I hear your objes 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 iernal 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 al desires is to seek out the friendship of beautiful boys, a satisfactory surrogate for females, and iime, this, too, bees a sweet habit. Iies 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 geous legs; as a result, the men of those cities walk about with great difficulty, embarrassed and ireme pain, because, you see, their front sides are always ered this faaturally 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 te 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 khat I could only learn how wome 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 auo my 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 eain us by mimig the dogs, trees and horses in the try. 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 brethrely what I felt ohey』d left and I dohe underclothes and dresses belonging to my now dearly departed mother and aunt, as well as the secrets I learhat day about being a woma me first state fht that trary 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,