Even Esther, no stranger to the poorest and worst districts, who’d walked all the streets of Istanbul -that is excluding those neighborhoods wherein migrants and the members of various unfortunate communities congregated-occasionally felt that we would vanish on these streets, which twisted and turned without end through an endless blackness. Yet I could still make out certain street corners that I’d patiently passed in the daytime toting my satchel; for example, I recognized the walls of Head Tailor’s Street, the sharp smell of manure-which for some reason reminded me of cinnamon-coming from the stable adjacent to Nurullah Hoja’s property, the fire-ravaged sites on Acrobats Street and the Falconers Arcade that led into the square with the Blind Haji Fountain, and thus I knew we weren’t heading toward the house of Shekure’s late father at all, but to some other, mysterious destination.

There was no telling what Hasan would do if angered, and I knew Black had found another place to hide his family from him-and from that devil of a murderer. If I could’ve made out where that place was, I would tell you, now, and Hasan tomorrow morning-not out of spite, but because I’m convinced that Shekure will again want to have Hasan’s interest. But Black, intelligent as he was, no longer trusted me.

We were walking down a dark street behind the slave market when a commotion of cries and wails erupted at the far end of the street. We heard the sounds of a scuffle, and I recognized with fear the clamorous start of a fight: the clash of axes, swords and sticks and the bellow of bitter pain.

Black handed his own large sword to one of his most trusted men, forcibly took the dagger from Shevket, causing the boy to cry, and had the barber’s apprentice and two other men move Shekure, Hayriye and the children a safe distance away. The theology student told me he’d take me home by way of a shortcut; that is, he didn’t let me stay with the others. Was this a twist of fate or some cunning attempt to keep secret the whereabouts of their hideout?

There was a shop, which I understood to be a coffeehouse, at the end of this narrow street we were passing down. Perhaps the swordfight stopped as soon as it’d begun. Crowds of men were hooting as they entered and left; at first I thought they were looting, but no, they were destroying the coffeehouse. They carefully took out all of the ceramic cups, brass pots, glasses and low tables under the light of the torches of the onlookers and destroyed them all as a warning. They roughed up a man who tried to stop them, but he was able to get away. Originally, I thought their target was only coffee, as they themselves claimed. They were condemning its ill effects, how it harmed the sight and the stomach, how it dulled the intellect and caused men to lose their faith, how it was the poison of the Franks and how Exalted Muhammad had turned down coffee even though it was offered to him by a beautiful woman-Satan in disguise. It was as if this were the theatrics for a night of instruction in moral etiquette, and if I finally made it home, I thought I might even scold Nesim, warning him not to drink too much of that poison.

Since there were quite a few rooming houses and cheap inns nearby, a curious crowd formed in no time, made up of idle wanderers, homeless men and no-good mongrels who’d snuck illegally into the city, and they emboldened these enemies of coffee. It was then I understood that these men were the henchmen of Preacher Nusret Hoja of Erzurum. They intended to clean up all the dens of wine, prostitution and coffee in Istanbul and punish severely those who veered from the path of Exalted Muhammad; those who, for example, used dervish ceremonies as an excuse for belly-dancing to music. They railed against the enemies of religion, men who collaborated with the Devil, pagans, unbelievers and illustrators. I suddenly recalled this was the coffeehouse on whose walls drawings were hung, where religion and the hoja from Erzurum were maligned and where disrespect knew no bounds.

A coffee maker’s apprentice, his face spattered with blood, emerged from inside, and I thought he might collapse, but he wiped the blood from his forehead and cheeks with the cuff of his shirt, melded in with our group and began to watch the raid. The crowd pulled back a little out of fear. I noticed Black recognize somebody and hesitate. By the way the Erzurumis began to collect together, I knew that the Janissaries or some other band armed with clubs was on its way. The torches were extinguished and the crowd became a confused mob.

Black grabbed me by the arm and had the theology student take me away. “Go by way of the backstreets,” he said. “He’ll see you to your house.” The student wanted to slip away as soon as possible and we were almost running as we departed. My thoughts were with Black, but if Esther’s taken out of the scene, she can’t possibly continue with the story, can she now?

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, becomes 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 grandfather’s rose garden on the shores of the Fahreng, I told them I was feeling ill and stayed at home.

“Come 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.