Fatma Nine ("Grandma Fatma"), who for half a century has laid a spread every afternoon in her garden in Üsküdar. The first racks are made from her walnut; it is she who finds the "one hundred and one", and she who sets an empty chair at every table.
- Homeland
- A garden on the slopes of Üsküdar, around the walnut planted by her grandfather's grandfather
- Age
- Unknown; she says she has forgotten it herself
- Her gift
- The walnut branch broken in a storm; the first racks
- Her inventions
- "One hundred and one"; the guest's chair; the short game, Okey
- In the palace
- The Palace Garden and the gift spread laid every day
- In the game
- Fatma Nine at the table
A hundred for you, and one for whoever comes through the door.
Who she is
In Fatma Nine's garden there stands an old walnut tree; beneath it, for half a century, a spread has been laid every afternoon. Whoever passes the gate is called in: neighbors, travelers, street children, wandering pedlars. The tree has listened to so much conversation that the old ones say you can still hear the old stories in the rustle of its leaves. She herself is plump and apple-cheeked, in a white headscarf; before she asks you anything, she pours you tea.
Her path in the story
When Aybars and Hasan Efendi are looking for a rack to hold the tiles, they come to her. Last winter a storm broke off a great branch of the walnut, and she could not bring herself to chop it for firewood: "I think the tree was waiting for something." She gives them the branch, on one condition: they must let her play the first game.
At the first table she sits on the west side. They explain the rules to her three times; on the third she understands and says, "Why didn't you say it like that in the first place?" When Sina Hoca says a hundred is needed to open a hand, she objects: "At my table I always set a place for one more. Say one hundred and one. A hundred for you, and one for whoever comes through the door." The whole meaning of 101 lies in that sentence. And that night, when Hızır's flower is found at the door, it is she who brings a chair from the kitchen and sets it at the corner of the table.
After Erlik's bargain, when everyone is left standing, she sits down and pours the tea: "Your troubles won't be solved on your feet." When they set out for the north, she carries a sapling from her walnut. The first guest of the Black Winter, the trembling old woman at the door, she leads by the hand to the table: "Welcome. It's your turn."
In the palace
The Palace Garden is hers: roses, lanterns, fountains, and in the middle of the courtyard the walnut that in seven years grows tall enough to touch the roof. When her grandchildren find 101 too long, she makes a short game with them: no opening your hand, throw your last tile into the middle, and the hand is done. They name it Okey; the İznik tiled hall is built for it.
Today, the source of that old custom in the palace of holding out a gift every day to whoever comes through the door is her spread, still laid at the foot of the walnut. If you meet Fatma Nine at the table, don't be ashamed to lose to her; she always wins the first three hands.
