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Bah？ekap？ and Kazanj？lar district fires； the plagues that claimed tens of
thousands； the endless wars with the Persians at a cost of countless lives； as
well as the loss of small Ottoman fortresses in the West to Christians in
revolt—to our having strayed from the path of the Prophet； to disregard for
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the strictures of the Glorious Koran； to the tolerance toward Christians； to the
open sale of wine and to the playing of musical instruments in dervish houses。
The pickle seller who passionately informed me about the cleric from
Erzurum said that the counterfeit coins—the new ducats； the fake florins
stamped with lions and the Ottoman coins with their ever…decreasing silver
content—that flooded the markets and bazaars； just like the Circassians；
Abkhazians； Mingarians； Bosnians； Georgians and Armenians who filled the
streets； were dragging us toward an absolute degradation from which it would
be difficult to escape。 I was told that scoundrels and rebels were gathering in
coffeehouses and proselytizing until dawn； that destitute men of dubious
character； opium…addicted madmen and followers of the outlawed Kalenderi
dervish sect； claiming to be on Allah’s path； would spend their nights in
dervish houses dancing to music； piercing themselves with skewers and
engaging in all manner of depravity； before brutally fucking each other and any
boys they could find。
I didn’t know whether it was the melodious sound of a lute that pelled
me to follow； or if in the muddle of my memories and desires； I could simply
no longer endure the virulent pickle seller； and seized upon the music as a way
out of the conversation。 I do； however； know this： When you love a city and
have explored it frequently on foot； your body； not to mention your soul； gets
to know the streets so well after a number of years that in a fit of melancholy；
perhaps stirred by a light snow falling ever so sorrowfully； you’ll discover your
legs carrying you of their own accord toward one of your favorite
promontories。
This was how I happened to leave the Farrier’s Market and ended up
watching the snow as it fell into the Golden Horn from a spot beside the
Süleymaniye Mosque： Snow had already begun to accumulate on the rooftops
facing north and on sections of the dome exposed to the northeasterly breeze。
An approaching ship； whose sails were being lowered； greeted me with a
flutter of canvas。 The color of its sails matched the leaden and foggy hue of the
surface of the Golden Horn。 The cypress and plane trees； the rooftops； the
heartache of dusk； the sounds ing from the neighborhood below； the calls
of hawkers and the cries of children playing in mosque courtyards mingled in
my head and announced emphatically that； hereafter； I wouldn’t be able to
live anywhere but in their city。 I had the sensation that my beloved’s face；
which had escaped me for years； might suddenly appear to me。
I began to walk down the hill and melded into the crowds。 After the
evening prayer was called； I filled my stomach at a liver shop。 In the empty
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shop； I listened carefully to the owner； who fondly watched me eat each bite as
if he were feeding a cat。 Taking his cue and following his directions； I found
myself turning down one of the narrow alleys behind the slave market—well
after the streets had bee dark—and located the coffeehouse。
Inside； it was crowded and warm。 The storyteller； the likes of whom I had
seen in Tabriz and in Persian cities and who was known thereabouts as a
“curtain…caller；” was perched on a raised platform beside the wood…burning
stove。 He had unfolded and hung before the crowd a picture； the figure of a
dog drawn on rough paper hastily but with a certain elegance。 He was giving
voice to the dog； and pointing； from time to time； at the drawing。
12
I AM A DOG
As you can doubtless tell； dear friends； my canines are so long and pointed
they barely fit into my mouth。 I know this gives me a menacing appearance；
but it pleases me。 Noticing the size of my teeth； a butcher once had the gall to
say； “My God； that’s no dog at all； it’s a wild boar！”
I bit him so hard on the leg that my canines sank right through his fatty
flesh to the hardness of his thighbone。 For a dog； you see； nothing is as
satisfying as sinking his teeth into his miserable enemy in a fit of instinctual
wrath。 When such an opportunity presents itself； that is； when my victim； who
deserves to be bitten； stupidly and unknowingly passes by； my teeth twinge
and ache in anticipation； my head spins with longing and without even
meaning to； I emit a hair…raising growl。
I’m a dog； and because you humans are less rational beasts than I； you’re
telling yourselves； “Dogs don’t talk。” Nevertheless； you seem to believe a story
in which corpses speak and characters use words they couldn’t possibly know。
Dogs do speak； but only to those who know how to listen。
Once upon a time； long； long ago； in a faraway land； a brash cleric from a
provincial town arrived at one of the largest mosques in a capital city； all right；
let’s call it the Bayazid Mosque。 It’d be appropriate to withhold his name； so
let’s refer to him as “Husret Hoja。” But why should I cover up anything more：
This man was one boneheaded cleric。 He made up for the modesty of his
intellect with the power of his tongue； God bless it。 Each Friday； he so
animated his congregation； so moved them to tears that some would cry until
they fainted or dried up and withered away。 Don’t get me wrong； unlike other
clerics with the gift of preaching； he himself didn’t weep。 On the contrary；
while everyone else cried； he intensified his oration without a blink as if to
chast