Grand Bazaar, the İç Bedesten, had this become ‘normal’?
There had always been gangsters in the city, there always would be. But the disintegration of the old Soviet Union had unleashed what seemed to be a flood of totally amoral people on to the streets. Instead of concentrating on just one or two ‘businesses’, for example, drugs and prostitution, these men did everything – including contract killing. Without feelings or conscience, they pleasured themselves with drugs, hard-faced women and with spending their considerable fortunes. They were doing that now, in the İç Bedesten, where the most precious items of jewellery, both modern and antique, were sold.
As he threaded his way through the knots of tourists that gathered around every glittering, antique-stacked window, Suleyman was careful to keep Rostov, two of his heavies and the small dark Central Asian-looking man that accompanied them at a distance. Although he and Rostov had never actually met, Suleyman knew that the gangster, one of whose women was the lovely Masha, knew him. Rostov was not the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last mobster to ‘buy’ one of Suleyman’s colleagues. Indeed, it was still less than a year ago that Çetin İkmen’s former deputy, Orhan Tepe, had fallen for the promises of Zhivkov the Bulgarian. Tepe had paid for that mistake with his life.
Whilst watching to see what Rostov did and where he went, Suleyman found that his eyes were drawn to the booths of the İç Bedesten. Ottoman military medals, inscribed in the old Arabic script few could now decipher, sat next to fabulous examples of art deco jewellery from the nineteen thirties. One booth even had a crown, a small one admittedly, which, so Suleyman felt, had to be made from paste rather than real jewels – but it had probably been a treasure to the family that once owned it. Such a thing would be meaningless to a person like Rostov, who would just buy it to sell on. Ostensibly an antiques dealer, Rostov knew as much about history as Suleyman did about childbirth.
But then Suleyman knew that he had a personal interest in what happened in this particular part of the bazaar. His father, Muhammed, frequently sold things to the dealers in the İç Bedesten – when he couldn’t pay a utility bill or when he had a suit made that he couldn’t afford. Muhammed Suleyman or ‘Prince’ Muhammed, as some called him, came from an aristocratic family related to the Ottoman sultans. His two sons both worked and regarded themselves as ordinary men, but the old prince still lived an entirely other kind of life. Even though his palace on the Bosphorus had been sold many years before, Muhammed’s existence was punctuated by dinners at expensive restaurants, bespoke suits and quality cars. Now devoid of money and too old to work, he supported himself and his wife by selling off what remained of his inheritance. It was why Mehmet tried not to look too closely at their wares for fear of recognising some of them.
Why Rostov couldn’t buy the ordinary glittery baubles they sold on Kuyumcular Caddesi, Suleyman didn’t know. The type of customer he attracted wouldn’t know the difference. Perhaps someone had told Rostov that Ottoman antique goods were now in vogue. Perhaps he’d even worked it out for himself. He was obviously a clever man – he had to be because he was still walking free. Even with, possibly, police ‘protection’, knowing what he was involved with, that was quite a feat.
Rostov had just disappeared into a booth specialising in art nouveau jewellery when Masha appeared at Suleyman’s elbow.
‘If you meet me tonight, I’ll give you the information you need,’ she said.
She looked quite small and ordinary in daylight and, in this very public place devoid of dark and squalid corners, he felt nothing for her. Perhaps it was just simply the glamour of the forbidden that attracted him. Maybe like some of his more debauched ancestors he possessed an
There had always been gangsters in the city, there always would be. But the disintegration of the old Soviet Union had unleashed what seemed to be a flood of totally amoral people on to the streets. Instead of concentrating on just one or two ‘businesses’, for example, drugs and prostitution, these men did everything – including contract killing. Without feelings or conscience, they pleasured themselves with drugs, hard-faced women and with spending their considerable fortunes. They were doing that now, in the İç Bedesten, where the most precious items of jewellery, both modern and antique, were sold.
As he threaded his way through the knots of tourists that gathered around every glittering, antique-stacked window, Suleyman was careful to keep Rostov, two of his heavies and the small dark Central Asian-looking man that accompanied them at a distance. Although he and Rostov had never actually met, Suleyman knew that the gangster, one of whose women was the lovely Masha, knew him. Rostov was not the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last mobster to ‘buy’ one of Suleyman’s colleagues. Indeed, it was still less than a year ago that Çetin İkmen’s former deputy, Orhan Tepe, had fallen for the promises of Zhivkov the Bulgarian. Tepe had paid for that mistake with his life.
Whilst watching to see what Rostov did and where he went, Suleyman found that his eyes were drawn to the booths of the İç Bedesten. Ottoman military medals, inscribed in the old Arabic script few could now decipher, sat next to fabulous examples of art deco jewellery from the nineteen thirties. One booth even had a crown, a small one admittedly, which, so Suleyman felt, had to be made from paste rather than real jewels – but it had probably been a treasure to the family that once owned it. Such a thing would be meaningless to a person like Rostov, who would just buy it to sell on. Ostensibly an antiques dealer, Rostov knew as much about history as Suleyman did about childbirth.
But then Suleyman knew that he had a personal interest in what happened in this particular part of the bazaar. His father, Muhammed, frequently sold things to the dealers in the İç Bedesten – when he couldn’t pay a utility bill or when he had a suit made that he couldn’t afford. Muhammed Suleyman or ‘Prince’ Muhammed, as some called him, came from an aristocratic family related to the Ottoman sultans. His two sons both worked and regarded themselves as ordinary men, but the old prince still lived an entirely other kind of life. Even though his palace on the Bosphorus had been sold many years before, Muhammed’s existence was punctuated by dinners at expensive restaurants, bespoke suits and quality cars. Now devoid of money and too old to work, he supported himself and his wife by selling off what remained of his inheritance. It was why Mehmet tried not to look too closely at their wares for fear of recognising some of them.
Why Rostov couldn’t buy the ordinary glittery baubles they sold on Kuyumcular Caddesi, Suleyman didn’t know. The type of customer he attracted wouldn’t know the difference. Perhaps someone had told Rostov that Ottoman antique goods were now in vogue. Perhaps he’d even worked it out for himself. He was obviously a clever man – he had to be because he was still walking free. Even with, possibly, police ‘protection’, knowing what he was involved with, that was quite a feat.
Rostov had just disappeared into a booth specialising in art nouveau jewellery when Masha appeared at Suleyman’s elbow.
‘If you meet me tonight, I’ll give you the information you need,’ she said.
She looked quite small and ordinary in daylight and, in this very public place devoid of dark and squalid corners, he felt nothing for her. Perhaps it was just simply the glamour of the forbidden that attracted him. Maybe like some of his more debauched ancestors he possessed an
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