E-Kantipur

A pair of blue eyes can stop you in your tracks. And when a man flashes his pearly whites and says, “Can I take a picture for you?” you surrender your camera to him as if guided by an invisible hand. I found myself doing this when a young Turkish fellow asked me so in his charming accent as he spoke English in a measured cadence. I was standing in front of the Hagia Sophia Church in Istanbul’s old town area known as Sultanahmet Square—stupefied by this man’s arresting beauty. In the next hour, I was staggering like a tipsy lady in broad daylight as he clicked away at the camera with me in different parts of the church. The Hagia Sophia ranks among the wonders of the world. Yet, it was this young man who had me transfixed.

He wasn’t a tour-guide and he didn’t ask me for money nor took it when I offered. He didn’t try to sell me Turkish rugs or apple tea, or promise the best kebabs at his restaurant like most other men that approached me randomly on the streets. He was a student in a local university on his summer vacation and wanted to show me around for a modest fee—which was my consent to speak in English to help him brush up on the language. He wished to study in the US someday. Puzzled by his request, I inquired, “Why did you approach me? There are plenty of tourists around.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I hope you’ll agree.”  

“What were you thinking? Or were you even thinking? How could you be so gullible—you actually fell for his story? He could’ve been a psycho-maniac killer. A serial rapist! God, you’re so crazy sometimes! You’ll land yourself in trouble if you continue as a simpleton!” These are snippets of the reactions from friends and family on hearing my Turkish adventure. Indeed, the gory speculations could’ve been true and I probably wouldn’t be around to revisit Istanbul at this moment. But none of the “what ifs” were true. Sometimes, you should follow the voice deep within you, I’ve always believed. Not everyone is out there to get you. We’ve become so fearful of each other that even the smallest elements of trust and good faith appear outdated—sometimes, even idiotic. I decided to follow my own idiotic advice. And I had to, because like one of my favourite literary characters—the solemn and silently aching Gustav von Aschenbach from Thomas Mann’s most riveting work Death in Venice—it was if I was in a trance that whole week.

Enamoured as much by a city laced with the seductive powers of history as by the stunning young man whose bewitching eyes stirred those powers even more fervently, I followed the man everyday as he led me through the streets and into some of the most exotic places in town. All the while, there was a singular question in my mind—could a man be so beautiful? Handsome, yes. Cute, yes. Dashing, yes. But beautiful? There were no fibres inside of me to construct such a thought. At most, I’d considered such beauty confined to the artistic landscapes and passionate visions of the past. The 21st century has so far served up for the female sensory (even intellectual, might I add) consumption the emasculated men walking down ramps, or the iron-pumping gigantic muscled type—neither of them anywhere near the kind of men that kindle the senses and stoke the sensuality of today’s women. But smack in the middle of the beginning of this century, in a place right out of time, brown-skinned and hair bathed in the balmy Mediterranean sunlight, loitered this young fellow, as if a painting from Keats’ Ode to a Grecian Urn had suddenly come to life. The feel of his hand on mine as he helped me up the steps to the Blue Mosque was like the gossamer gown that draped the bodies of Shakespeare’s Titania from his Midsummer Night’s Dream and Spenser’s Faerie Queene. The turn of his mouth as he smiled was like the arched grin of a mischievous Greek god. He smiled at my ecstatic prancing along the winding floorboards at the underground Basilica Cistern where the pillars were shaped into Medusa’s heads. Moments later, I was touring the Hippodrome area which once was the centre of sporting events and chariot racing during the Byzantine Empire. “Do you know of the Byzantine Empire?” my companion asked me. I nodded a yes. “It is believed that Julius Caesar—you know about him right—yes, Julius Caesar himself would attend the chariot races here when he was still the Roman Emperor before the fall of Rome,” he said enthusiastically. “So you’re standing on a piece of history. Great history.” There was tinge of pink on his high cheekbones. “Let me take you for some nice lamb kebabs,” he smiled. “Can I have some falafel, and cous-cous with pita bread, too?” I asked. “You can have anything you like, milady,” he took my arm swiftly as I laughed.

On the last day, I held on to his perfectly-toned arm that glistened in the fading sunlight. His half-sleeved pastel yellow polo shirt was an extraordinary complement to his well-tanned skin. He led me to the boat that would tour through the Bosphorus that evening, giving a spectacular view of the landscape and houses along the strait’s edges. There was live music and nice food onboard. Tourists were milling about, sipping on their drinks and taking pictures. We walked to the front of the boat, raised a toast to the Byzantine Empire, and stood on the deck. I sucked in the beautiful, fragrant air of the night and looked up at the stars. Tomorrow I’d be flying to Geneva for the remainder of the summer and then back to the US and the hectic life that awaited me. I turned to look at the young man. He was looking at the fireworks in the distance. “Some important man is celebrating his daughter’s wedding, or his son’s birthday,” he whispered. “You will miss Istanbul”—the intonation of his voice was tricky. Was it a question or a statement? “I will miss you,” I replied. “And the wonderful time I had here because of you.” He chuckled. It was almost midnight when he dropped me back at the hotel. “Sleep well. You have an early flight tomorrow. I will try to come in the morning. If not, I will call you before you go.” He never did either.

Two years later, I got an email from him saying he was in the US now. “I talked to so many tourists and improved my English. But I remember you a lot. Thank you for giving me such a wonderful gift when you were here. My family sells Turkish rugs like many other families in Istanbul. But I wanted to be an engineer and build things. I’m studying engineering.” I had forgotten to take his picture—his beauty was too distracting!

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