The House in Smyrna by Tatiana Salem Levy Page A

to faint, and then, as if hanging on to the last stretch of rope, I roared too, echoing the voice in the other room. I let out a wail, a howl that faltered, a voice in ruins.
    There was nothing more I could do, not even pray.
    I was heading for the city centre when the long black hair of a woman on the other side of the street caught my eye. Was it her? I couldn’t get her beauty out of my mind. I thought about her obsessively. Yes, it’s her, I thought, the woman from the hammam . Hypnotised, I crossed the street without looking either way, hurrying so I wouldn’t lose sight of her. In the morning there were so many people in the street that it wouldn’t have been hard. I bumped into people and stumbled, anxious to keep up. When she left the crowd and turned onto a wide footpath, I thought, with relief, that she wasn’t going to escape me. She was wearing a long skirt and a tank top. Under her arm, she was carrying a folder that was neither large nor small. She wasn’t far from me now.
    As I stepped through a door in a large wall, I realised we had just entered the Grand Bazaar, a kind of walled-off district, with its own streets and corners. But it was an area where there were only shops, rows and rows of them. It wasn’t long before the shopkeepers started inviting me into their businesses. Some asked: Spanish? Italian? Portuguese? The funnier ones said: Chinese? Japanese?
    She walked along quickly, oblivious to her surroundings. I quickened my pace and positioned myself diagonally in front of her. When I looked back, certain of finding the same gaze as the other day, I was unable to hide my disappointment. She stared me firmly in the eye, as if to say: What are you looking at? Unintimidated, I merely responded with a look of frustration.
    After she walked away, I lost myself in the bazaar, like a stray dog. I heard the voices of the shopkeepers coming from all sides. They all stood outside their shops, trying to catch the attention of passers-by. When someone showed an interest, they went inside to show them their wares, ever ready to reveal the secrets and qualities of each item.
    I was drawn to one shop by the colours, the lighting. It sold only candleholders, of every shape and size. Some to sit on tables, others to hang, others to rest on the ground like glass mosaics of alternating colours: red, blue, green, orange, yellow. They were small glass hexagons held together by a kind of plaster. Contrary to other shops of the sort, this one had lit candles in almost every holder, to attract prospective buyers. I stood at the entrance admiring them all, and a man came out to greet me. He told me that there were different kinds inside and invited me in. The shop was small but adorable. The objects were arranged well and I was truly enchanted by what I saw. The man observed me without speaking. It was hard to pick one. They were all beautiful and at the same time similar. I chose one almost randomly and asked how much it was. It was one to hang from the ceiling, and looked old-fashioned, reminding me of the palaces I had visited. Thirty euros, he told me.
    I smiled and said: I don’t have euros, I’m Brazilian. I had already been warned not to buy anything without bargaining, as they never give you the real price.
    Thirty-five Turkish liras, he said.
    It’s too much, I insisted.
    Thirty, he said.
    Twenty, I said.
    Twenty-five, I can’t do it for any less.
    Okay, I said, twenty-five.
    I left the shop with the wrapped candleholder in a plastic bag and continued strolling casually through the bazaar. The most beautiful shops were those selling spices, with enormous bags displaying chillies, saffron, paprika, herbs, dried fruits, olives, pistachios, and a vast array of Turkish sweets. Like so many other customers, I tasted a little of each, and ended up buying a bag of rose-flavoured Turkish delights to eat as I wandered.
    I kept walking, also fascinated by the shops selling silver and