We present the stories from the RTÉ Short Story Competition shortlist 2023 – read The Turkish Rug by Natalie Ryan below, and listen to the story read by Andrew Bennett above.
About The Turkish Rug, Natalie says: "The catalyst was the image of a half-rolled Turkish rug that I saw in a bedroom once. I work in retail; the fitting room can be like the confession box, and I was struck by the amount of women—specifically the boomer generation—struggling to adjust to recently retired partners and these same partners trying to reconcile life without the identifier of work. I'm interested in the power dynamics of relationships and how they evolve, or don’t, over time."
The rug was delivered the fortnight after Samuel returned from Istanbul. He’d extended his business trip layover to visit the ancient city, taking the weekend to absorb it’s history and culture, to soak and be scoured clean in its baths. Helen had encouraged him to take the extra time. She’d wanted to rest on holidays nowadays, didn’t fancy going here, there and everywhere. The Canaries would do her from now on.
Samuel positioned himself at the front of the group during a tour of the Blue Mosque, as was his wont, always having to be at the centre of things, even if not officially in charge. He asked what he felt were intelligent questions, made jokes to lighten the mood and held doors open for people. He possessed an unquenchable thirst for knowledge and experience and Sadik, the tour guide, appreciated Samuel’s interest and if being honest, was optimistic about a liberal tip.
I’ll bring you to my cousin’s rug store after the tour. Amazing rugs. You also try the best nargile. You know Turkish shisha? No charge. In Sultanahmet, not far. He put his finger to his lips, creating a secret between them.
As dusk fell, Samuel gazed at the perfect balance of soft round domes and sharp minarets bathed in blue light and felt singled out. He stroked the skin of his arm, smooth as a child’s after a visit to the hamam that morning, recalling the laboured breath of the otherwise silent tellak desquamating his skin with each hard stroke of the kese. The experience had been an amalgam of pain and transcendence — one could not exist without the other — the remnants of which he carried into the evening. A sort of rebirth affirmed by his own baby-soft skin.
After escorting the last of the tourists onto the hotel bus, Sadik brought him to a parking bay and handing him a helmet, signalled for Samuel to put it on while he started the motorbike. With his hands on Sadik’s shoulders — the waist surely too intimate — they manoeuvred the chaotic city streets, Sadik loose in his regard for motorists and pedestrians, unsparing in the use of his horn.
Back in his hotel room, later that night, an elated Samuel rang Helen to tell her about the rug he’d purchased. Her questions — how much? and what colour? — along with something in her tone, made him feel foolish, as if he’d been duped. He hoped when she saw it, the majestic red and gold, countered with subtle green woven fronds, that she’d change her mind. Would see the workmanship, the beauty of the handwoven motifs and the intricate knots tied by deft fingers, securing warp and weft threads.
The day the rug was delivered, Helen rang her daughters looking for allies. Over the years there’d been an upspoken agreement between herself and Sam; he had free rein in the garden, whilst the house was her domain. All that time he worked aboard with the mining company, coming and going, there was no question of him having opinions on the interior decor of their home. Year after year she changed curtains, freshened up walls and reupholstered chairs without having to answer to anybody. But an approaching retirement — a four day week, then three, then two — had only served to whet Sam’s interest in the house. These days, decisions about the correct angles of hanging artwork, even something as simple as the position of the coffee table, almost always ended in argument.
Mum, I’ve told you a million times. Not getting involved, said her eldest daughter.
I’d be happy to take it off you, joked the youngest, hopefully.
Samuel’s hands trembled as he signed the proof of delivery. There’d already been a fuss when he told Helen the price. He’d never spent as much on anything, but they’d plenty of money. He’d worked hard. Meticulously, he sliced the tape around the joins of the rectangular box with the blade of his Stanley, folding the cardboard as he went, packing it tightly before tackling the layer of plastic. Helen stood over him as he kneeled beside the rug, holding his breath as it unfurled, the air suddenly redolent of his time in Sultanahmet, the store and the magic of the evening. He lowered his face and inhaled.
Running his palm along the fabric, he recalled the night of its purchase. He’d sat on an intricately-carved wooden chair, Sadik’s cousin expounding on the pattern and weave of each rug presented by the pretty store assistant. Each motif with its own story and purpose: protection, luck, love, abundance, happiness, strength. A Turkish coffee was poured for him from a copper cezve. Samuel sipped from a delicate porcelain cup. Another young woman brought a plate of lokum and he dropped cube after cube of sweet jelly into his mouth, licking the sugary powder off his fingers.
This one! Samuel cried from his throne, pointing at the rug Sadik’s cousin laid out before him. What’s this one ? I love it.
Ha! Sadik said, eyes shining like a benevolent son. The way Samuel’s children beheld him when they were small, whereas now he saw only disappointment in their faces. Saw, in their eyes, his every mistake reflected back at him.
Very, very good choice you are making, Samuel. Hayat Aǧacı. The Tree of Life. You desire immortality? You will get it for a good price!
Helen wasn’t quite sure what she’d witnessed. The tender opening of the rug, the sensual stroking of the fabric — even how Sam appeared to breath it in — kindled the embers of an old hurt within. Although determined to hate the rug, she wasn’t expecting this other feeling. Coming to his senses, or rather, coming out of them, Samuel jumped to his feet and dragged the rug full length across the living room floor.
Well? he asked, voice both at once shy and defiant, hands on hips in a schoolboy stance.
Gratefully distracted from the unpleasantness of the old wound, Helen returned to the problem, quite literally, laid out in front of her. The rug.
