went on, if truth be known, it was impossible to know what was what as to the origins of any story any more than the origins of any life. I explained this was true because I forgot everything, everything. In truth, I was old, miserable, cranky, alone, and I wanted to die. What drowned one in a flood of sorrow was the noise of the traffic around Nişantaşı Square and the sound of the music on the radio. I told him how, after a life of telling stories, I wanted to hear from Aladdin before I died about everything that I’d forgotten, and be told each and every story about the bottles of cologne in the store, the revenue stamps, the illustrations on match boxes, nylon stockings, postcards, the photographs of movie stars, the annals of sexology, the hairpins, and the books on ritual prayer.
Like all real persons who find themselves snatched into fictions, Aladdin had a superreal presence that challenged the world’s boundaries and a simple logic that stretched the rules. He conceded that he was pleased the press showed an interest in his store. For the last thirty years, he’d been keeping shop fourteen hours a day at that corner store which was busy as a beehive; and on Sundays, while everybody listened to the soccer game on the radio, he took a nap at home between two-thirty and four-thirty in the afternoon. His real name was something else but his customers didn’t know about it. As for newspapers, he only read the popular Hürriyet. He pointed out that no political meeting could ever take place in his store, seeing how the Teşvikiye police station was right across from it; besides, he was not interested in politics at all. It wasn’t true that he counted the magazines spitting on his fingers; nor was his store a place out of legends and fairy tales. He was sick of people’s goofs. Some poor geezers too, mistaking the plastic toy watches in the window for the real article, would go into a buying frenzy hoping to scoop up merchandise on the cheap. Then, there were those who played the Paper Horse Race or the National Lottery, and when they didn’t win, they got angry and started a ruckus, thinking Aladdin fixed these games when, in fact, they’d picked the tickets with their very own hands. Take the woman, for example, whose nylons sprung a run, or the mother of the kid who ate domestic chocolates and broke out all over, or the reader who didn’t care for the political views of the newspaper he bought, they all were down on Aladdin who didn’t make the stuff, after all, but only sold it. Aladdin was not responsible for the coffee-colored shoe polish that came in the package instead of coffee. Aladdin was not responsible for the domestic battery which, after only one song from Emel Sayın’s sultry voice, shook itself empty and gummed up the transistor radio. Aladdin was not responsible for the compass which, instead of always pointing to the North as it should, pointed to the Teşvikiye police station. Aladdin was not responsible for the packet of Bafra cigarettes that contained the love-and-marriage proposal put in there by a romantic factory girl; but even so, the painter’s assistant had rushed with bells on to kiss Aladdin’s hand and ask him for the girl’s name and address, as well as asking him to be the best man.
His store was in what was considered “the best” location in Istanbul, but his customers always, but always, knocked him for a loop. He was amazed that the coat ’n tie set still hadn’t caught on to waiting for their turn; sometimes he couldn’t help chewing out some people who ought to know better. He had given up selling bus tickets, for example, because of the handful who always rushed in just as the bus was turning the corner, and yelling like Mongolian soldiers on a looting spree, “Ticket, give me a ticket and make it quick!” they made a mess of the store. He’d known old marrieds who got into spats picking lottery tickets, painted ladies who sniffed thirty different brands
Like all real persons who find themselves snatched into fictions, Aladdin had a superreal presence that challenged the world’s boundaries and a simple logic that stretched the rules. He conceded that he was pleased the press showed an interest in his store. For the last thirty years, he’d been keeping shop fourteen hours a day at that corner store which was busy as a beehive; and on Sundays, while everybody listened to the soccer game on the radio, he took a nap at home between two-thirty and four-thirty in the afternoon. His real name was something else but his customers didn’t know about it. As for newspapers, he only read the popular Hürriyet. He pointed out that no political meeting could ever take place in his store, seeing how the Teşvikiye police station was right across from it; besides, he was not interested in politics at all. It wasn’t true that he counted the magazines spitting on his fingers; nor was his store a place out of legends and fairy tales. He was sick of people’s goofs. Some poor geezers too, mistaking the plastic toy watches in the window for the real article, would go into a buying frenzy hoping to scoop up merchandise on the cheap. Then, there were those who played the Paper Horse Race or the National Lottery, and when they didn’t win, they got angry and started a ruckus, thinking Aladdin fixed these games when, in fact, they’d picked the tickets with their very own hands. Take the woman, for example, whose nylons sprung a run, or the mother of the kid who ate domestic chocolates and broke out all over, or the reader who didn’t care for the political views of the newspaper he bought, they all were down on Aladdin who didn’t make the stuff, after all, but only sold it. Aladdin was not responsible for the coffee-colored shoe polish that came in the package instead of coffee. Aladdin was not responsible for the domestic battery which, after only one song from Emel Sayın’s sultry voice, shook itself empty and gummed up the transistor radio. Aladdin was not responsible for the compass which, instead of always pointing to the North as it should, pointed to the Teşvikiye police station. Aladdin was not responsible for the packet of Bafra cigarettes that contained the love-and-marriage proposal put in there by a romantic factory girl; but even so, the painter’s assistant had rushed with bells on to kiss Aladdin’s hand and ask him for the girl’s name and address, as well as asking him to be the best man.
His store was in what was considered “the best” location in Istanbul, but his customers always, but always, knocked him for a loop. He was amazed that the coat ’n tie set still hadn’t caught on to waiting for their turn; sometimes he couldn’t help chewing out some people who ought to know better. He had given up selling bus tickets, for example, because of the handful who always rushed in just as the bus was turning the corner, and yelling like Mongolian soldiers on a looting spree, “Ticket, give me a ticket and make it quick!” they made a mess of the store. He’d known old marrieds who got into spats picking lottery tickets, painted ladies who sniffed thirty different brands
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