Young Turk (5 page)

And hear, hear, everybody! Eat well, build the world and grow wings naturally, like the silkworm that feasts on mulberry leaves, weaves a cocoon and emerges as a butterfly. Amen again. ‘Naturally’ was her favourite word. And let the eye behold all that is good and beautiful, naturally, the way water runs. Amen.

And hear, hear, in paradise our eyes did behold, naturally, the way water runs, all that was good and beautiful.

The event that paved the way to the women’s baths occurred, almost as if preordained, the moment Sofi set foot in our house.

She had arrived from the eastern Anatolian province of Kars. The journey – mostly on villagers’ carts; occasionally, using up her few
kuruş
, on dilapidated trucks – had taken her about a week. And for another week, until she had heard on the grapevine that she might try knocking on my mother’s door, she had slept in cold cellars procured for her, often without the owners’ knowledge, by sympathetic countrywomen. She had washed in the drinking fountains of the open-air market where she had gone daily in search of scraps; but, lacking any spare clothing, she had not changed her sweat-encrusted rags. So when she arrived at our flat, she had come enveloped in the pungent smell of apprehension and destitution.

My mother, seasoned in matters of disinfection – she had attended to my father whenever he had come on leave from the army – immediately gathered a change of clothes from her own wardrobe and guided Sofi to the shower, our only fixture for washing. (The shower, I should explain, though an object of pride for my father for being a modern Western appliance, was a primitive affair: rigged over the oriental toilet, it comprised a tiny rose – spurting the thinnest of sprays – crowning a couple of rickety pipes one of which always rusted in the summer because hot water was available only in winter.)

We had hardly settled in the sitting-room – I remember we had visitors at the time: my parents, Selim’s parents, some neighbours and, of course, Selim and me – when we heard Sofi laughing. My mother, who had taken to Sofi instantly, looked well satisfied, no doubt interpreting the laughter as a happy omen.

Moments later, the laughter turned into high-pitched giggles. Giggles became shrieks; and shrieks escalated into screams.

As we all ran into the hallway fearing that Sofi had scalded herself – she couldn’t have because it was summer and there was no hot water – the toilet door flew open and Sofi burst out, wet and naked and hysterical.

It was Selim’s father who managed to contain her. While my mother asked repeatedly what had happened, he threw a raincoat over Sofi and held her in a wrestler’s grip until her screams decelerated into tearful, hiccupy giggles. Eventually, after sinking to the floor and curling up, she managed to register my mother’s question. As if relating an encounter with a jinn, she answered, in a hoarse whisper, ‘It tickles! That water tickles!’

The ensuing laughter, expressing as much relief as mirth, should have offended her; it didn’t. Sofi, as we soon learned, believed that laughter had healing qualities and revered anybody who had the gift of humour. But it had never occurred to her that she herself could be comical. The revelation thrilled her. And, as she later admitted to me, it was her ability to make us laugh that had convinced her to adopt us as her kin. Yet her decision to join our household could not have been easy. Having classified the shower as an infernal contraption, she must every day have dreaded going to the toilet and squatting, as she had to, beneath its silent and threatening head.

The afternoon ended well. When Sofi, hesitantly, asked whether she could finish washing by the kitchen tap, my mother – truly a golden-hearted person, whatever her shortcomings – promptly took her, together with the women visitors, to the
hamam
.

Thereafter Sofi became a devotee of the baths. And she used any excuse, including the grime Selim and I regularly gathered in the streets, to take us there. My mother never objected to this indulgence: entry to the
hamam
was cheap – children went free – and Sofi, Selim and I, sparkling after so much soap and water, always appeared to confirm the adage, ‘Only the clean are embraced by God.’

In those days, Turkish baths were seldom able to maintain their Ottoman splendour. The neglect was particularly evident in Ankara. This once humble townlet which, with the exception of an ancient castle on a hillock, had barely been touched by history, was rising fast as the symbol of the new, modern Turkey. As a result, some ‘progressive’ elements saw the baths as totems of oriental recidivism and sought to reduce their popularity by promoting Western-style amenities.

Yet, here and there, the mystique prevailed. After all, how could the collective memory forget that, for centuries, the Sublime Porte’s spectacular baths had entranced and overawed flocks of discerning Europeans?

And so the tradition survived: discreetly in some places; openly, even defiantly, in others. And when new baths were built – as was the case with most of the establishments in Ankara – every attempt was made to adhere to the highest norms.

Two cardinal standards are worth mentioning.

The first predicates that the primary material for the inner sanctum, the washing enclave itself, must be marble, the stone which, according to legend, shelters the friendly breezes and which, for that very reason, is chosen by kings for their palaces and by gods for their temples. (There used to be a rumour in the early fifties that a particular establishment in Ankara, exclusive to diplomats and members of parliament, had, in an effort to outshine all its competitors, laid dramatic marbles ingrained with shadings of pink, blue and silver specially imported from countries with strange names.)

