Fiction | June 01, 1989

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It’s many years later. Necati Bey is presumably still doing his businness in Ankara, in that area of the old city called Copper Alley, and I’ve been back in the States for years. My hair is turning grey at the sides–only little filaments, but enough to make a statement. I’ve settled in with a second wife, a child on the way. It’s still hiding inside her; sometimes I think it’s watching us. I often asked Necati Bey why I had the urge to move back to Seattle after so many years overseas. He sat across from me at the backgammon board in his tiny shop, produced one of his store of Turkish proverbs–“It seems there is bread there for you to eat”–then took advantage of my distracted concentration. I lost a lot of money to him, but he predicted a good life for me upon my return to the States and perhaps I’ve found it. And in a few months, more sustenance, in the form of a young mystery is coming. Perhaps this is why I am remembering Necati Bey. But there is of course more.

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