The Spice Bazaar Weekend – Part 1: Bargaining

"We don't need a rug," said Murat.

"We need a rug."

"We have four rugs."

"We have four sensible rugs," said Zehra. "I want a rug that makes me happy."

They were standing in the Grand Bazaar, in a tunnel of gold lamps and copper pots, at the stall of a rug-seller who was brewing them tea. It was their first weekend away in six years. The children were with Zehra's mother in Ankara. For forty-eight hours, they had no schedule and, as far as Murat was concerned, a budget.

She was thirty-seven, a pharmacist, practical, with an infectious laugh and a scarf the colour of pomegranates. He was forty, an engineer, careful, earnest, who had once spent two weeks comparing washing machines.

"Look at this," said the rug-seller, unrolling a small wool rug in rose and gold. "Nine hundred."

"Four hundred," said Zehra.

Murat blinked. "You're bargaining."

"I'm enjoying bargaining."

By the end of twenty minutes, over three glasses of apple tea and an anecdote about the seller's cousin, she had the rug for five hundred and a free saffron jar. Murat was laughing so hard he had to lean on the stall.

"Who are you?" he asked, wiping his eyes.

"I'm the woman who bought a rug."

"I think I'm in love with her."

"Good. She's staying."

They wandered out into the spice market, an avalanche of colour: pyramids of sumac and cinnamon and dried rose, glass jars of Turkish delight, hanging garlands of red peppers. The air was warm and fragrant. Murat took her hand without thinking, and neither of them let go.

"Can I ask you something?" said Zehra.

"Yes."

"When did we stop doing this?"

"Around the second child," said Murat. "And the first mortgage."

"Let's not wait for the next six years."

"Green?" said Murat, tenderly.

"Green," said Zehra. "Very green. Come. I want to buy rose petals."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Rooftop Tea.