THE MAYORAL OFFICE is not what I expect. A silk Turkish flag hangs across one wall; a framed photograph of Atatürk graces another. Polat himself prefers a tie and well-fitted suit to jamadani and vest. I feel out of place in my short-sleeved shirt.
The mayor steeples his fingers beneath a trimmed mustache.
“Mr Kaya, I believe.” His Turkish lacks any trace of an accent. “We talked on the telephone yesterday – pity about the line. Care for a glass of tea?”
“Most kind.”
He heads into the next room, and I soon hear the song of a boiling kettle. In his absence, I browse the shelves. A Turkish-language Qur'an, neatly-stacked folders of council minutes, an abridged One Thousand and One Nights, three unopened cigarette packs – still in plastic wrapping, the Nutuk in paperback... Mustafa himsel
