My father was a burly man with the face of an innocent. When he climbed the stairs, he bent down low, a skill I felt sure he thought of as unique to himself. He worshipped anything Ottoman. On sighting a sultan's mosque, fountain or even a monumental tree, he would walk over to caress it. He performed the Eid prayers at Nusretiye Mosque, which was built by Mahmut II, and always paid a visit to the shrine afterwards. The first time he took me there, I counted eighteen coffins. Lying side by side in its burial section were the tombs of princes, grand viziers, ministers, commanders, high-level bureaucrats, academicians, authors and poets. I imagined them waiting until eternity to appear before the sultan and walked on tiptoe so as not to disturb them.