run to him and tell him what that barbarian； from whose funeral we were
returning； had slanderously confided in me； I was going to confess what I’d
done to protect us； and to ask him： “Is it true what Elegant Effendi had
claimed？ Are we abusing Our Sultan’s trust through the illustrations we’ve
made？ Are our painting techniques traitorous and an affront to our religion？
And have you finished that last large painting？”
I stood in the middle of the snowy street as evening fell and gazed down the
dark road which had been abandoned along with me to jinns； fairies； brigands；
thieves； to the grief of fathers and children returning home and to the sorrow
of snow…covered trees。 At the end of the street； inside Enishte Effendi’s
grandiose two…story house； beneath the roof； which I can now see through the
bare branches of the chestnut trees； there lives the most beautiful woman in
the world。 But； no； why should I drive myself mad？
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I AM A GOLD COIN
Behold！ I am a twenty…two…carat Ottoman Sultani gold coin and I bear the
glorious insignia of His Excellency Our Sultan； Refuge of the World。 Here； in
the middle of the night in this fine coffeehouse overe with funereal
melancholy； Stork； one of Our Sultan’s great masters； has just finished
drawing my picture； though he hasn’t yet been able to embellish me with gold
wash—I’ll leave that to your imagination。 My image is here before you； yet I
myself can be found in the money purse of your dear brother； Stork； that
illustrious miniaturist。 He’s rising now； removing me from his purse and
showing me off to each of you。 Hello； hello； greetings to all the master artists
and assorted guests。 Your eyes widen as you behold my glimmer； you thrill as I
shimmer in the light of the oil lamp； and finally； you bristle with envy at my
owner； Master Stork。 You’re justified in behaving so； for there’s no better
measure of an illustrator’s talent than I。
In the past three months； Master Stork has earned exactly forty…seven gold
pieces like myself。 We’re all in this money…purse and Master Stork； see for
yourself； isn’t hiding us from anyone； he knows there’s none among the
miniaturists of Istanbul who earns more than he does。 I take pride in being
recognized as a measure of talent among artists and in putting an end to
unnecessary disagreements。 In the past； before we got used to coffee and our
minds sharpened； these dim…witted miniaturists weren’t satisfied with
spending their evenings arguing about who was the most talented or who had
the best sense of color； who could draw the best tree or who was most expert
in the depiction of clouds； no； they’d also e to blows over such issues；
knocking out each other’s teeth in the process。 Now that my judgment decides
everything； there’s a sweet harmony in the workshop； and what’s more； an air
that would suit the old masters of Herat。
In addition to noting the harmony and ambience brought about by my
judgment； let me list for you the various things I might be exchanged for： the
foot of a young and beautiful slave girl； which amounts to about one…fiftieth
of her person； a good…quality walnut…handled barber’s mirror； edges inlaid
with bone； a well…painted chest of drawers decorated with sunburst designs
and silver leaf worth niy silver pieces； 120 fresh loaves of bread； a grave site
and coffins for three； a silver armband； one…tenth of a horse； the legs of an old
and fat concubine； one buffalo calf； two high…quality pieces of china； the
monthly wage of Persian miniaturist Mehmet the Dervish of Tabriz and the
majority of those of his like who work in Our Sultan’s workshop； one good
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hunting falcon with cage； ten jugs of Panayot’s wine； a heavenly hour with
Mahmut； one of those young boys world…renowned for his beauty； and many
other opportunities too numerous to specify。
Before I arrived here； I spent ten days in the dirty sock of a poor
shoemaker’s apprentice。 Each night the unfortunate man would fall asleep in
his bed； naming the endless things he could buy with me。 The lines of this epic
poem； sweet as a lullaby； proved to me that there was no place on Earth a coin
couldn’t go。
Which reminds me。 If I recited all that happened to me before I came here；
it’d fill volumes。 There are no strangers among us； we’re all friends； as long as
you promise not to tell anyone； and as long as Stork Effendi won’t take
offense； I’ll tell you a secret。 Do you swear not to tell？
All right then； I confess。 I’m not a genuine twenty…two…carat Ottoman
Sultani gold coin minted at the Chemberlitash Mint。 I’m counterfeit。 They
made me in Venice using adulterated gold and brought me here； passing me