It’s nice, she said. I just don’t know where to put it. We need something to warm up the bedroom but but it has to be plain. And match the bedspread. You don’t notice because I’ve been doing his a long time on my own, but every room has a flow to it.
Samuel said nothing. Jaw tightening, he rolled the rug, dragged it into their bedroom and thrust it under his side of the mahogany bed. He grabbed a book off the living room shelf and sat in the leather chair facing the bay-window overlooking his garden. Unable to read, he tried to quell the disturbance of his thoughts by naming the fruits of his labour: Silver Wattle, Purple Angelica, Winter Daphne, Blue Geranium, Crocosmia. Windmill Palm. The temperamental April weather put an end to his taxonomy and soon there were blobs of rain pelting the glass, steam filling the pane until everything was clouded and dull.
Helen took a photo of the rug and texted her daughters. Neither responded. When her best friend, Marie, called over for coffee, she brought her into the bedroom, pulled out a corner of rug and in hushed tones, sought her opinion, or rather, courted her dissent. Samuel overheard them afterwards, cackling over buttered scones.
You can just see it, can’t you? Helen tittered bitterly. Some gorgeous young sales one and TYPICAL MAN pulling out the cheque book trying to look like a big shot.
After Helen left, Samuel stood in the kitchen, tears of rage in his eyes.
I will not spend the rest of my life paying for one stupid mistake, he bawled at her.
Just the one mistake, was it? she said, coolly, replacing the lid on the butterdish, scraping jam back into the pot from the fancy ramekin, dusting crumbs from the table into her cupped palm.
He kicked a kitchen chair out of his way and slammed the side door behind him. She watched from the dining room, as he hurled his golf clubs into the boot, car skidding down the long narrow lane that led to the main road. They did not speak for days.
Helen said to wait, they’d find a place for it. But Samuel grew tired of waiting. His father, the old bastard, had died at 76. Samuel felt time slipping through the hourglass of his life. He slept facing the outside wall, so if he should unroll the rug — just on his side of the bed mind you — nobody could see it apart from Helen, and only then when she crossed the room to draw the curtains. It was a tentative unravelling. First a few inches, until, fuck it, he yanked the rug and it unfolded. One part remained furtively rolled under the bed, the other wide open and resplendent. He secured the corners into place with the blanket-box and the bedside locker at each end. He said nothing to Helen. She said nothing to him.
That week Samuel had a dream, not dissimilar to a recurring dream he’d had as a child when his favourite book was One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. In the dream he flew on a magic carpet. Up, up, into the starry night sky and it’s oblivion, both exhilarated and terrified of falling. Then, Helen beside him, holding him close, their legs hanging over the edge like Ivan and Vasilisa in the Vasnetsov painting. A young Hel in her wedding dress. A young Sam in his navy wool suit. Their lives stretched out ahead of them. The magic ride only beginning. He awoke with a shudder and turned towards Helen. She lay very still, the white bed sheet pulled up to her neck and Samuel was filled with a great love and a great sadness both.
He sat up in bed and half-asleep, landed one bare foot, then the other, onto the rug. He paused, scrunching the balls of his feet, luxuriating in the comfort of wool and silk. Tracing his toe along one of the green frond patterns, he recalled Sadik kissing him on both cheeks on the footpath outside his hotel in Istanbul. He wasn’t naïve, he knew it was a transaction of sorts, but that night, when Sadik had whispered 'you are a good man, Samuel,' the sweet smell of shisha on his breath, Samuel had been able to believe him.
He heard the rustle of bedsheets but did not turn around. Helen arose and as she did first thing every morning, pulled the curtains open. However, instead of making tea and bringing it back to bed, she sat down beside him.
The rug, she said. I wish I… She smoothed the cotton creases of her nightdress and covered his naked foot with hers. I just don’t know where…
Shhh, Samuel hushed her and taking her hand, stroked the bone of her wrist with his thumb.
They sat there, saying nothing as they gazed out at the garden. All these years and here they were still together, both despite and because of everything. Samuel surveyed his kingdom. Hours of his life spent kneeling in deference to the soil. He contemplated the joyful burst of colour in each carefully tended corner. The Blue Tits capering around the feeder. The vivid green sprouting from the raised beds of his vegetable garden. He thought about sowing a wild flower meadow on the unused patch of grass his children had once played football on. It would be a thing of beauty and also save having to mow it. Yes, that’s what he’d do. He would pop down to the garden centre after breakfast and start this afternoon.
About the author: Natalie Ryan was born in Ireland, but spent her childhood in Ghana, West Africa. After an MA in Creative Writing at UCD, she won the Bryan MacMahon Short Story Award at Listowel Writers' Week (2011). She has been published in The Stinging Fly Magazine and All Over Ireland (a 2015 Faber and Faber anthology).
The Turkish Rug was read on RTÉ Radio 1 by Andrew Bennett at 11.20pm on Monday 16th October, as part of Late Date.
Read more stories from the shortlist on rte.ie/culture, hear updates on Arena on RTÉ Radio 1, and tune in to Arena's RTÉ Short Story Competition special, which will go out live on RTÉ Radio 1 at 7pm on Friday 27 October 2023 from Pavilion Theatre, Dún Laoghaire, Co. Dublin, with all 10 shortlisted writers in attendance.
Judges Claire Kilroy, Ferdia MacAnna and Kathleen MacMahon will discuss the art of the short story and the stories from this year's shortlist with host Seán Rocks, there'll be live music and performances from leading actors, and we'll find out who's won the top prizes.
Why not join us in person? Audience tickets are now on sale here.
And for more about the RTÉ Short Story Competition in honour of Francis MacManus, go here.
