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scene; she can’t possibly continue with the story; can she now? 
 
 
   
380 
 
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 
381 
 
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 also feared such a man。 Sliding on 
the bracelets made of twisted gold that my mother hid at the bottom of her 
trousseau chest next to the sheets embroidered with leafy designs; in lavender…
scented wool socks; applying the rouge with which she brightened her cheeks 
on  the  way  back  from  the  public  baths;  donning  my  aunt’s  evergreen  cloak 
and  putting  on  the  thin  veil  of  the  same  color  after  gathering  up  my  hair;  I 
stared at myself in the mirror with the mother…of…pearl frame; and shuddered。 
Although I hadn’t touched them; my eyes and eyelashes had bee those of 
a woman。 Only my eyes and cheeks were exposed; but I was an extraordinarily 
382 
 
attractive  woman  and  this  made  me  very  happy。  My  manliness;  which  took 
note of this fact before even I had; was erect。 Naturally; this upset me。 
In the hand mirror I held; I watched a teardrop slide from my lovely eye and 
just  then;  a  poem  painfully  came  to  mind。  I’ve  never  been  able  to  forget  it; 
because  at  that  same  moment;  inspired  by  the  Almighty;  I  sang  that  poem 
rhythmically like a song; trying to forget my woes: 
 
My fickle heart longs for the West when I’m in the East and for the East when 
I’m in the West。 
My other parts insist I be a woman when I’m a man and a man when I’m a 
woman。 
How difficult it is being human; even worse is living a human’s life。 
I only want to amuse myself frontside and backside; to be Eastern and Western 
both。 
 
I was going to say; “Let’s hope our Erzurumi brethren don’t hear the song 
issuing  from  my  heart;”  for  they’ll  be  cross。  But  why  should  I  be  afraid? 
Perhaps they won’t be angry at all。 Listen; I’m not saying this for the sake of 
gossip; but I’ve learned how that famous preacher the Exalted Not…Husret…by…
a…Longshot  Effendi;  despite  being  married;  prefers  handsome  boys  to  us 
women just as you sensitive painters do。 I’m just telling you what I’ve heard。 
But I pay no mind to any of this because I find him repulsive besides; and he’s 
so old。 His teeth have fallen out and as the young boys who get close to him 
say; his mouth stinks; excuse the expression; like a bear’s ass。 
All right then; I’m holding off on the hearsay to return to the real issue at 
hand: As soon as I saw how beautiful I was; I no longer wanted to wash clothes 
and  dishes  and  parade  about  the  streets  like  a  slave。  Poverty;  tears;  sorrow; 
gazing  forlornly  at  a  mirror  of  disappointment  and  crying  are  the  lot  of  sad 
and ugly women。 I must find a husband who’ll put me on a pedestal; but who 
might that be? 
That was why I began spying through a peephole on the sons of pashas and 
notables;  whom  my  late  father  had  invited  to  our  house  under  various 
pretexts。  I  wanted  my  predicament  to  resemble  that  of  the  petite…mouthed 
beauty with two children whom all the miniaturists love。 Perhaps it’d be best 
for  me  to  describe  to  you  poor  Shekure’s  story。  But  wait  a  minute;  I’d 
promised to recount the following story tonight: 
 
383 
 
The Love Story Told by a Woman Prompted by the Devil 
 
It’s quite simple actually。 The story takes place in Kemerüstü; one of the poorer 
neighborhoods  of  Istanbul。  A  prominent  inhabitant  of  the  neighborhood; 
Chelebi  Ahmet;  secretary  to  Vas?f  Pasha;  was  a  married  gentleman  with  two 
children who kept to himself。 One day; through an open window; he catches 
sight of a black…haired; black…eyed; silver…skinned; tall and thin Bosnian beauty; 
and is smitten。 But; the woman is married; has no interest whatsoever in the 
Chelebi; and is devoted to her handsome husband。 The hapless Chelebi refuses 
to confide his woes to anybody; and reduced by love to skin and bone; takes to 
wine he’s bought from a Greek; yet ultimately he cannot hide his love from the 
neighborhood。  At  first;  because  the  neighbors  adore  such  love  stories  and 
admire and respect the Chelebi; they honor his love; making a passing joke or 
two about it and letting life

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