It is within teahouses that much of the city’s heart and soul resides
Teahouse), which he mentions in Other Colors, a book of essays published in 2008. It is almost empty when we arrive by accident later that afternoon. Only a single table is occupied and an old portable TV sits precariously upon a rickety shelving unit to the left of another framed photograph of Atatürk. In the centre of the high- ceilinged teahouse sits a heater, the likes of which I’ve never seen before. From its top emerges metallic stove piping that rises a few feet before travelling half the length of the room and disappearing into the opposite wall. A game of cards has begun at the occupied table, voices are being raised, and the room is heavy with smoke.
Kars doesn’t really have summers, just a short spring in July and August, and by the time we begin to head back to our hotel the air is sharp. In Other Colors, Pamuk wrote that he knew the novel Snow was “made of the stuff of the city, of its streets, inhabitants, trees, and shops and even from some of its faces”, but he also knew that “it does not resemble the real city”. By that he meant the melancholy, the heightened political and religious tension, and the sense of oppressive drudgery that led to the perception of a humbler existence. Either way, in 2008 he was unsure if he’d ever return. “A deep melancholy overtakes me each time I’ve known I am soon to leave Kars. The simplicity of life, the gentle companionship, the intimacy, the fragility of life, its continuity, and the sense of being in a place where time moves so slowly: These are the things that bind me to Kars.”
Early the next morning we leave. As we ride the 17- hour train journey to Kayseri, Kars’ isolation becomes stark. Soon it is dark and the countryside outside has disappeared. Every now and then a light from a dwelling comes into view before being swept away at speed. It is unlikely we will ever return.