The mussel seller
Before the Son et Lumière show, we visit 'The Dervish's Café', across the road from the Aya Sophia. The sun has dipped below an unfamiliar skyline in a blaze of gold. Daylight is quickly fading into the surreal, blue hour. Neon tubes flicker into life in nearby shops, intermixing their gaudy hues with the remains of the day. Around the cityscape, room lights are being switched on, filling apartment windows with a rectangle of yellow light.
The open-air café appears transient, as though trespassing on some barren wasteland, squeezed between a busy main road out front and a derelict building behind, and screened off by a row of stunted bushes. The café has a dozen or so circular metal tables of the collapsible type, covered in red cloth, scattered randomly in front of a lurching wooden hut, small enough to wheel away on a handcart. Its painted wooden exterior has been bleached by Istanbul's hot sun.
We select a vacant table close to the hut, hoping to be served quickly. The flimsy foldaway chairs creak unsteadily as we sit down, and the table wobbles on the uneven ground. Some of the tables have a red and white parasol advertising 'Fruko', whatever that is, while others are illuminated by lanterns strung from overhead trees. I brush away some crumbs and remove an ashtray brimming with cigarette stubs.
I catch the waiter's eye, and he swerves over towards us. His manner is brisk though courteous. I order Elma Chi for my girlfriend and Nescafé coffee for myself. He nods curtly and strides off towards the hut. I glance about. On the main road, rush-hour traffic is congested, and car horns frequently blast at one another. Most cars look old and battered; many are scratched and dented. Brake lights wink red and tyres screech, their drivers looking impatient. The pavements are crowded with men in short-sleeve shirts and ties, probably leaving work to return to their homes in the suburbs, striding to catch the numerous buses, trains or ferries criss-crossing the Bosphorus. A few men wear T-shirts and jeans. Perhaps they are tourists. There's little evidence of traditional dress, creating the impression that Istanbul is predominantly secular and relatively Western.
The waiter arrives with our drinks, arranges them before us and slides a slip of paper next to my Nescafé that itemises the bill in scribbled biro. He remains standing next to me, so I hand him a banknote which covers the charge and a reasonable tip. When he's gone, I lift my Leica from around my neck and place it on the table. I also take out my Moleskine notebook and fountain pen to make notes. The coffee is hot, reasonably strong and doesn't need one of the quaintly wrapped sugar cubes provided on the saucer. My girlfriend is satisfied with her Elma Chi, so we sit back, relax and wait for the hour to pass before the performance.
After a while, a barefooted man of about fifty with a wrinkled leather face emerges into the light of the café, squeezing through a narrow gap in the stunted bushes behind us. Instead of selecting a table and sitting down, he remains standing on the periphery, waiting expectantly. His stature is rather short, although he is thickset with muscular arms. His hair is unusually long and very greasy, his clothes worn and grubby. Strands of cloth hang from the bottom of his trousers, pointing down to his blackened feet.
He is carrying a large glass container on a wooden tray, with a grubby brown cloth draped over one arm. The container is divided into two sections. One half is almost full of opened mussel shells, the other is about a quarter full of unopened ones. A smaller, plastic beaker placed alongside contains lemon quarters. The man remains on the periphery, in the shade, waiting patiently, and I mentally assign him the role of a street vendor.
None of the café's customers appears interested in buying mussels. Most ignore his presence, while others briefly glance in his direction, look him over, and then turn back to their companions to continue chatting, smoking, sipping their drinks and gesticulating with their free hand. An occasional burst of laughter cuts through the soft rumble of conversation.
After a while, with no new customers and everyone served, the waiter walks over to the mussel seller. They briefly share a surreptitious smile as though some conspiracy is being enacted. Both step back behind the thin screen of stunted bushes and into the half shadows. I'm intrigued. Is some furtive and illicit transaction about to take place?
They squat down, and the street vendor proffers the opened glass container. The waiter carefully lifts the lid and selects a mussel. Transferring it to his left hand, he withdraws a pen knife from a waistcoat pocket with his right hand, deftly exposes the blade, and with a well-practised procedure, he opens up the mussel and cuts it free from the shell. The vendor squeezes some lemon juice over the exposed meat, then the waiter jerks his head back and tips the contents into his mouth. His eyes close and his lips pout upwards as though savouring the moment of swallowing. His expression is one of simple pleasure.
This procedure is repeated, again and again. In quick succession, one mussel after another is consumed. After perhaps more than half a dozen, the waiter gestures with a short chopping movement of his hand that he's had enough. He motions to the vendor for the cloth and roughly wipes his mouth. They exchange some words, just audible yet totally incomprehensible to me. Unexpectedly, no money is exchanged. Both men rise up off their haunches and shake hands. The mussel seller disappears into the darkness beyond the hedge, and the waiter steps back through the narrow gap in the hedge and into the light from the café's lanterns.
Returning to his station, the waiter straightens his waistcoat and scans the tables to see if any of the customers require his service. One old boy with a thick, grey moustache spots the waiter's return. He raises his hand, a cigarette lodged between fingers, signalling he wants another coffee. The waiter acknowledges the old man's order and walks across to the wooden hut, a look of satisfaction on his dark, swarthy face.
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