The Tailor's Apprentice – Part 1: Measurements

The tailor's shop was in a narrow street behind the Grand Bazaar, with a wooden counter worn smooth by a century of elbows, a dusty window full of bolts of silk, and a radio that only played Turkish classical music. Emre had been sent there by his mother, who had decided that a man who could not sew a button was not fit to be seen in public.

"Stand still," said Baran, before Emre had even put down his bag.

"I'm standing."

"You're swaying. Stand like a man who has been measured before."

Baran was tall and lean, with dark curls cut short and sleeves rolled to the elbow. He was the master's grandson, and he had a tape measure slung around his neck like a stole and a look of absolute concentration on his face.

"Arms out," he said. "Relax your shoulders. You're holding your breath like a man waiting for a verdict."

"I'm not holding my breath."

"You are. I can see it in your ribs."

Emre let out his breath, slowly, and Baran's tape slid around his chest, warm from the workshop and gentle against his shirt. Baran's hands were quick and precise, fingers brushing his back as he wrote down the numbers in a leather notebook.

"Is this how it's always done?" asked Emre, a little breathlessly.

"It's how I do it," said Baran. "My grandfather measured with a string and a pencil and a great deal of shouting. I prefer to be quiet and accurate."

"Are you always this serious?"

"Only with apprentices who don't stand still," said Baran, and smiled, very briefly, at the notebook.

The days fell into a rhythm. Morning measurements, afternoon cutting, evenings stitching by lamplight while the call to prayer drifted over the rooftops. Emre learned to hold a needle the way Baran held one, quick and sure. He learned to read a pattern, to pin a seam, to hear when the thread was pulling too tight. Baran corrected him without raising his voice and praised him without fuss, and somewhere in the second week Emre realised he was waiting, every morning, for the sound of that tape measure.

On a Thursday afternoon, the shop was empty, the master having gone to the mosque. The light fell in long gold bars across the workbench.

"Can I ask you something?" said Baran, not looking up from the pattern in his hands.

"Yes."

"Why did you really come here? Your mother's reasons are very loud. I'd like to hear yours."

Emre set down the scissors. His heart was beating too fast.

"Because I wanted to make something with my hands," he said. "Something that fits someone properly. And because I've spent my life being told I'm too much, or not enough. A good coat doesn't ask you to be different. It just fits."

Baran was silent for a long moment. Then he set the pattern aside and came round the bench, slowly, until he was standing close enough that Emre could smell the cedar and wool on his shirt.

"Can I ask you something else?" Baran said quietly.

"Yes."

"Would you let me take your measurements one more time, today, the last measurement of the week? Only this time, I'd like to do it without the notebook."

Emre's breath caught. "Yes," he said. "But only if you tell me what you're measuring for."

"A coat," said Baran softly. "For the man you'll be when you leave this shop. I'd like to make it fit."

Emre laughed, unsteady and bright. "Then measure me," he said, and lifted his arms.