The Janissary Tree

[ 9 ]

A man with grime up to his elbows and a leather apron was working on a lantern in the street outside his shop. With a pair of tongs he crimped the tin sheets, fixing them together with a speed and dexterity Yashim was content simply to admire, until the man looked up questioningly.

“I’ve got something slightly unusual I’d like a price for,” Yashim explained. “You seem to make large objects.”

The man grunted in agreement. “What is it you want, effendi?”

“A cauldron. A very big cauldron—as tall as me, on legs. Can you do it?”

The man straightened up and pulled his hand over the back of neck, wincing.

“Funny time of year for a big cauldron,” he remarked.

Yashim’s eyes widened.

“You can do it? You’ve done it before?”

The smith’s answer took him by surprise.

“Do it every year or so. Big tin cauldrons for the soup-sellers’ guild. They use them for the city procession.”

Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that? Every year, when the guildsmen process through the streets to the Aya Sofia, each guild drags a juggernaut loaded with the implements of their craft. The guild of barbers have a huge pair of scissors and offer free haircuts to the crowd. The fishmongers make their float like a ship, and stand casting nets and hauling on the ropes. The bakers set up an oven and toss hot rolls to the people. And the soup-sellers: huge black cauldrons of fresh soup, which they ladle out into clay pannikins and distribute to the crowd as they go along. Carnival.

“But a tin cauldron wouldn’t take the heat or the weight,” Yashim objected.

The smith laughed.

“They’re not real! The whole float would collapse if they were real. You don’t think, effendi, the barber cuts people’s hair with that giant pair of scissors? They put a smaller pot of soup inside the tin cauldron, and just make believe. It’s for a laugh.”

Yashim felt like a dimwitted child.

“Have you made one of those cauldrons recently? Out of season, even?”

“We make the cauldrons when the guild orders them. The rest of the year, well,” he spat on his hands and picked up the tongs, “it’s just lanterns and such. The cauldrons get a bit battered and they split, so we make more at the right time. If you’re looking for one, I’d talk to the soup-men’s guild if I were you.” He looked at Yashim and creases of amusement showed around his eyes. “You’re not the mullah Nasreddin, are you?”

“No, I am not the mullah,” Yashim laughed.

“Sounds like some kind of prank anyway. If you’ll excuse me…”