T A B L E+T A L K Japan: A reader asks for advice on an upcoming visit in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y First descent By Steve Van Beek Rafting where no human has been before (01/20/98) Olympics bound By Gina Arnold A trip to Japan rekindles a life-shaping obsession (01/19/98) Bad trip By Dawn MacKeen Tale of a flight from hell (01/16/98) Remembering an Everest hero By Suzette Lalime Death of an Everest hero: Anatoli Boukreev (01/16/98) Luzviminda By Richard Sterling A tale of lust and illusion (01/15/98) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Browse the Wanderlust feature archive - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -		How to buy a Turkish rug+| page 2 of 2 We were led through a series of rooms where vibrant rugs and kilims were layered like sheets, rolled into columns, and tacked to the walls -- each room duplicating and expanding upon the previous room's treasures. At the end of the procession was a ballroom-sized showroom where we were offered Turkish apple tea, soda, beer and wine (American car dealers should reconsider the popcorn and Coke routine, I thought).While we were served by a long-lashed girl in harem pants, her counterpart -- a sulky John Malkovich look-alike in Western clothes -- quietly shut the heavy wood door that was our only escape route. Like a Turkish kervanseray floor show in which a slim-hipped belly dancer preps the crowd for the heftier model and finally for the cartilaginous creature who shakes her extra-wide-load hips to tambourines and thunderous applause, the rug show started slowly. Malkovich and Harempants lifted each rug by the ends, walked to the center of the room and let gravity unfurl it, the bright colors of Anatolia, Kars and Kayseri washing over us. As the pacing built, the rugs started to cover the shining wooden floor, then overlapped one another. Soon we had left our perches on the wooden bench that lined the wall and begun crawling around on the rugs, examining their fine weaves and lustrous textures. The climactic crescendo arrived with the unfurling of a massive silk Persian of geranium reds and robin's-egg blues. Though we were already breathless, Doublebreasted clapped his hands and Malkovich and Harempants, moving like choreographed game-show models, picked up either end of the carpet and turned it by 180 degrees, shifting the rug's palette to crimson and cobalt. Amazing! we cried. Astonishing! we clapped. At that, a cluster of salesmen who had been gathering in the room suddenly converged on us and pulled us to separate corners. Three men whisked me into another room. Their leader was a raven-haired fellow with cheap shoes and a wistful expression. His name, Ogun, means "That Day" in Turkish, a fact that was the source of huge laughs for his two squat henchmen who clearly understood my English, but spoke only in Turkish with Ogun. I started to say that I was in the market for a 5-by-7 kilim with a lot of red in it, but Ogun shot me a pained look that suggested such a request was as déclassé as demanding that an Old Master painting match my sofa. Instead, he ordered the henchmen to unroll a series of rugs at my feet. When I shook my head at the choices, the henchmen tossed their arms up in disgust, but Ogun had a more courtly approach. With each selection I dismissed, he nodded appreciatively and moved closer to me, as if irresistibly drawn to my aesthetic. Soon he began dismissing rugs for me -- "Can't you see she won't like that? She wants real beauty," he would scold the henchmen. He asked if my husband would like my choice of rug, and I said I didn't have a husband. He shouted in Turkish to the henchmen, who eyed me up and down, and again tossed their hands up in disgust. "They think this is a tragedy," Ogun said, and then sighed toward his cheap shoes, "and so do I." At this point he asked if I had a credit card with me. I said yes. The haggling began. The rug I selected, or that Ogun had selected for me, was a jewel-toned affair of blacks, pomegranate reds, jade greens and deep blues. Ogun explained that normally he would start the bidding around $1,000, but since this was the end of the season, and since I had no husband, he would start at $500. I shook my head at the price, and though my blood was racing, I couldn't coax out a counter-offer. Ogun strode away from my side with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched. He nodded his head and Henchman No. 1 scurried to the other room. Ogun smiled, puffed out one side of his cheek, and slowly blew out a low whistle of air. A few minutes later, the henchman returned and whispered in Ogun's ear. Ogun told me that Doublebreasted had insisted that I leave with a rug today -- how did $260 sound? Well, it sounded pretty good to me, now that my lust for bargaining had flagged. Ogun wasn't a shrewd creep, I thought, he was a fellow connoisseur. Just then, my friend walked in and saw me handing off my credit card. "What are you doing?" she demanded, and I explained the situation. "No way," she said to Ogun. "Two of 'em for $260!" Quickly, my friend's bad-cop display made me realize I had allowed myself to be swept along too easily. Ogun looked to me. "Two for $260?" he asked, and I nodded. He held his hand to his heart. He walked to the corner of the room and sighed. "We are friends, Laura?" he said, coaxing a small tear to the corner of his eye. "Why do you hurt me like this?" Finally, I understood the theatrics required here. "Ogun," I said, so forcefully I convinced myself I was truly affronted. "I don't think you're being honest with me ..." and I snatched back my Visa card. At that there was a very pregnant pause in which Ogun and the henchmen bored their Turkish eyes at me. They huddled and Henchman No. 2 threw his hands up in the air and pointed at me. Henchman No. 1 made a spitting noise. Ogun looked over his shoulder. "So you want two rugs?" "If the price is right," I said. Henchman No. 2 sniffed and gestured again. Ogun came back to my side and put his arm around me, hand to his collarbone in a gesture of sincerity. "My friend, you know that I must make a living?" I clenched my fist around my plastic. He let out a heavy sigh. "My friend, you may have two for $400. No lower please." "Three hundred," I said. "Three sixty," he said. "Three hundred," I said. "Three twenty-five," he said. "Sold," I said, and at that there were cheers from the henchmen and from the small crowd from my tour bus that had gathered for the final negotiation. As I handed off my Visa, Ogun took my hand and wrapped it under and over his forearm as though we had been wedded by this exchange of currency. He lovingly folded and packed my rugs in brown paper and then in a nylon case he promised would fit nicely under my plane seat. It did. Now I come across my two rugs, one in my living room, the other in my bedroom, and I feel a wave of pleasure at my purchases. But the souvenir that pleases me most is a photograph I have of Ogun and me. We are standing in the courtyard of the rug ranch -- I have my hands clasped and my head tossed back in laughter; he gazes at the camera with the smallest trace of a smile. We both look so satisfied -- like we each ripped off the other just a little bit. SALON | JAN. 21, 1998 Laura Billings is a contributing editor at Mademoiselle and Self magazines, and has written for Outside, Men's Journal, Health, Playboy and the New York Times Magazine. Do you have a bargaining tale to tell? 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