How come she is still asleep?' Asya asked, her chin pointing in the direction of her bedroom. On the way back from the airport, to her dismay, she had found out that her aunts had placed a second bed right across from hers and turned her only private space under this roof into 'the girls' room.' They had done so either because they were always looking for new ways of tormenting her or because this room had a better view and they wanted to make a good impression on their guest, or else, they had seen the accommodation as yet another opportunity to bring the girls closer within their PIFCUP-Promoting International Friendship and Cultural Understanding Project. Having absolutely no desire whatsoever to share her private space with a complete stranger, yet unable to protest in front of the guest, Asya had grudgingly consented. But now her tolerance was wearing thin. As if it weren't enough that they put the American girl in her bedroom, the Kazanci women seemed determined not to start supper before the guest of honor joined them. Thus, although the dinner had been put on the table more than an hour ago and everyone had long taken her place around the table, including Sultan the Fifth, nobody had fully dined yet, including Sultan the Fifth. Every twenty minutes or so, somebody got up to warm the lentil soup and reheat the meat dish, carrying the pots back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, while Sultan the Fifth followed the smell each time with beseeching meows. They were in such a state, pasted to their chairs, watching TV on the lowest volume, and talking in whispers. Nonetheless, since they kept picking at this dish or that, everyone but Sultan the Fifth had already eaten more then they normally would have at one sitting.
'Perhaps she is already awake and is just lying in bed because she is too shy or something. Why don't I go in and take a look?' Asya asked.
'Stay put, miss. Let the girl sleep.' Auntie Zeliha puckered an eyebrow.
Keeping an eye on the screen, another eye on the remote control, Auntie Feride agreed: 'She needs to sleep. It is because of the jet lag. She traversed not only oceanic currents but also different time zones.'
'Well, at least some people in this house are given the chance to stay in bed as long as they want,' Asya grumbled.
It was precisely then that a sparkling soundtrack started to play in the background and the program everybody had been waiting for flashed on the screen: the Turkish version of The Apprentice. In rapt silence they watched the Turkish Donald Trump materialize from behind the bright satin curtains of a spacious office with a wonderful panorama of the Bosphorus Bridge. After a quick, condescending glance at the two teams awaiting his orders, the businessman informed them of their task. Each team was instructed to design a bottle of sparkling water, find a way to manufacture ninety-nine of them, and then sell them all as swiftly and as expensively as possible in one of the most luxurious quarters of the city.
'I don't call that a challenge,' Asya said with a whoop. 'If they want a real challenge they should send all these contestants to the most religious and conservative neighborhoods in Istanbul and have them sell bottled red wine there.'
'Oh, be quiet,' Auntie Banu snapped, sighing. She was discontent with the way her niece constantly made fun of religion and religiosity; in that regard she could plainly see who Asya resembled exactly: her mother. If blasphemy, more or less like breast cancer or diabetes, was genetically passed on from mother to daughter, what was the use of trying to correct it? Thus, she sighed again.
Ignoring the anguish she instilled in her aunt, Asya shrugged. 'But why not? That would be far more creative than this baseless Turkish imitation of America. You should always amalgamate the technical material borrowed from the West with the particular features of the culture you address. That's what I call a Donald Trump ingeniously alla tuna. So he should, for instance, ask the contestants to sell packaged pork in a Muslim neighborhood. There you go. Now that's a challenge. Let's see those marketing strategies flower.'
Before anyone could comment on that, the door of the bedroom opened with a creak and out stepped Armanoush Tchakhmakhchian, a bit diffident, a bit dizzy. She was wearing faded denim jeans and a navy sweatshirt long and loose enough to hide the features of her body. While packing for her flight to Turkey she had thought hard about what kind of clothing to take with her and had ended up choosing her most modest clothes so as not to look strange in a conservative place. It had therefore come as a shock to be welcomed at the Istanbul airport by Auntie Zeliha wearing an outrageously short skirt and even more outrageously high heels. What was even more startling, however, was to meet Auntie Banu afterward in a head scarf and a long dress, and to learn how pious she was, praying five times a day. That the two women, despite the stark contrast in their appearance and obviously in their personalities, were sisters living under the same roof was a puzzle Armanoush figured she would have to work on for a while.
