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 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？
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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； brok