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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：
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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 take its course。 But the Chelebi； who can’t control
his incurable agony； begins to get drunk each night and sit at the doorstep of
the house wherein the silver…skinned beauty lives happily with her husband；
crying for hours on end like a child。 In the end this alarms the neighbors。 Each
night as the lover cries in agony； they are able neither to beat him and drive
him away nor to fort him。 The Chelebi； as suited a gentleman； learns to
cry inwardly without lashing out or annoying anybody。 But gradually； his
hopeless grief works its way into the neighborhood； being the sorrow and
grief of all； the residents lose their sense of well…being； and like the fountain
which flows mournfully in the square； the Chelebi himself became a font of
sorrow。 Initially； the talk of misery spreads throughout the neighborhood；
being in turn the rumor of ill…fortune and later the certainty of doom。
Some move away； some experience a spate of bad luck and some are unable to
practice their craft； because they’ve lost the will to work。 After the
neighborhood empties out； one day the lovelorn Chelebi also moves away with
his wife and children； leaving the silver…skinned beauty and her husband all
alone。 This misfortune； of which they are the focus； douses the flames of their
love and causes them to drift apart。 Though they live together for the rest of
their lives； they’re never again able to be happy。
I was on the verge of saying how much I liked this story because it showed
the pitfulls of love and women； when for Heaven’s sake； I’d forgotten that I’d
lost my capacity to reason。 Since I’m now a woman； I’m going to say
something else entirely。 All right then； it’s something like this：
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Oh； how wonderful love is！
Now then； who are those strangers bursting through the door？
385
I AM CALLED “BUTTERFLY”
I saw the mob and knew the Erzurumis had begun slaying us witty
miniaturists。
Black was also in the crowd watching the attack。 I saw him holding a dagger
acpanied by a group of odd…looking men； the well…known Esther the
clothier and other women carrying cloth sacks。 I had an urge to flee after
seeing the establishment cruelly wrecked and the coffeehouse…goers beaten
mercilessly as they tried to leave。 Later； another mob； perhaps the Janissaries；
arrived。 The Erzurumis snuffed out their torches and fled。
There was nobody at the dark entrance of the coffeehouse； and no one was
looking。 I walked inside。 Everything was in shambles。 I stepped on the
shattered cups； plates； glasses and bowls。 An oil lamp hanging from a nail high
on the wall hadn’t died out during the turmoil but only illuminated the soot
marks on the ceiling； leaving in darkness the floor strewn with the boards of
wrecked wood benches； broken low tables and other debris。
Stacking long cushions atop one another； I reached up and grabbed hold of
the oil lamp。 Within its circle of light； I noticed bodies lying on the floor。
When I saw that one face was covered in blood； I turned away； and went to the
next。 The second body was moaning； and upon seeing my lamp； made a
childlike noise。
Someone else entered。 At first I was alarmed； though I could sense it was
Black。 The both of us leaned over the third body sprawled on the floor。 As I
lowered the lamp to his head； we saw what we’d suspected： They’d killed the
storyteller。
There was no trace of blood on his face； which was made up like a woman’s；
but his chin； brow and rouge…covered mouth were battered； and judging by his
neck； covered in bruises； he’d been throttled。 His hands were cast backward
over his head on either side。 It wasn’t difficult to figure out that one of them
held the old man’s arms behind his back while the others beat him in the face
before strangling him。 I wonder； had they said； “Cut out his tongue so he never
again slanders his Excellency the Preacher Hoja Effendi；” and then set about
doing so？
“Bring the lamp here；” said Black。 Near the stove； the light of the lamp
struck broken coffee grinders； sieves； scales and pieces of broken coffee cups
lying in the mud of spilled coffee。 In the corner where the storyteller hung his
pictures each night； Black was searching for the performer’s props； sash；
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magician’s handkerchief and popping stick。 Black said he was after the pictures
and held the lamp he’d taken from me to my face： Yes； of course I’d drawn
two of them out of a sense of fraternity。 We could find nothing but the Persian
skullcap that the deceased wore over his perfectly shaved head。
Seeing no one else； we exited into the blackness of night through a narrow
passageway that led away from the back door。 During the raid much of the
crowd and the artists within probably