The Sultan of Byzantium Read Online Free
Author: Selcuk Altun
it sharpened the mind, used to cheat off me in school every chance he got. To me, classical music was like an insistent lullaby, and pop music assorted canned vegetables. In Istanbul a great many musical-instrument shops were to be found on Galip Dede Street, which connects the Galata district to Istiklal Avenue. Hayal once asked, ‘Abi, are you trying to make people think and laugh at the same time?’ I told her I hurried down that street to keep the instruments hanging in the shop windows from squirting anti-musical notes at me. My own musical notes were, and are, the sound of the wind rustling through the labyrinths of our neighborhood, the screams of seagulls, the foghorns, the train whistles, the prayer calls and church bells and giggles of little girls – natural and free of expectation. If I’m in the mood for a symphony, I take a very long journey.
Our rental income is deposited into my grandmother’s bank account. After expenses, what’s left is divided half into dollars, half into Turkish lira and put into three interest-bearing accounts, one for each of us. But my mother and I aren’t allowed to touch our accounts. My grandmother puts $7500 into mine every month; this amount is adjusted periodically on the basis of parity with the prime minister’s salary. I’m sure, incidentally, that my mother’s is indexed to that of the president. Hayal has to kiss her grandmother’s hand to get her allowance.
I collected watches and took theme trips. Having no reason to save money was the source of my freedom. In my student years I wandered across Anatolia to see its castles, ancient bridges and lighthouses. I went to Geneva to admire the watches in the shop windows, to Tarifa for the killer whales, to Druridge Bay for the bird sanctuary, to Umman for the stingrays, to Odessa to play chess with a master who was a transvestite. People were surprised at my not knowing the silent woman in the group on a picnic with Marieta and Schalk in Namibia’s Harnas Nature Park. Marieta and Schalk were two tame lions; the woman with violet eyes was a Hollywood star named Angelina Jolie.
Hayal loves watching the fishermen on the Galata Bridge. I go there with her if she’s not on good terms with her boyfriend. According to some banners hung on the bridge on orders of the mayor, today, May 29, 2008 is the 555 th anniversary of the Conquest of Istanbul from the Byzantines. That means I’ll be thirty-three tomorrow. Those banners remind me of all my uncelebrated birthdays. But then, as Oscar Wilde said, ‘After twenty-five everybody is the same age.’ On my birthdays I grow tired of never getting tired.
I ought to call Madam Olga, who knows me as Engin Galatali, from a phone booth. Not because I make love to two girls at the same time but because I started reading the poems of her countryman Joseph Brodsky, Olga the retired teacher calls me, ‘My Sultan’.
BETA
At the beginning of my teaching career Eugenio told me, ‘Each of your students is like a candle given to you for safekeeping. Don’t forget.’
I did more than my share; I warmed my heart with their flickering light. Creating a stress-free atmosphere in my classes, I succeeded in becoming their confidant. Once a year I took them to Galata and guided them through the labyrinthine neighborhood. Female students wrote me love letters. Male students, owing to my love of poetry, tried lining me up with women in the department of literature. I was well aware that they respected me for my unusual journeys.
I proposed to fly to the capital of Eritrea on June 15, 2008. I wanted to acquaint myself with the minimalist architecture of Asmara and at the same time meet up with Leo Punto, who had settled in the city for its beautiful name, for a game of chess or two. After that I planned to meet my old grad-school friend James Hill in Dar es Salaam. We intended to conquer Kilimanjaro, above the Serengeti Plain.
On the morning of June 5, I opened a courier-delivered envelope
Our rental income is deposited into my grandmother’s bank account. After expenses, what’s left is divided half into dollars, half into Turkish lira and put into three interest-bearing accounts, one for each of us. But my mother and I aren’t allowed to touch our accounts. My grandmother puts $7500 into mine every month; this amount is adjusted periodically on the basis of parity with the prime minister’s salary. I’m sure, incidentally, that my mother’s is indexed to that of the president. Hayal has to kiss her grandmother’s hand to get her allowance.
I collected watches and took theme trips. Having no reason to save money was the source of my freedom. In my student years I wandered across Anatolia to see its castles, ancient bridges and lighthouses. I went to Geneva to admire the watches in the shop windows, to Tarifa for the killer whales, to Druridge Bay for the bird sanctuary, to Umman for the stingrays, to Odessa to play chess with a master who was a transvestite. People were surprised at my not knowing the silent woman in the group on a picnic with Marieta and Schalk in Namibia’s Harnas Nature Park. Marieta and Schalk were two tame lions; the woman with violet eyes was a Hollywood star named Angelina Jolie.
Hayal loves watching the fishermen on the Galata Bridge. I go there with her if she’s not on good terms with her boyfriend. According to some banners hung on the bridge on orders of the mayor, today, May 29, 2008 is the 555 th anniversary of the Conquest of Istanbul from the Byzantines. That means I’ll be thirty-three tomorrow. Those banners remind me of all my uncelebrated birthdays. But then, as Oscar Wilde said, ‘After twenty-five everybody is the same age.’ On my birthdays I grow tired of never getting tired.
I ought to call Madam Olga, who knows me as Engin Galatali, from a phone booth. Not because I make love to two girls at the same time but because I started reading the poems of her countryman Joseph Brodsky, Olga the retired teacher calls me, ‘My Sultan’.
BETA
At the beginning of my teaching career Eugenio told me, ‘Each of your students is like a candle given to you for safekeeping. Don’t forget.’
I did more than my share; I warmed my heart with their flickering light. Creating a stress-free atmosphere in my classes, I succeeded in becoming their confidant. Once a year I took them to Galata and guided them through the labyrinthine neighborhood. Female students wrote me love letters. Male students, owing to my love of poetry, tried lining me up with women in the department of literature. I was well aware that they respected me for my unusual journeys.
I proposed to fly to the capital of Eritrea on June 15, 2008. I wanted to acquaint myself with the minimalist architecture of Asmara and at the same time meet up with Leo Punto, who had settled in the city for its beautiful name, for a game of chess or two. After that I planned to meet my old grad-school friend James Hill in Dar es Salaam. We intended to conquer Kilimanjaro, above the Serengeti Plain.
On the morning of June 5, I opened a courier-delivered envelope
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