucky ones.
His family had a history of forward planning. His great-great-grandparents travelled from the wilds of Anatolia to the bustling trade city of Aleppo in Syria. They built up a carpet empire–not just a shop, but a factory. His father was the manager when Namir was born. When the fighting came to the city, his father acted quickly. Trade contacts were utilised; young Namir, his mother and grandmother among the first refugees to leave the city, before moving people became such a dirty, risky business. They got a place in a refugee camp not far from Istanbul, while his father stayed behind to run the factory.
Namir’s memories of that time were vague. He remembered a room at the back of the factory where he wasn’t allowed to go. Serious-faced men came and sat at the table with his father.
“It is time for a new way.”
“Look at Egypt, it can be done.”
Now, his mother was smiling. “We have been invited to dinner,” she told him. They spoke English at home these days. “My teacher Sarah has asked us to come to her house. We are going to have a real Kiwi barbeque. She told me we must bring a plate.”
She laughed at Namir’s surprised face. “No, no, it is not what you think. She has plenty of plates. It is an expression, it means bring something to share. I am going to make baklava, everyone likes that, and pistachios are easy to find.”
We often had extras for dinner. Mum did volunteer work teaching English at the refugee centre, and she loved to invite her students home.
“I know all their stories are tragic,” she said, chopping cabbage for coleslaw. “But this family has had a terrible time. Their father disappeared in Aleppo–where all the bodies were found in the river when the water came down. Do you know the people built a dam to stop the bodies floating away? Some of them were so decomposed they could only be moved in a wheelbarrow. Imagine. The grandmother died in the camp. But Zulfya is so strong, still so positive. Grab out the reduced cream will you love, I thought we’d do some onion soup dip.”
And that was the night I met Namir. I opened the door an hour or so later, to bright-eyed and head-scarved Zulfya, and her quiet son, who seemed about my age.
I showed them into the lounge. By then we lived in a house where the carpet was the same through the whole room, but the rug still had pride of place. The magenta was more rose now, and it had a corner that consistently curled.
“You have a kilim!” Zulfya cried. “Look Namir. Where is it from?” She expertly flicked a corner over, and examined the threads on the underside. Namir sat quietly on the carpet, and traced his fingers around the horse with the golden mane.
Reluctantly, Mum agreed that the rug was just too tatty for the lounge. She moved it to the covered deck at the back of the house, and when we took the tent for camping in the Coromandel, she folded it carefully and put it in the boot of the car. Once the tent was set up, her final flourish was to spread the rug over the floor. “See, we are real nomads,” she said.
That summer Namir played drums in a band, and I sold jewellery at the markets around the holiday towns. We were allowed our own tent. We noticed how much weight Mum had lost. When I was young and she played on the mat with me, I used to think how her eyes were bright like the blue at the outer edges of the rug. The blue had faded to almost silver now, and her eyes were the same shade.
It was Namir’s idea to line the coffin with the rug.
Tomorrow we will fly out, to Los Angeles, to Frankfurt, to Istanbul. There is some tourism to Syria, now that the war is over, but it’s still not considered safe. Namir has many people to see; most of his remaining extended family are settled in Turkey. I have the name of the best carpet shop in the Grand Bazaar, praised for its authenticity and workmanship. I need to find a genuine silk kilim, one where the threads in the weft have a high shine, and the ones in the warp make a fringe. One with neatly woven ends on its reverse. Maybe a magenta horse with a golden mane. One that will last a lifetime.