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My tears subsided。 I wiped my nose。 I saw the black dog wagging its tail in
friendship as I left the cemetery。 Sometime later； I settled into our
neighborhood； renting one of the houses where a relative on my father’s side
once lived。 It seems I reminded the landlady of her son who’d been killed by
Safavid Persian soldiers at the front and so she agreed to clean the house and
cook for me。
8
I set out on long and satisfying walks through the streets as if I’d settled not
in Istanbul； but temporarily in one of the Arab cities at the other end of the
world。 The streets had bee narrower； or so it seemed to me。 In certain
areas； on roads squeezed between houses leaning toward one another； I was
forced to rub up against walls and doors to avoid being hit by laden
packhorses。 There were more wealthy people； or so it seemed to me。 I saw an
ornate carriage； a citadel drawn by proud horses； the likes of which couldn’t
be found in Arabia or Persia。 Near the “Burnt Column；” I saw some
bothersome beggars dressed in rags huddling together as the smell of offal
ing from the chicken…sellers market wafted over them。 One of them who
was blind smiled as he watched the falling snow。
Had I been told Istanbul used to be a poorer； smaller and happier city； I
might not have believed it； but that’s what my heart told me。 Though my
beloved’s house was where it’d always been among linden and chestnut trees；
others were now living there； as I learned from inquiring at the door。 I
discovered that my beloved’s mother； my maternal aunt； had died； and that
her husband； my Enishte； and his daughter had moved away。 This is how I
came to learn that father and daughter were the victims of certain
misfortunes； from strangers answering the door； who in such situations are
perfectly forthing； without the least awareness of how mercilessly they’ve
broken your heart and destroyed your dreams。 I won’t describe all of this to
you now； but allow me to say that as I recalled warm； verdant and sunny
summer days in that old garden； I also noticed icicles the size of my little finger
hanging from the branches of the linden tree in a place whose misery； snow
and neglect now evoked nothing but death。
I’d already learned about some of what had befallen my relatives through a
letter my Enishte sent to me in Tabriz。 In that letter； he invited me back to
Istanbul； explaining that he was preparing a secret book for Our Sultan and
that he wanted my help。 He’d heard that for a period while in Tabriz； I made
books for Ottoman pashas； provincial governors and Istanbulites。 What I did
then was to use the money advanced by clients who’d placed manuscript
orders in Istanbul to locate miniaturists and calligraphers who were frustrated
by the wars and the presence of Ottoman soldiers； but hadn’t yet left for
Kazvin or another Persian city； and it was these masters—plaining of
poverty and neglect—whom I missioned to inscribe； illustrate and bind
the pages of the manuscripts I would then send back to Istanbul。 If it weren’t
for the love of illustrating and fine books that my Enishte instilled in me
during my youth； I could have never involved myself in such pursuits。
9
At the market end of the street； where at one time my Enishte had lived； I
found the barber； a master by trade； in his shop among the same mirrors；
straight razors； pitchers of water and soap brushes。 I caught his eye； but I’m
not sure he recognized me。 It delighted me to see that the head…washing basin；
which hung by a chain from the ceiling； still traced the same old arc； swinging
back and forth as he filled it with hot water。
Some of the neighborhoods and streets I’d frequented in my youth had
disappeared in ashes and smoke； replaced by burnt ruins where stray dogs
congregated and where mad transients frightened the local children。 In other
areas razed by fire； large affluent houses had been built； and I was astonished
by their extravagance； by windows of the most expensive Veian stained
glass； and by lavish two…story residences with bay windows suspended above
high walls。
As in many other cities； money no longer had any value in Istanbul。 At the
time I returned from the East； bakeries that once sold large one…hundred
drachma loaves of bread for one silver coin now baked loaves half the size for
the same price； and they no longer tasted the way they did during my
childhood。 Had my late mother seen the day when she’d have to spend three
silver pieces for a dozen eggs； she’d say； “We ought to leave before the chickens
grow so spoiled they shit on us instead of the ground。” But I knew the
problem of devalued money was the same everywhere。 It was rumored that
Flemish and Veian merchant ships were filled with chests of counterfeit
coin。 At the royal mint； where five hundred coins were once minted from a
hundred drachmas of silver； now； owing to the endless warring with the
Persians； eight hundred coins were minted from the same amount。 When
Janissaries discovered that the coins they’d been paid actually floated in the
Golden Horn like the dried beans that fell from the vegetable…sellers pier； they
rioted； besieging Our Sultan’s palace as if it were an enemy fortress。
A cleric by the name of Nusret； who preached at the Bayazid Mosque and
claimed to be descended from Our Glorious Prophet Muhammad； had made a
name for himself during this period of immorality； inflation； crime and theft。
This hoja； who was from the small town of Erzurum； attributed the
catastrophes that had befallen Istanbul in the last ten years—including the
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
10
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
11
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