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scene; she can’t possibly continue with the story; can she now?
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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
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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
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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 o