Some years ago, I was offered a position at a newspaper on the European side of the city. Initially, I had serious reservations. After all, I told the editor, I’d only been in Turkey a very short time. Secondly, it had been years since I’d worked for a newspaper. I was rusty.

The editor was quick with reassurances (later, I found, the paper was located God-knows-where, and as for the pay – well, at any rate the position seemed to pop up every few weeks in the job listings, which should have alerted me …).

“Just come on down,” the editor said, cheerfully over the phone. “I’m sure we can start to shake some of that rust off.”

I agreed to a trial. But when I arrived at the newspaper offices, something was amiss. A blousy receptionist greeted me, and in pre-intermediate level English, explained that my new boss was on holiday, or on leave, to a place called Silivri. It sounded to me like a lovely, coastal Mediterranean town – I found out later it was a prison in Istanbul.

At any rate, I was led to the editor’s office by the conscientious receptionist (she doubled as the office tea lady as well, and always brought copious amounts of tea throughout the day). There I was shown a cluttered desk, and introduced to an editorial assistant named Cenk (“Jenk”). Cenk looked like he was about three days out of college (I found out later he was due for his military service, but vainly hoped the job would help him get a deferment.)

On the editor’s desk was a note: “Welcome, James! Sorry I’ve been temporarily detained (hopefully). I should be back in a few days. Just do your best. Cenk will have the stories that need to be edited (you’ll just need to correct some of his sentences. Cenk can handle the rest). I’ll see you when I get back. Good luck!”

It occurred to me that I should just bolt, get the hell of there. But there was Cenk, standing there with the morning’s copy ready to be edited, and the receptionist inquiring if I took sugar with my tea –

We worked hard all day, ironing out pages’ worth of twisted English syntax. It was a headache, but we pushed through. By five o’clock I felt comfortable enough to send Cenk home. He left his mobile number in case of emergency.

I stayed until about nine, enjoying the hum and quiet authority of editing and being a newspaperman again. On my own initiative, I even touched up some of the stories, switching and adding things, feeling very editorial-like.

All done, I put the paper to bed, and went to get the bus.

###

When I arrived in the morning, I noticed immediately signs of chaos, disarray. One of the windows had been smashed in by a brick. The area around the window had been cordoned off, and a policeman was standing outside.

“What the hell happened?” I asked. Cenk and the receptionist were in deep commiseration, but they tried to smile when they saw me.

“Morning James,” Cenk said. “We’ve had a bit of a situation. This old guy – a nationalist – was really pissed off about the photo on the front page. Why did you change it? You know, the photo for the story about the new cafe in Ortakoy?”

I felt something drop.

“I didn’t see anything wrong with it. I just liked that photo better. It really shows the colors of the sky over the cafe.”

“I see,” Cenk said, furrowing his brow. “But did you not also see the beer bottles clearly in the foreground?”

“I didn’t even think of it,” I said. “What’s wrong with that? It’s a café, and the café serves beer, doesn’t it?” Alcohol is legal in Turkey, after all.

“Well, James this nationalist – the one who threw the brick – shouted at us, ‘Why do you show alcohol on the front page? Don’t you know it is illegal in Turkey to advertise alcohol? Don’t you see you are setting a bad example for our children? Why not show a photo of ayran instead? (Ed’s note: Ayran is a Turkish, yogurt drink that tastes like buttermilk) Ayran is cool, wholesome and delicious!’”

“I’m sorry about that,” I said, chagrined. “What can we do about it? Should we issue an apology? A correction?”

“We’re waiting to hear back from the publisher,” Cenk said. “He’s in Switzerland, and having some problems with his taxes, so it could take some time.”

“I’m truly sorry,” I said. “Why did the guy have to break the window? It seems really extreme.”

“James,” Cenk said. “The guy doesn’t need to be reasonable. He’s a nationalist! Oh, there’s something else … Come, you need to check the answering machine in the office.”

I followed Cenk to the editor’s office, where just a few hours before I’d felt I had the makings of a true Mencken. The machine was lit up.

“One guy called five different times,” Cenk said. “He says, ‘Did you really print that Sufi-ism is the third branch of Islam? Sufi-ism is nothing but sheer mysticism! Who in Allah’s name is in charge down there? I have half a mind to come down there and really show you what’s what!’”

“Oh, shit,” I said. It was true, that was my bad evidently. The night before, I’d inserted a graf mentioning something of that sort. I’d known that the majority of Turks were Sunni, and supposed there had to be a few Shi’ites around somewhere. Remembering my readings about Rumi and Konya, I’d reasoned that Sufi-ism could count as third branch.

“Sorry,” I said. “I should have checked Wikipedia on that one.”

“Or just called me,” Cenk said, wiping his brow. “And then there’s this one,” Cenk said, moving on. “Did you really have to add a sentence to the profile about the börek place on Istiklal that the prices listed, “could be ‘real’ prices or they could be ‘yabancı prices?’ The woman from the Chamber of Commerce sent an email threatening to pull advertising. She said the way you wrote it, it sounds like all Turks cheat foreigners. ‘We Turks always treat our guests well!’” she wrote.

On this last point, I was somewhat defensive. “Have you ever been a foreigner in Turkey?” I asked. “If you had, then you would know that there are such things as ‘yabancı prıces.’”

Cenk just shook his head. He and the receptionist exchanged pensive looks. Finally, he said:

“Look, James. I don’t think this is going to work out. I mean, you are free to stay until the editor gets out of jail, but – ”

“No, I see your point,” I said. “I’ll just leave.”

The receptionist, who had been listening outside the door, offered a glance of apology. “Would you like one last cup of tea?” she asked.

It would have been rude to refuse, so I said yes, and she brought it, remembering not to add sugar. Cenk, meanwhile, had more phone calls to take care of – I prayed it wasn’t more damage control.

###

Just as I reached the lift, Cenk called me back. I braced for a fresh assault, but this time he was laughing.

“One last thing, James,” he said, shaking his head. “Did you really write that ‘camels are a common mode of transportation in the east part of Turkey?’”

Cenk was so beside himself that he actually ran to fetch a copy of the wretched edition, which I now hated more than anything in the world. He swept through the pages, finding the story. Scanning, he found the latest in my long series of crimes against Turkishness. He erupted into fresh laughter.

“Unbelievable!” he cried. “Camels! James, I know you haven’t been in Turkey for very long. But let’s make one thing clear, and you should remember this. We are Turks, not Arabs!”

“Got it,” I said.

Relenting, Cenk smiled and offered a parting handshake.

“Good luck,” he said.

“You too,” I said. “Sorry it didn’t work out. Hope you find someone better.”

Cenk laughed again.

“I doubt it,” he said. “As a journalist in Turkey, you’re lucky if you can stay out of jail! And nobody pays anything, of course. Good help is hard to find.”

Speaking of pay, it was on the tip of my tongue to ask about remuneration, figuring I was owed a day’s pay. But then I thought – oh, let it go for the busted window.

On the bus back home, tail between my legs, I sorely remembered the advice of my first newspaper editor back in California. A wise soul, he’d always said that editing was a tough road, filled with many hazards and few rewards. In the long run, he said, I was better off sticking to writing.

 ###

James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and teacher living in Istanbul. This story, btw, is intended as satire and anyone hoping that is based on factual events will be forced to dance the halay, a traditional Black Sea dance, for the period of one year.