migrants and the members of various unfortunate munities
congregated—occasionally felt that we would vanish on these streets； which
twisted and turned without end through an endless blackness。 Yet I could still
make out certain street corners that I’d patiently passed in the daytime toting
my satchel； for example； I recognized the walls of Head Tailor’s Street； the
sharp smell of manure—which for some reason reminded me of cinnamon—
ing from the stable adjacent to Nurullah Hoja’s property； the fire…ravaged
sites on Acrobats Street and the Falconers Arcade that led into the square with
the Blind Haji Fountain； and thus I knew we weren’t heading toward the
house of Shekure’s late father at all； but to some other； mysterious
destination。
There was no telling what Hasan would do if angered； and I knew Black had
found another place to hide his family from him—and from that devil of a
murderer。 If I could’ve made out where that place was； I would tell you； now；
and Hasan tomorrow morning—not out of spite； but because I’m convinced
that Shekure will again want to have Hasan’s interest。 But Black； intelligent as
he was； no longer trusted me。
We were walking down a dark street behind the slave market when a
motion of cries and wails erupted at the far end of the street。 We heard
the sounds of a scuffle； and I recognized with fear the clamorous start of a
fight： the clash of axes； swords and sticks and the bellow of bitter pain。
Black handed his own large sword to one of his most trusted men； forcibly
took the dagger from Shevket； causing the boy to cry； and had the barber’s
apprentice and two other men move Shekure； Hayriye and the children a safe
distance away。 The theology student told me he’d take me home by way of a
shortcut； that is； he didn’t let me stay with the others。 Was this a twist of fate
or some cunning attempt to keep secret the whereabouts of their hideout？
There was a shop； which I understood to be a coffeehouse； at the end of this
narrow street we were passing down。 Perhaps the swordfight stopped as soon
as it’d begun。 Crowds of men were hooting as they entered and left； at first I
thought they were looting； but no； they were destroying the coffeehouse。 They
carefully took out all of the ceramic cups； brass pots； glasses and low tables
under the light of the torches of the onlookers and destroyed them all as a
warning。 They roughed up a man who tried to stop them； but he was able to
get away。 Originally； I thought their target was only coffee； as they themselves
claimed。 They were condemning its ill effects； how it harmed the sight and the
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stomach； how it dulled the intellect and caused men to lose their faith； how it
was the poison of the Franks and how Exalted Muhammad had turned down
coffee even though it was offered to him by a beautiful woman—Satan in
disguise。 It was as if this were the theatrics for a night of instruction in moral
etiquette； and if I finally made it home； I thought I might even scold Nesim；
warning him not to drink too much of that poison。
Since there ing houses and cheap inns nearby； a
curious crowd formed in no time； made up of idle wanderers； homeless men
and no…good mongrels who’d snuck illegally into the city； and they
emboldened these enemies of coffee。 It was then I understood that these men
were the henchmen of Preacher Nusret Hoja of Erzurum。 They intended to
clean up all the dens of wine； prostitution and coffee in Istanbul and punish
severely those who veered from the path of Exalted Muhammad； those who；
for example； used dervish ceremonies as an excuse for belly…dancing to music。
They railed against the enemies of religion； men who collaborated with the
Devil； pagans； unbelievers and illustrators。 I suddenly recalled this was the
coffeehouse on whose walls drawings were hung； where religion and the hoja
from Erzurum were maligned and where disrespect knew no bounds。
A coffee maker’s apprentice； his face spattered with blood； emerged from
inside； and I thought he might collapse； but he wiped the blood from his
forehead and cheeks with the cuff of his shirt； melded in with our group and
began to watch the raid。 The crowd pulled back a little out of fear。 I noticed
Black recognize somebody and hesitate。 By the way the Erzurumis began to
collect together； I knew that the Janissaries or some other band armed with
clubs was on its way。 The torches were extinguished and the crowd became a
confused mob。
Black grabbed me by the arm and had the theology student take me away。
“Go by way of the backstreets；” he said。 “He’ll see you to your house。” The
student wanted to slip away as soon as possible and we were almost running
as we departed。 My thoughts were with Black； but if Esther’s taken out of the