The second standard stipulates the following architectural features: a dome, a number of sturdy columns and a belt of high windows; for this combination will suffuse the inner sanctum with a glow suggestive of the mystic aura of a mosque. Moreover, the high windows, while distilling Apollonian light, also serve to deter voyeurs. (Despite this last provision, stories about spidermen who had scaled the heady reaches of the windows for glimpses of bathers were commonplace. I remember the gruesome tale of three
delikanlι
– the word, often used affectionately, literally means ‘youths with maddened blood’ – who, having climbed up, for a bet, to the windows of a
hamam
in Konya on a day when the temperature was minus 35 degrees centigrade, had stuck to the walls and frozen to death; rescuers had had to wait till spring to peel them off the dome.)

Our women’s
hamam
, which adhered to these standards, claimed to be one of the best in the land. For Selim and me, it was the epitome of luxury.

Let me take you in, step by step.

The entrance, its most discreet feature, is a small wrought-iron door located at the middle of a high wall like those that protect girls’ colleges.

The foyer is lush. Its dark purple drapes immediately promise exquisite sensual treats. (Is my memory playing tricks? Did those purple drapes belong to the
maisons de rendezvous
I used to frequent in Istanbul years later?)

To the right of the foyer there is a low platform with a kiosk. Here sits the manageress,
Teyze Hanιm
, or ‘Lady Aunt’, whose girth may well have coined the Turkish idiom, ‘built like a government’. She collects the entrance fees and hires out such items as soap, towels, bowls and the traditional Turkish clogs,
nalιns
. (Sofi, for one who was so stoic about the vagaries of life, was fanatically fastidious about hygiene and always made sure we brought our own washing materials.)

At the far end of the foyer, a door leads into the spacious communal dressing-room. As if to prolong the anticipation, this is simply trimmed: whitewashed walls, wooden benches to sit on and large wicker baskets for stacking clothes.

Another door opens into a passageway with slatted boards on the floor. Here, as you walk, the clogs beat an exciting rhythm. Ahead is the arch that leads into the baths’ marbled haven.

The next moment you feel as if you are witnessing a transfiguration. The mixture of heat and steam have created a diaphanous air; the constant sound of running water is felicitous; and the white nebulous shapes that seemingly float in space profile kaleidoscopic fantasies in your mind. This might be a prospect from the beginning of days – or from the last. In any case, if you adore women and long to entwine with every one of them, it’s a vision that will stay imprinted in your eyes for the rest of your life.

Thereafter, slowly, you begin to register details.

You note that the sanctuary is round (oval, actually). You’re glad. Because had it been rectangular, as some are, it would have emanated a masculine air.

You note the large marble slab that serves as a centrepiece. This is the
göbek taşι
, the ‘belly stone’, where the bather sits to sweat. The size of the belly stone determines the reputation of the particular establishment; a large one, such as that in the women’s
hamam
, where neighbours or family groups can sit and talk – even picnic – guarantees great popularity.

You note the washing areas around the belly stone. Each is delineated by a marble tub – called
kurna
– wherein hot and cold water, served from two separate taps, are mixed. You note that the space around each
kurna
accommodates several people, invariably members of a family or a group of neighbours. These patrons sit on stocky seats, also of marble, which look like pieces of modern sculpture – Brancusi’s
Table of Silence
comes to mind – and wash themselves by filling their bowls from the
kurna
and splashing the water on to their bodies. Sometimes, those who wish to have a satisfactory scrub avail themselves, for a good baksheesh, of the services of one of the attendants.

You note that, beyond the inner sanctum, there are a number of chambers which, being closer to the furnace, are warmer. These are known as
halvet
, a word that implies ‘solitude’, and are reserved for those who wish to bathe alone or to have a massage. For the elite customer, the latter is performed by the Lady Aunt.

This being one of the best baths in town, there are two further chambers. The first is the
Sedir
, or ‘Retreat’, which, as its name suggests, offers, particularly to those who come for the day, a respite from the main
hamam
. The other, the
Soğukluk
, or ‘Temperate Room’, serves to cool down those who have had too much heat. You note, with relief, that except for some of the older patrons, few indulge in that particular kind of masochism.

But, of course, above all, you note the bathing women, the cornucopia of breasts of every shape and size. Those for whom modesty is a virtue at all times wear
peştamals
, transparent aprons which, rather than veil the glories of their flesh, emphasize them saliently. The rest are completely naked, except for bracelets and earrings, and look as if they have been sprinkled with gold. Tall or short, young or old, they are invariably Rubenesque. Even the thin ones appear voluptuous. Covered with heavy perfumes and henna, they carry themselves boldly, at ease with their firm, soft child-bearing bodies. They are, you realize, proud of their femininity even though – or perhaps because – they live in a society where the male rules absolutely. But if they see or think someone is looking at them, they are overcome with shyness and cover their pudenda with their washing-bowls. You note little girls, too, but if you’re a little boy like Selim and me, you’re not interested in them. You have already seen their budding treasures in such outworn games as ‘mothers and fathers’, ‘doctors and patients’. (Here, briefly, the gospel according to Eleftheria: the human body, at every age and in every shape and size, even in deformity, is comely. The most beautiful cock she had ever known belonged to a man with a withered arm.)