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。
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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
chastise the congregation。 In all probability； the gardeners； royal pages； halva
makers； riffraff and clerics like himself became his lackeys because they
enjoyed the tongue lashing。 Well； this man was no dog after all； no sir； he was
a human being—to be human is to err—and before those enthralled crowds；
he lost himself when he saw that intimidating throngs of people was as
pleasurable as bringing them to tears。 When he understood that there was
much more bread to be made in this new venture； he went over the top and
had the nerve to say the following：
“The sole reason for rising prices； plague and military defeat lies in our
forgetting the Islam of the time of our Glorious Prophet and falling sway to
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falsehoods。 Was the Prophet’s birth epic read in memory of the dead back
then？ Was the fortieth…day ceremony performed； where sweets like halva and
fried dough are offered to honor the dead？ When Muhammad lived； was the
Glorious Koran recited melodically； like a song？ Were the prayers called
haughtily and pompously to show how close one’s Arabic was to an Arab’s？
Was there such a thing as reciting the call to prayer coyly； with the flourish of
a man imitating a woman？ Today； people plead before gravesites； begging for
amends。 They hope for the intervention of the dead on their behalf。 They visit
the tombs of saints and worship at graves like pagans before pieces of stone。
They tie votive pieces of cloth everywhere； and make promises of sacrifice in
return for atonement。 Were there dervish sectarians who spread such beliefs in
Muhammad’s time？ Ibn Arabi； the intellectual mentor of these sectarians；
became a sinner by swearing that the infidel Pharaoh had died a believer。
These dervishes； the Mevlevis； the Halvetis； the Kalenderis and those who sing
the Koran to musical acpaniment or justify dancing with children and
juveniles by saying ”we pray together anyway； why not？“ are all kaffirs。 Dervish
lodges ought to be destroyed； their foundations excavated to a depth of seven
ells and the collected earth cast into the sea。 Only then might ritual prayers be
performed there again。”
I heard tell that this Husret Hoja； taking matters even further； declared with
spittle flying from his mouth； “Ah； my devoted believers！ The drinking of
coffee is an absolute sin！ Our Glorious Prophet did not partake of coffee
because he knew it dulled the intellect； caused ulcers； hernia and sterility； he
understood that coffee was nothing but the Devil’s ruse。 Coffeehouses are
places where pleasure…seekers and wealthy gadabouts sit knee…to…knee；
involving themselves in all sorts of vulgar behavior； in fact； even before the
dervish houses are closed； coffeehouses ought to be banned。 Do the poor have
enough money to drink coffee？ Men frequent these places； bee besotted
w