scene； she can’t possibly continue with the story； can she now？
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I AM A WOMAN
I can hear your objections already： “My dear Storyteller Effendi； you might be
able to imitate anyone or anything； but never a woman！” Yet I beg to differ。
True； I’ve wandered from city to city； imitating everything into the wee hours
of the night at weddings； festivals and coffeehouses until my voice gave out；
and thus it was never my lot to marry； but this doesn’t mean I’m
unacquainted with womenfolk。
I know women quite well； in fact； I’ve known four personally； seen their
faces and spoken with them： 1。 my mother； may she rest in eternal peace； 2。
my beloved aunt； 3。 the wife of my brother （he always beat me）； who said “Get
out！” on one of those rare occasions when I saw her—she was the first woman
I fell in love with； and 4。 a lady I saw suddenly at an open window in Konya
during my travels。 Despite never having spoken with her； I’ve nursed feelings
of lust toward her for years and still do。 Perhaps； by now； she’s passed away。
Seeing a woman’s bare face； speaking to her； and witnessing her humanity
opens the way to both pangs of lust and deep spiritual pain in us men； and
thus the best of all alternatives is not to lay eyes on women； especially pretty
women； without first being lawfully wed； as our noble faith dictates。 The sole
remedy for carnal desires is to seek out the friendship of beautiful boys； a
satisfactory surrogate for females； and in due time； this； too； bees a sweet
habit。 In the cities of the European Franks； women roam about exposing not
only their faces； but also their brightly shining hair （after their necks； their
most attractive feature）； their arms； their beautiful throats； and even； if what
I’ve heard is true； a portion of their gorgeous legs； as a result； the men of those
cities walk about with great difficulty； embarrassed and in extreme pain；
because； you see； their front sides are always erect and this fact naturally leads
to the paralysis of their society。 Undoubtedly； this is why each day the Frank
infidel surrenders another fortress to us Ottomans。
After realizing； while still a youth； that the best recipe for my spiritual
happiness and contentment was to live far from beautiful women； I grew
increasingly curious about these creatures。 At that time； since I hadn’t seen any
women besides my mother and my aunt； my curiosity assumed a mystical
quality； my head seemed to tingle； and I knew that I could only learn how
women felt if I did what they did； ate what they ate； said what they said；
imitated their behavior and； yes； only if I wore their clothes。 Therefore； one
Friday； when my mother； father； older brother and aunt went to my
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grandfather’s rose garden on the shores of the Fahreng； I told them I was
feeling ill and stayed at home。
“e along。 Look； you’ll entertain us by mimicking the dogs； trees and
horses in the country。 What’ll you do here all alone； anyway？” said my
mother； may she rest in peace。
“I’m going to put on your dresses and bee a woman； dear mother；” was
an impossible answer。 So I said； “My stomach hurts。”
“Don’t be such a coward；” said my father。 “e along and we’ll wrestle。”
I shall now describe to you； my painter and calligrapher brethren； exactly
what I felt once they’d left and I donned the underclothes and dresses
belonging to my now dearly departed mother and aunt； as well as the secrets I
learned that day about being a woman。 Let me first state forthright that
contrary to what we’ve often read in books and heard from preachers； when
you are a woman； you don’t feel like the Devil。
Not at all！ When I pulled on my mother’s rose…embroidered wool
underclothes； a gentle sense of well…being spread over me and I felt as sensitive
as she。 The touch against my bare skin of my aunt’s pistachio…green silk shirt；
which she could never bring herself to wear； made me feel an irrepressible
affection toward all children； including myself。 I wanted to nurse everybody
and cook for the whole world。 After I understood to some extent what it was
like to have breasts； I stuffed my chest with whatever I could find—socks and
washcloths—so I might understand what really made me curious： how it felt
to be a large…breasted woman。 When I saw these huge protrusions； yes； I admit
it； I was as proud as Satan。 I understood at once that men； merely catching
sight of the shadow of my overabundant breasts； would chase after them and
strive to take them into their mouths； I felt quite powerful； but is that what I
wanted？ I was befuddled： I wanted both to be powerful and to be the object of
pity； I wanted a rich； powerful and intelligent man； whom I didn’t know from
Adam； to fall madly in love with me； yet I als