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。
12
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
with coffee and lose control of their mental faculties to the point that they
actually listen to and believe what dogs and mongrels have to say。 But those
who curse me and our religion； it is they who are the true mongrels。”
With your permission； I’d like to respond to this last ment by the
esteemed cleric。 Of course； it is mon knowledge that hajis； hojas； clerics；
and preachers despise us dogs。 In my opinion； the whole matter concerns our
revered Prophet Muhammad； peace and blessings be upon him； who cut off a
piece of his robe upon which a cat lay sleeping rather than wake the beast。 By
pointing out this affection shown to the cat； which has incidentally been
denied to us dogs； and due to our eternal feud with this feline beast； which
even the stupidest of men recognizes as an ingrate； people have tried to
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intimate that the Prophet himself disliked dogs。 They’re convinced that we’ll
defile those who have performed ritual ablutions； and the result of this
erroneous and slanderous belief is that we’ve been barred from mosques for
centuries and have suffered beatings in their courtyards from broomstick…
wielding caretakers。
Allow me to remind you of “The Cave；” the most beautiful of the Koran’s
chapters。 I’m reminding you not because I suspect there may be those who
never read the Koran among us in this good coffeehouse； but because I want
to refresh your memories： This chapter recounts the story of the seven youths
who grow tired of living among pagans and take refuge in a cave where they
enter a deep sleep。 Allah then seals their ears and causes them to doze off for
exactly three hundred and nine years。 When they awake； they learn just how
many years have passed only after one of them enters the society of men and
tries to spend an outdated silver coin。 All of them are stunned to learn what
has happened。 This chapter subtly describes man’s attachment to Allah； His
miracles； the transitory nature of time and the pleasure of deep sleep； and
though it’s not my place； allow me to remind you of the eighteenth verse；
which makes mention of a dog resting at the mouth of this cave where the
seven youths have fallen asleep。 Obviously； anyone would be proud to appear
in the Koran。 As a dog； I take pride in this chapter； and through it I intend to
bring the Erzurumis； who refer to their enemies as dirty mongrels； to their
senses。
So then； what’s the actual reason for this animosity toward dogs？ Why do
you persist in saying that dogs are impure； and cleaning and purifying your
homes from top to bottom if a dog happens to enter？ Why do you believe that
those who touch us spoil their ablutions？ If your caftan brushes against our
damp fur； why do you insist on washing that caftan seven times like a frenzied
woman？ Only tinsmiths could be responsible for the slander that a pot