Old Money, No Money

We were summoned by a Turkish neighbour for moonlit drinks. Her name is Sofiya, a slightly batty older lady who speaks fluent English with a cut glass accent. Sofiya has been threatening us with an invitation for weeks by rapping on our window, poking her hand through the grill and startling our visitors. Our immediate neighbours, Vadim and Beril were also invited so we all scurried down the lane together. We approached an ornate set of heavy double doors and rang the bell. Sofiya flung open the doors to reveal a gorgeous candle-lit courtyard bursting with a copse of mature fruit trees - avocado, pomegranate and lemon – laid out before a pretty, whitewashed old Bodrum house. Liam was immediately drawn to a candle-lit niche in the stone wall partially hidden by the thicket. The recess contained a small statuette of Our Lady, a replica of the original from Meryemana (the house of the Virgin Mary, near Ephesus). Liam resisted the knee jerk urge to genuflect.

We discovered that pedigreed Sofiya had attended the Royal Society of Dramatic Art as a foreign student in the sixties where she had acquired her regal inflection. Her career in the arts was cut short by marriage to a Turkish diplomat whom she loved intensely. She travelled the world as the ambassador’s wife until his premature death about a decade ago. She still grieves him though that didn’t stop her flirting outrageously with Vadim. His protests that he was a one woman man received a sceptical response. In Sofiya’s experience, it’s quite normal for Turkish men to have a legion of women in tow at the same time; a modern twist on the old Moslem custom of taking more than one wife.

Drinks were plentiful and complemented by bountiful mezes freshly prepared by Sofiya's faithful old head-scarfed retainer who she calls ‘my Kurdish woman.’ We were serenaded by Vivaldi and classic crooners while the hired help fell to her knees to pray with gusto next to the stereo, disregarding completely the boozy chatter emanating from the terrace. This bizarre spectacle illustrated, as nothing else could, the polar extremes of Turkish society.

As Dean Martin’s honey tones dribbled from the speakers, Sofiya pulled me from my seat for a slow smooch around the terrace. Although she liked to dominate the conversation in both English and Turkish Sofiya was a gracious hostess, and the evening was a civilised bi-lingual diversion. Sofiya is old money through and through. She seems taken by us, though we are baffled by what old money can see in no money.

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