Echo
Of all the things one might expect to see in a bookshop in Istanbul, a rare treasure like this was not one of them. Isabelle leaned closer to the small terracotta pot, with its clutches of narrow, dark green leaves and delicate looking purple flowers. Viola cryana. The crying violet. Yes, she was almost certain of it. Most people wouldn't even look twice at a small pot of flowers in a bookshop, but most people hadn't spent so much time studying this particular plant. With a frown, Isabelle looked up. Was there a shopkeeper she could ask about this?
It was a small shop, tucked away down a narrow side street. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with wooden bookshelves, full to overflowing with books, haphazardly coloured, and in several different languages. Here and there, stacks of books sat on the floor, in corners. Some looked dusty enough that they must have been there for some time. While old bookshops like this could easily become dark and dusty little places, this one was brightly lit by large windows in old wooden frames, which had clearly been repainted several times. Lazy sunlight poured in, illuminating motes of dust, swirled by the handful of people browsing the shelves.
Isabelle had been casually looking out of one of these windows when she'd noticed the potted violet, sitting between a lemon tree and a couple of faded looking hardback books.
There! A woman with pitch black hair and olive skin, with a roman nose. She was wearing a dark green dress with gold trim, adorned with various pieces of shiny gold jewellery, and carrying a box full of books, carefully slotting them into shelves.
Isabelle walked over to her. “Excuse me,” she said, softly, trying not to disturb anyone, “could you tell me who owns this shop?”
The woman looked at her with chestnut brown eyes and a smile which felt like sunlight. “I certainly can. This is my shop.”
“Oh! It's nice to meet you!” Isabelle grinned. “I love old bookshops like this one.”
“My name's Ceren,” she said, holding out a hand. “And what may I call you?”
A moment's hesitation. “I'm Isabelle,” she said. She was unsure quite how to behave. Something about Ceren's gaze made her feel like an awkward student trying to ask a professor for help with an assignment. “I was just wondering, um,” she stumbled over her words, trying not to sound too eager, “that flower over there, by the window? Where did you get it?”
Ceren leaned over slightly, looking to the window, the sunlight catching one of her earrings. She looked back to Isabelle. “I've had that plant for almost as long as I've been here. And I've been here for a long time. It was a gift.”
“I hope you don't mind me asking,” Isabelle said, “but could I perhaps take a cutting from it?”
Ceren brushed a strand of hair over her ear, making the golden bracelets on her arm clink together. “And why would you want a cutting from that little thing?”
Isabelle met Ceren's eyes for a moment. Her gaze was strong, and felt humbling. She deserved the truth. “Well, you see,” a pause, “I think that flower is a crying violet. And, well, they've been extinct in the wild for over ninety years.”
Ceren's lips curved into a lopsided smile. “And how would you know that?” she asked.
“I er,” Isabelle fumbled her sentence again, “I'm a botanist. I studied violets for my PhD, and I'm almost certain that flower is Viola cryana. Though I've only ever seen pictures of it. It died out in the wild around 1930, and it's been thought extinct since the '50s.”
“Well, you've certainly impressed me.” Ceren's eyes twinkled. “However, I'm sorry. I can't let you take a cutting from that plant.”
“But,” Isabelle tried not to let her disappointment show, “but it's a miracle to find one still alive and growing like this. It could be regrown. Reintroduced into the wild. The entire species could be revived!”
Ceren took a step back and looked Isabelle over. She suddenly felt a little bit like one of the plant specimens she'd grown in the laboratory, being examined for viability.
“My dear,” Ceren said, idly playing with one of her necklaces, “when I said you'd impressed me, I meant it. But I've seen many like you.”
Isabelle frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, I've been here for a long time. People walk into my shop sometimes and notice things. Things like the Byzantine sword hanging over the door, or the old parchment copy of the Kitab al-Tabikh in the case behind the counter over there.”
“Kitab al...?”
“It's a medieval cookbook.” Ceren grinned. “The point is, I collect these things. Things out of place in time. Kept inside here, away from the outside world, they're safe.”
“But why just keep them here? Why not share them?”
The corner of Ceren's lips pinched into the half smile of someone who'd explained something often enough that they were trying to find a different wording to see if it helped. She looked over towards the window, and the plant pot. A long, slow moment passed. “I don't keep them here for myself,” she said eventually. “They're here because keeping them is my duty. Their time has passed. There's no place for them in the world anymore. They're just echoes now. Just like me.”
Isabelle's brow furrowed. “I don't understand,” she said.
“Everything passes. Time outruns us all eventually. When you've been here as long as I have, you come to learn these things.”
“Wait,” she said, “how long did you say you've been here?”
“To be candid, I forget when I first came to Constantinople.”
Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Constantinople?”
Ceren's warm brown eyes twinkled. For the briefest moment, Isabelle caught a glimpse of something in them. Something wise and ancient. But only a glimpse. “That's what this city was called when I first came here, yes.”