The first week of the English Preparatory School was a quiet shock.
Mehmet had studied English in school, but his speaking was slow and his accent was thick. His reading and writing were better—he had read dozens of books in English over the past year, thanks to the sharpened focus the peaches had given him—but listening to a native speaker at normal speed still made his brain feel like it was wading through mud.
The UTİF students were divided into two groups for language classes. Mehmet's group included Selen, Burak, a quiet girl from Gaziantep named Ece, and a stocky boy from Bursa named Cem. Their teacher, Gülseren Hoca, had studied in London and spoke with a crisp British accent that forced everyone to listen carefully.
"English is not a subject," she said on the first day. "It is a tool. You will use it to read medical journals, to attend international conferences, to communicate with patients who do not speak Turkish. So do not study it like a textbook. Use it like a hammer."
Each morning brought four hours of class—grammar, vocabulary, listening, speaking. Each afternoon brought two hours of self‑study in the library. Mehmet sat at a desk near the window, working through exercises, listening to recordings, repeating phrases under his breath.
The library was his favorite place on campus. It was a three‑story building with floor‑to‑ceiling windows overlooking the Golden Horn. The history section was on the second floor, near the back, where the light was softer and the chairs were older.
He found himself there often, not because he was avoiding his classmates, but because the quiet felt familiar. In Güzelyurt, silence had been the natural state of things. Here, silence was a luxury.
One afternoon, three weeks into the semester, he was browsing the history shelves when a voice behind him said, "That one is overrated."
He turned. An old man stood a few feet away—tall, thin, with white hair combed back and round glasses. He wore a tweed jacket and held a leather satchel. His eyes were sharp.
"Excuse me?" Mehmet said.
The old man pointed to the book in Mehmet's hand—a popular history of the Seljuk Empire. "The author writes well, but he confuses the Saltukids with the Danishmends. A common mistake, but an irritating one."
"I'm from Erzurum," Mehmet said. "The Saltukids ruled there, didn't they?"
The old man's eyebrows rose. "Yes. Before the Seljuks consolidated power in the east. You're from Erzurum?"
"A village called Güzelyurt. About thirty kilometers from the city."
"I was born in Erzurum." The old man's voice softened slightly. "The city center, near the Çifte Minareli Medrese. I haven't been back in years."
He extended his hand. "Rıza Kaya. I teach in the History Department at İstanbul Üniversitesi. I come here to use the library. Better light."
Mehmet shook his hand. "Mehmet Aydemir. Medipul. Medical school."
"Medical school?" Rıza smiled. "And you're reading Seljuk history in your free time?"
"I've always been interested."
"Good. Most medical students only read about things that can be cured." Rıza took the book from Mehmet's hand and replaced it on the shelf. "If you want to read about the Saltukids, start with this one." He pulled down a thinner volume, its cover faded. "It's old, but it's accurate."
Mehmet took the book. "Thank you, Professor."
"Rıza is fine. I'm retired, technically. I only teach one seminar a semester." He glanced at his watch. "I have to go. But I'm here most Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you have questions, ask."
He walked away without waiting for a response.
---
Over the next two weeks, Mehmet saw Rıza in the library three more times. Each time, they exchanged a few words—about a book, about a historical detail, about the weather. Rıza was not warm, but he was not cold either. He treated Mehmet like a colleague, not a student.
One Thursday, Rıza sat down across from him at the table.
"You're consistent," he said. "Most students come to the library once, then disappear."
"I like it here."
"So do I." Rıza set down his satchel. "Tell me something, Mehmet. Why medicine?"
Mehmet told him about his mother's stroke. About the weeks in the hospital. About the feeling of helplessness.
Rıza listened without interrupting. When Mehmet finished, he nodded slowly.
"That's a good reason," he said. "Better than most." He paused. "And the history? Why do you keep reading about the Seljuks?"
"I don't know," Mehmet said honestly. "It started as curiosity. Now it's... habit."
"Curiosity is a good habit." Rıza stood. "If you're free on Saturday, come to my office. I have some books you might find useful. The address is on this card."
He placed a business card on the table: Prof. Dr. Rıza Kaya, Tarih Bölümü, İstanbul Üniversitesi. Eminönü Yerleşkesi.
Then he walked away.
---
Saturday morning was clear and cool. Mehmet took the metro from Fındıkzade to Eminönü, then walked through the crowded streets to the university. Rıza's office was on the third floor of an old building, its windows overlooking the Golden Horn.
The door was open. Rıza sat behind a desk covered in books and papers. He looked up as Mehmet knocked.
"Come in. Close the door."
The office was small but packed. Shelves covered every wall, filled with books in Turkish, English, Arabic, and Ottoman. A map of the Seljuk Empire hung behind the desk. On a side table, a tray held a teapot and two glasses.
"Sit," Rıza said. "Tea?"
"Yes, please."
Rıza poured. They drank in silence for a moment.
"I've been thinking about you," Rıza said finally. "A medical student from Erzurum who reads Seljuk history. That's unusual."
"Is that bad?"
"No. It's interesting." Rıza set down his glass. "I don't have many students who share my interests. Most of them want to study the Republic period. Or the Ottomans, but only the late Ottomans. The Seljuks are considered... distant. Irrelevant."
"They're not irrelevant," Mehmet said. "They built the first Turkish cities in Anatolia. They created the foundation that the Ottomans built on."
Rıza smiled—a real smile, not the polite one he had worn before. "Exactly. You've read more than I thought."
They talked for two hours. About the Saltukids, about the Danishmends, about the differences between Seljuk and Ottoman architecture, about the caravanserais that still stood along the old trade routes. Rıza was a patient teacher, correcting Mehmet's misunderstandings without making him feel foolish.
As Mehmet was leaving, Rıza said, "Come back next Saturday. I'll show you some primary sources. Letters, travel accounts, that sort of thing."
"I'd like that."
"Good." Rıza handed him a book. "Read this first. It's about the symbolism in Seljuk art. The star, the tree, the fish. You'll find it interesting."
Mehmet took the book. The cover showed a carving of a fish, its scales rendered in geometric patterns.
The pendant around his neck was warm.