The Big Blue Sky: Twenty-one

“Where are we going?” asked molly. Doug threw down ten Euros for the Tea and followed Molly out onto the sidewalk.

“We are going to a cocktail party tonight.”

Molly laughed. “I don’t have anything to wear for a cocktail party,” she complained. “And my hair, and, Doug it is impossible…”

“Trust me,” Doug waved down a taxi. “I’ve got it all covered.”

They took the taxi across the Bosporus, leaving the thrusting spires of the Hagia Sophia, old Istanbul and the tree crowded bluffs of Topkapi behind. The Galata Bridge spilled into the haphazard streets of Beyologu, where history and modern commerce met in a sort of semi-controlled chaos. The streets grew as canyons. The brushed Oriental buildings lining those canyons were a patchwork of light and shadow, criss-crossed by flowing banners and bright red Turkish flags swimming in the funneled breeze of Istiklal Caddessi. Deep-set windows threw iridescent light across the deepening shadow of the street. There was meat grilling somewhere, an errant whiff of sweet perfume and the salty taste of the sea. A tram rattled by, parting afternoon shoppers at the fashionable boutiques and cafes lining the boulevard.

Doug led her down an alleyway just off the boulevard, where the sunlight only teased the upper floors of buildings, but left the hidden shops there submerged in the concrete chill and shadow. A short walk along the alleyway, tall golden Oriental letters adorned broad mirrored windows reading:

BY RETRO

“What is this place?”

Doug gave a beaming smile, hardly able to contain his excitement. “A fantasy.”

Inside the air was thick with pungent cigarette smoke, drifting and nebulous among an orgy of colors and shapes and textures. It reminded Molly of the long forgotten, and somewhat neglected attic of an Off Broadway pack rat. Indeed, the air was musty and cool, reminding Molly of an aunt’s root cellar. There were shoes, costumes and cascading fixtures burgeoning with handbags. Shimmering beneath an ancient crystal chandelier were cabinets of vintage sunglasses and eyeglasses, like some hidden treasure trove.

“Oh my god!” Molly gasped, opening her arms and sweeping them through the clothes hung to either side of the crowded isle.

There was just so much packed into the place that at once is seemed claustrophobic and endless; a place Molly could have died to be lost in. She turned to Doug, her eyes as wide and excited as a child’s on Christmas morning.

“How do you know about this place?” she asked. Vintage treasures covered the walls clear to the vaulted ceiling, running the gamut from the elegant to the absurd.

“I come to Istanbul to get away from the tragedy du-jour of the Middle east. Sometimes I come for background.”

“How so?’ Molly swept her hand across racks of garments, cataloguing a dozen different garments and textures with her fingertips.

“This is a metropolis at the center of any number of hotspots, currently and historically. There are Bosnians here, Chechens, Kurds, Iraqis, Palestinians.”

Upon a countertop she cupped her hands and lifted jumbled multi-colored and multi-jeweled necklaces, as if they were water tumbling from the fixture.

“God, this place is amazing!” she said. “So where are we going tonight?’

Doug paused, his attention drawn to a simple fabric mannequin adorned in an old Soviet Naval uniform, complete with white cap and the iconic striped shirt. He smiled and looked up at Molly.

“The future,” he said. “A glimpse of the future.”