The Tailor's Apprentice – Part 2: The Fitting

The coat took three weeks. It was dark grey wool, lined with a silk the colour of pomegranate, and it had a collar that Baran had cut and recut until it sat exactly right against the neck. Emre had sewn every buttonhole himself, and two of them were crooked, and he was determined to pretend nobody would notice.

"They'll notice," said Baran, on the Friday, holding the coat up to the lamplight.

"They're part of the character," said Emre.

"They're part of the mistake."

"Then the mistake is mine," said Emre, "and I'd like to keep it."

Baran looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled, slow and warm, and held out the coat.

"Put it on," he said. "Let's see if it fits the man you are, not the boy who came in here stiff as a board."

Emre slid his arms into the sleeves. The wool settled across his shoulders as if it had been waiting for him. He turned, slowly, and caught his reflection in the old mirror by the door: a man in a fine grey coat, standing very straight, his face flushed and surprised.

"It fits," said Emre softly.

"It fits," said Baran.

They stood in the empty shop with the lamps lit and the rain beginning to drum on the windows. The master had gone to visit his sister in Edirne, and would not be back until Monday. For the first time since Emre had arrived, the two of them were alone with the radio murmuring in the corner and the shop's old clock ticking on the wall.

"Can I ask you something?" said Baran.

"Yes."

"What will you do now? When the apprenticeship is finished, and the master says you can leave?"

Emre thought about it honestly. "I'd like to open my own shop," he said. "Small. Near the water, where people can see the work from the street. And I'd like to stay in Istanbul, if the city will have me."

"The city will have you," said Baran. "It's had worse."

"And you?"

Baran was quiet for a moment, turning the spool of thread in his fingers.

"I've been offered a place in Paris," he said. "A big house. A lot of money. I've been saying no for three years, because I didn't want to leave my grandfather's shop without someone who would keep it alive."

"You'd be the one keeping it alive," said Emre, gently. "You taught me everything I know."

"I taught you to hold a needle," said Baran. "You taught me that I'm allowed to want something for myself."

Emre's heart jumped. "Then stay," he said. "But only if you want to. And tell me the truth about Paris, and I'll tell you the truth about the shop."

"Deal," said Baran, and set the spool down on the bench with great care.

He came round the counter, slowly, and stood in front of Emre, close enough to touch the grey wool of the coat.

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

"Yes."

"Would you let me kiss you, here, in the shop, with the coat on? And if you say stop, I'll take it off you, very carefully, and fold it on the bench."

Emre laughed, a little shakily. "Yes," he said. "And can I ask you the same?"

"Yes."

"Will you kiss me without the notebook? Just you and me, and the fit?"

Baran's face softened into something warm and certain. "Yes," he said, and reached up, his hands sliding to the lapels of the coat, careful and sure.

He kissed Emre slowly, the taste of tea and cedar and rain on his lips, his fingers settling against the wool at Emre's chest. It was unhurried and steady, a question answered, and then answered again. When they parted, both of them were breathing unevenly, and the coat sat perfectly on Emre's shoulders as if it had been made for this exact moment.

"Green?" asked Baran, softly.

"Green," said Emre, and smiled. "Very green. It fits, Baran. It fits perfectly."

"Then we'll keep it," said Baran, and began, very slowly, to smooth the lapel back into place, as if he had all the time in the world to get it exactly right.