It began, as it always does, when he decided
that he just wanted to ask some questions. “I’m not going to buy anything,” my
friend, Hagop, told me. And would repeat.
We stand in Istanbul's Grand Bazaar. The hum of
tourist activity mingles with the call and clamor of merchants: “Spend some
money for your honey!” “Nervous New Yorkers! Don’t be so nervous!” Apparently we
give off a Woody Allen vibe.
We find an authentic-looking rug shop. A pleasant
young man, who surprises me with his informality and natural demeanor (considering
he’s a rug merchant), greets us. He and Hagop delve into an interesting and
educational conversation about the various types of rugs hanging on the walls
of the small enclave. When he realizes that we (meaning Hagop) are serious buyers, he invites us to their
main shop, a much larger gallery a few bazaar aisles away, and introduces us to
the boss.
The leader of the operation is a portly,
well-dressed man who compulsively checks his iPhone every few minutes. As one
would expect, he is incredibly friendly, speaks fluent English, and just
happens to visit the U.S. every chance he gets!
Hagop begins to describe the type of carpet
he is (not) looking to buy. Talking a mile a minute, the dealer tells his young
employee to pull this or that rug from the pile and roll it out on the floor, then
another, then another, until I am cross-eyed from trying to process so many
patterns and shapes. Seeing that none of them pleases the customer, he proposes
an alternative:
“We go to Floor Five, where you will see
more rugs.”
Oh good!
He leads us down a winding path through a darker
and less touristy corner of the Grand Bazaar until we arrive at an antique lift
elevator. He waves us inside with a smile. The iron gates snap shut, and we
begin our lurch to Floor Five.
The dealer throws us a smile. We smile back
politely. Then look at the floor. And wait.
When the doors creak open, we find
ourselves in a softly lit, wood-paneled room, lined with more money than I will
ever make. Two overstuffed armchairs sit at one end. The dealer picks up right where
he left off: as a small brigade of helpers heft carpet after carpet off of
piles and unfurl them across the floor, he describes the style, the provenance,
and the age of each one. (Apparently rugs age at the rate of twenty years every
ten minutes. Who knew?) The workers hold up one end of each rug to let Hagop
inspect the design; when a look of skepticism crosses his face—as it inevitably
does—they set it down and go for the next one. None pass the Hagop test.
It's an odd moment to have a flashback to
The Christmas Story, but suddenly I'm Ralphie, watching his father buy a Christmas tree and thinking: “The man
could bargain like an Arab trader.”
Because Hagop really can bargain like an
Arab trader. Not only does he manage to make the real trader sweat, but the
latter actually offers to pay him.
“I’ll give you a good price for it,” the
trader says, referring to the rug inherited from Hagop’s grandmother. This constitutes
Hagop’s brilliant strategy for avoiding approval of any of the fifty million
rugs in view: his grandmother’s rug, located somewhere in Michigan, is an antique
of exceptional quality, with the perfect fringe length, and it will fly you to
a Whole New World and grant you three wishes, and anything less simply won’t
cut the mustard.
“I think we’re going to keep that one.”
“But if you ever want to sell it, you come
back. I’ll give you a great price.” His iPhone jingles again. He peers at it
furtively. “Excuse me,” he says, and steps aside.
While his back is turned, Hagop rushes over
to me and murmurs, “That tea had better get here soon.”
Free tea? That’s why we’re here?
“I wonder if they have sahlep*,” he
continues, half-joking.
The dealer ends his phone call and turns
around. Hagop stands up straight, hardens his mouth into a stern line, and
strolls back toward him, carefully examining a carpet’s unacceptable fringe on
the way.
The tea arrives. Finally. An old man silently
hands me a shot glass of very strong, very sweet liquid on an elaborate blue
and gold saucer.
Hagop perpetuates his conversation with the
dealer. When I finish my tea, he has barely made a dent, carefully stirring and
talking about fringes.
The chief steps away for another phone
call. “Suck it down,” I whisper.
“I’m trying.”
The dealer returns. “So, my friend?” he
asks.
Hagop nods slowly, reflecting. “Let me come
back with a picture of my grandmother’s rug,” he says.
Nice.
We set our empty glasses on a mahogany end
table. After over an hour of hemming and hawing and sipping and pondering rug
fringes as if I actually knew something about them, we are free.
To be fair, Hagop really did return to the
rug shop, as he had promised the dealer. And, as he had promised me, bought
nothing.
*A heavenly dessert beverage made from the
crushed bulb of the lotus blossom and unicorn sweat.
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