Notes from Restaurant 96

Sitting on a pile of cushions covers while gentle notes are sung in Turkish and confident fingers beat on the saz. The rhythm moves through him like ripples of passion seaching for creative outlets. The notes stay within the stone walls, the piles of carpets. This is my private performance, soft low whisperings, of exotic chords. He breaks from concentration, peers at me over glasses and smiles the whitest of smiles, the purest of notes.

It's all over when French tourists enter. "Choc prix" he says and gestures to the kilim around him.

The sound of fountain water, bird song, and the cool of the courtyard. Baby birds chirping from their next inside narrow necked pottery. Flowers that buzz with the occassional bee, gentle murmur or voices from the kitchen. An old man snores delicately on the cushions and wakes with a start with the call to prayer, shuffles into his shoes and hurries to the mosque.