Constantinople once the suspected repository of the Holy Grail, this glorious city of ancient mosques, synagogues and Christian churches—seemed to have acquired that assured worldliness that only centuries of assimilation of many rulers and many religions can foster. Whereas the Ottoman Empire had given it power, the Byzantine its culture, its unique geography outdid them all. Lying on both shores of the Bosporus Strait that divides Europe from Asia Minor, allowing the waters of the Black Sea to join those of the Sea of Marmara that eventually find their way to the Mediterranean, this Scheherazade city of soaring domes and spindle minarets adds another breathtaking jewel of its own to its already laden crown—that of light.
Leaning out of the window of the company automobile that had met them at the railway station, at the sight of the Blue Mosque Jane caught her breath and didn’t exhale again until they arrived at their destination. The British, those most practiced colonizers know how to take care of their own, Ford of England now being John’s immediate employer, their new home was a rooftop apartment complete with cook, maid and cooling terrace from which one could view the quicksilver sheen of the Bosporus by moonlight.
Within hours of their arrival, John with his new mentor Mr. Thornhill Cooper, whom Jane took an immediate liking to because in his so gentlemanly way he reminded her of Jimmy Weatherby, left to inspect the chosen site for the new assembly plant.
Those first weeks in this glorious city were magical. Everything about it was exciting, unusual, intriguing—its overwhelming opulence at moments hypnotic. With John preoccupied by the demands of his work—a sort of camaraderie emerged between Jane and her sons. Her enthusiasm, her avid interest in all things new, her love of learning matching theirs—together they explored this new and exciting city. All being natural linguists soon they knew enough conversational Turkish to venture even further—take short trips afield, board the passenger boats that meandered up and down the Bosporus like crowded trolleys along Detroit’s Woodward Avenue, saw the famous tulip parks on the Asian side, the Golden Horn, considered the most beautiful natural harbor in the world, on the European side, the magnificent palaces of the many sultans, the vast rose fields—Turkey’s main export. By the time school was to begin, these three intrepid adventurers were well versed, knew how to buy a precious drink of water from the water vendors that moved within the milling crowds their silvered tanks strapped to their backs, could recognize an intricate mosaic of the twelfth century from one of the fourteenth—could even tell time from the echoing calls to prayer from filigreed minarets.
When it was time for the boys to be registered at their school they were fitted for that time-honored British schoolboy uniform of gray flannel knee pants and crest-adorned navy blue blazer. The only concession for being in Turkey was that the usual obligatory tie and thick knee socks were omitted because of the heat.
Young John now had a bedroom of his own, created within it his own universe and was marginally content, while Billy having discovered halva was ecstatic. After she discovered how much he enjoyed Turkish delicacies, Selma, their cook, became a sort of surrogate Hannah. Whenever Billy told her in his halting Turkish that a particular dish was even better than the one she had made for him before, she preened. In no time at all it seemed she cooked for him exclusively—the other members of the family she fed—but her Billy, him she catered. When he came home from school, b?reks—little paper-thin pastry pockets filled with spinach or meat, waited for him, baklava dripping in rose syrup, dimpled pastry balls with clotted cream, powdered Turkish sweetmeats covered in pistachio nuts, thick golden humus, blackest figs fresh from the street vendor.
Early mornings in Constantinople were especially exciting. The din of street vendors hawking their wares filled the air already pungent with the powerful aromas of just ground coffee. When the bread vendor, his tall pole stacked high with breads in the shape of small Christmas wreaths, shouted, “Simit,” Jane ran out, always the first of her apartment block to buy those delicious sun-warmed circles covered in freshly roasted sesame seeds. The daily purchase of yogurt—that took skill and strict concentration. Jane and the boys would wait for that special singsong call, then quickly lower a basket containing a bowl, their order, and correct change down to the street, where the yogurt man would slice their required amount off a block of shimmering, quivering solidified milk, place it into the basket, tug on the rope, call up to his customer to haul it back up. Rarely did this unique yogurt so pure, so delectable make it to the kitchen icebox.
With John completely occupied, the boys being educated by the most elitist form of education in the civilized world, a staff running her home far better than she ever could—Jane was free to do whatever took her fancy—and at any given moment. A heady position to be in—if one knows one’s fancy. With money now no object, Jane went exploring the Grand Bazaar and shopped. In this true Aladdin’s cave she wandered enchanted and splurged. Like a drunk after the first forbidden drink—she reveled in the euphoria of irrational self-indulgence—then, sated, looked about her impulsive purchases with concern knowing she would now have to actually do something with them.