'Welcome, welcome!' Auntie Banu exclaimed cheerily, but instantly ran out of English words.
As they watched her approach, the four aunts at the table fidgeted awkwardly with the discomfort of unfamiliarity, but still wore ear-to-ear smiles on their faces. Curious as to what the stranger smelled like, Sultan the Fifth immediately sprang to his feet and paced a narrowing circle around Armanoush, sniffing her slippers, until he had decided there was nothing of interest there.
'I am very sorry, I don't know how I slept that long,' Armanoush stammered in slow-motion English.
'Of course, your body needed that sleep. It's a long flight,' Auntie Zeliha said. Though she had a mellow yet blatant accent and tended to stress the wrong syllables, she also sounded pretty comfortable expressing herself in English. 'Aren't you hungry? I hope you will enjoy Turkish food.'
Capable of recognizing the word food in every language possible, Auntie Banu bolted to the kitchen to bring the lentil soup. Almost robotically Sultan the Fifth leaped over his cushion to follow her, meowing and pleading along the way.
As she sat in the chair reserved for her, Armanoush inspected the living room for the first time. Quickly, warily, she looked around, pausing at certain spots: the carved rosewood, glass-door cupboard with gilded coffee cups, tea-glass sets, and several antiques inside; the old piano against the wall; the exquisite rug on the floor; the multiple pieces of latticework glowing on top of the coffee tables, velvet armchairs, and even the TV set; the canary in an ornamented cage swinging by the balcony door; the pictures on the walls-a bucolic oil painting of a countryside too picturesque to be real, a calendar with the photograph of a different cultural and natural site in Turkey for each month; an evil-eye amulet; and a portrait of Atatiirk in a tuxedo, waving his fedora toward a crowd not included in the frame. The entire room was pulsating with mementos and vivid hues blues, maroons, sea greens, turquoises-and blazing with such luminosity that it seemed there was an additional light somewhere other than what radiated from the lamps.
Armanoush then looked at the dishes on the table with growing interest. 'What a gorgeous table.' She beamed. 'These are all my favorite foods. I see you have made hummus, baba ghanoush, yalanci sarma… and look at this, you have baked churek!'
'Aaaah, do you speak Turkish?!' Auntie Banu exclaimed, flabbergasted as she walked back in with a steaming pot in her hands and Sultan the Fifth still tailing her.
Armanoush shook her head, half-amused, half-solemn, as if feeling sorry to let down so much anticipation. 'No, no. I do not speak the Turkish language, unfortunately, but I guess I speak the Turkish cuisine.
Unable to get this last bit, Auntie Banu turned to Asya in despair, but the latter seemed to have no interest in fulfilling her role as translator, so fully absorbed was she in the task designated by the Turkish Donald Trump. The competitors were now instructed to dive deep into the textile industry to redesign the yellow and azure uniforms of one of the biggest soccer teams competing in the national league. The design rated highest by the soccer players themselves was going to win the competition. Meanwhile, Asya had been contemplating an alternative plan for this specific task as well, but this time she decided to keep it to herself She didn't feel like talking anymore. To tell the truth, the American girl had turned out to be far more beautiful than she had expected; not that she was expecting anything, but deep inside Asya had thought, and perhaps hoped, that it would be some stupid blonde who they would welcome at the airport.
For some reason unknown to her, Asya wanted to confront the guest, but lacked not so much the reason as the energy. At this point, she'd rather remain aloof and reserved to make clear that she shunned this Turkish hospitality.
'So, tell us,' Auntie Feride asked after completing the inspection of the American girl's hairstyle and finding it too plain. 'How is America?'
