217 Babel Street | Apartment 11
TThe carpet glowed amber in the lamplight. Fehmi, Mustafa and Jenni sprawled among cushions, listened to Yenitürkü. They sipped cloudy rakı then dark coffee.
"You enjoyed our cooking?"
"Thanks, it was lovely." Jenni wondered where Kara had gone.
Fehmi lifted the tiny coffee cup from Jenni's hand.
"I'll tell your future."
"I thought it was tea leaves that told the future."
"Not in Turkey. Look."
He held up the cup so that they could both see the coffee-ground paintings. There were sandy clouds, mountains, specks that might have been birds, or people.
"It's pretty."
"Here"s a house. See?"
"Oh yes."
"And here's a man. This small thing here."
"If you say so, ok."
"See what he"s holding? That long, thin -."
"His willy?" Mustafa volunteered.
"Shut up."
Jenni giggled. Mustafa winked at her.
"It's a pen," said Fehmi. "I think he's writing a love letter for the woman."
"What woman?"
"I don't know. I can't see her." Fehmi tried to find the shape of a woman. Jenni took the cup, turned it clockwise.
"Here. This might be her. A skirt, see?"
"Ah, yes. It's her. Very big hair."
"Well, it's not me then."
"That's a pity. I think he's very handsome."
"I agree. But she's twice the size of him."
Mustafa shook his head.
"The woman is Fehmi," he said. "In Turkey, only old women read coffee cups. He has the hair, too."
He reached and flicked Fehmi's fringe.
"Siktir git," muttered Fehmi.
Jenni's eyes widened. "What does that mean?"