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Doina RuSti
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embellished with beads,
belts with tens of small
patches, handkerchiefs or
the tops of slippers, trinkets
for his sisters or his aunts.
Just as he went in, a piece
of silk wool caught his eye,
almost hidden between the
waves of fabrics. It was a
soft little cloth, in which the
silk seemed to have risen
like a mirror to the forefront
while the rest, a mixture
of cotton and wool, had
remained towards the back.
It had the colour of silver
turned green.
Mustafa’s moustache went
to one side: the fabric wasn’t
cheap and you couldn’t even
make much from it, not a
pair of shalwars, anyway.
It would work for insets or
for some watery shirt tails.
Perhaps for cuffs. But for
pants...!
“No way”, young Milikopu
opinedMustafa just as there
appeared on the doorstep
of the shop the shalim fez
of the teacher Okimon. You
could see by the light under
the arches of his eye that he
had obviously been by the
post office at the port.
“It
appears
that
the
very generous Selim has
turned his eye upon our
poor Thessaloniki
”, said
the teacher with some
emphasis and although
poor Thessaloniki went
by Eyālet-i Selānīk to
Mustafa and Săruna to the
Wallachians, neither had
problems in understanding.
In town everybody spoke
Greek from dawn to dusk.
Only in the white houses,
under the bristly crowns
of pines or in the market
would groups of Turks argue