off as twenty…two…carat Ottoman gold。 Your sympathy and understanding are
much obliged。
Based on what I could gather from being in the mint in Venice； this
business has been going on for years。 Until recently； the debased gold pieces
that the Veian infidels brought to the East and spent were Veian ducats
which they minted in that same mint。 We Ottomans； forever respectful of
whatever is written； paid no heed to the amount of gold in each ducat—so
long as the inscription remained the same—and these fake Veian gold
pieces flooded Istanbul。 Later； noting that coins with less gold and more
copper were harder； we began to distinguish the coins by biting them。 For
example； you’re burning with love； you go running to Mahmut； that youth of
unsurpassed beauty； beloved by all； first； he takes into his soft mouth the
coin—not the other thing—and biting it； declares it counterfeit。 As a
consequence； he’ll take you to Heaven for only half an hour instead of one full
hour。 The Veian infidels； realizing that their counterfeit coins presented
such disadvantages； decided that they might as well counterfeit Ottoman
coins； reasoning that the Ottomans would be fooled again。
Now； let me draw your attention to something quite bizarre： When these
Veian infidels paint； it’s as if they’re not making a painting but actually
creating the object they’re painting。 When it es to money； however； rather
than making the real thing； they make its counterfeit。
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We were loaded into iron chests； hauled onto ships and pitching to and fro
traveled from Venice to Istanbul。 I found myself in a money changer’s shop； in
the garlicky mouth of its proprietor。 We waited for a while； and a simple…
minded peasant entered； hoping to exchange some gold。 The master money
changer； who was a genuine trickster； declared that he needed to bite the gold
piece to see if it was counterfeit。 So he took the peasant’s coin and tossed it
into his mouth。
When we met inside his mouth； I realized that the peasant’s coin was a
genuine Ottoman Sultani。 He saw me within that stench of garlic and said；
“You’re nothing but a counterfeit。” He was right； but his arrogant manner
offended my pride and I lied to him： “Actually； my brother； you’re the one
who’s counterfeit。”
Meanwhile； the peasant was proudly insisting； “How could my gold coin
possibly be counterfeit？ I buried it in the ground twenty years ago； did a vice
like counterfeiting exist back then？”
I was wondering what the oute would be when the money changer
took me out of his mouth instead of the peasant’s gold coin。 “Take your gold
coin； I don’t want any vile Veian infidel’s fake money；” he said； “have you
no shame？” The peasant responded with some biting words of his own； then
took me with him out the door。 After hearing the same pronouncement from
other money changers； the peasant’s spirit broke and he exchanged me as a
debased coin for only niy silver pieces。 This is how my seven…year saga of
endless wandering from hand to hand began。
Allow me to admit proudly that I’ve spent most of my time in Istanbul
wandering from purse to purse； and from sash to pocket； as befits an
intelligent coin。 My worst nightmare is to be stored in a jug and languish for
years beneath a rock； buried in some garden； not that it hasn’t happened to
me； but for whatever reason； these periods have never lasted long。 Many of the
people who hold me want to be rid of me as soon as possible； especially if they
discover I’m fake。 Noheless； I have yet to e across someone who’ll warn
an unsuspecting buyer that I’m counterfeit。 A broker； not recognizing that I’m
counterfeit； who has counted out 120 silver coins in exchange for me； will
berate himself in fits of anger； sorrow and impatience as soon as he learns he’s
been cheated； and these fits won’t subside until he rids himself of me by
cheating another。 During this crisis； even as he attempts to repeatedly swindle
others； failing each time on account of his haste and anger； he’ll continue all
the while to curse the “immoral” person who had originally conned him。
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Over the last seven years in Istanbul； I’ve changed hands 560 times； and
there’s not a house； shop； market； bazaar； mosque； church or synagogue I
haven’t entered。 As I’ve roamed about； I’ve learned that much more gossip has
been spread； many more legends told and lies spun in my name than I’d ever
suspected。 I’ve constantly had my nose rubbed in it： Nothing’s considered
valuable anymore besides me； I’m merciless； I’m blind； I myself am even
enamored of money； the unfortunate world revolves around； not God； but me；
and there’s nothing I can’t buy—all this is to say nothing of my dirty； vulgar
and base natu