The Dervish House

by Ian McDonald

This morning Adem Dede Square is blessed. The air is clear and cool and smells fresh as a loaf or a morning newspaper. Every sound is crystalline, distinct; the Istanbul drone opens up into layers and lines and levels. The rumble of traffic, the conversation of radios. Footsteps on staircases. A voice shouting for someone to get a move on. A car engine suddenly bursts into life then settles into a tick-over. The hiss of the gas burners in the rival çayhanes, the moil of boiling kettles. Aydin turning the crisp pages of the morning daily at his stand. The drip of water into the fountain’s scalloped basin. The old dervish house clicks and creaks as its timbers expand in the sun. Birds; sparrows shrieking and dipping low through the alleys and soks. High over all a blackbird flings his song over the rooftops toward the Golden Horn.