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coin—not the other thing—and biting it； declares it counterfeit。 As a
consequence； he’ll take you to Heaven for only half an hour instead of one full
hour。 The Veian infidels； realizing that their counterfeit coins presented
such disadvantages； decided that they might as well counterfeit Ottoman
coins； reasoning that the Ottomans would be fooled again。
Now； let me draw your attention to something quite bizarre： When these
Veian infidels paint； it’s as if they’re not making a painting but actually
creating the object they’re painting。 When it es to money； however； rather
than making the real thing； they make its counterfeit。
115
We were loaded into iron chests； hauled onto ships and pitching to and fro
traveled from Venice to Istanbul。 I found myself in a money changer’s shop； in
the garlicky mouth of its proprietor。 We waited for a while； and a simple…
minded peasant entered； hoping to exchange some gold。 The master money
changer； who was a genuine trickster； declared that he needed to bite the gold
piece to see if it was counterfeit。 So he took the peasant’s coin and tossed it
into his mouth。
When we met inside his mouth； I realized that the peasant’s coin was a
genuine Ottoman Sultani。 He saw me within that stench of garlic and said；
“You’re nothing but a counterfeit。” He was right； but his arrogant manner
offended my pride and I lied to him： “Actually； my brother； you’re the one
who’s counterfeit。”
Meanwhile； the peasant was proudly insisting； “How could my gold coin
possibly be counterfeit？ I buried it in the ground twenty years ago； did a vice
like counterfeiting exist back then？”
I was wondering what the oute would be when the money changer
took me out of his mouth instead of the peasant’s gold coin。 “Take your gold
coin； I don’t want any vile Veian infidel’s fake money；” he said； “have you
no shame？” The peasant responded with some biting words of his own； then
took me with him out the door。 After hearing the same pronouncement from
other money changers； the peasant’s spirit broke and he exchanged me as a
debased coin for only niy silver pieces。 This is how my seven…year saga of
endless wandering from hand to hand began。
Allow me to admit proudly that I’ve spent most of my time in Istanbul
wandering from purse to purse； and from sash to pocket； as befits an
intelligent coin。 My worst nightmare is to be stored in a jug and languish for
years beneath a rock； buried in some garden； not that it hasn’t happened to
me； but for whatever reason； these periods have never lasted long。 Many of the
people who hold me want to be rid of me as soon as possible； especially if they
discover I’m fake。 Noheless； I have yet to e across someone who’ll warn
an unsuspecting buyer that I’m counterfeit。 A broker； not recognizing that I’m
counterfeit； who has counted out 120 silver coins in exchange for me； will
berate himself in fits of anger； sorrow and impatience as soon as he learns he’s
been cheated； and these fits won’t subside until he rids himself of me by
cheating another。 During this crisis； even as he attempts to repeatedly swindle
others； failing each time on account of his haste and anger； he’ll continue all
the while to curse the “immoral” person who had originally conned him。
116
Over the last seven years in Istanbul； I’ve changed hands 560 times； and
there’s not a house； shop； market； bazaar； mosque； church or synagogue I
haven’t entered。 As I’ve roamed about； I’ve learned that much more gossip has
been spread； many more legends told and lies spun in my name than I’d ever
suspected。 I’ve constantly had my nose rubbed in it： Nothing’s considered
valuable anymore besides me； I’m merciless； I’m blind； I myself am even
enamored of money； the unfortunate world revolves around； not God； but me；
and there’s nothing I can’t buy—all this is to say nothing of my dirty； vulgar
and base nature。 And those who know that I’m fake are given to even harsher
judgments。 As my actual value drops； however； my metaphorical value
increases—proof that poetry is consolation to life’s miseries。 But despite all
such heartless parison and thoughtless slander； I’ve realized that a large
majority do sincerely love me。 In this age of hatred； such heartfelt—even
impassioned—affection ought to gladden us all。
I’ve seen every square inch of Istanbul； street by street and district by
district； I’ve known all hands from Jews to Abkhazians and from Arabs to
Mingerians。 I once left Istanbul in the purse of a preacher from Edirne who
was going to Manisa。 On the way； we happened to be attacked by thieves。 One
of them shouted； “Your money or your life！” Panicking； the miserable preacher
hid us in his asshole。 This spot； which he assumed was the safest； smelled
worse than the mouth of the garlic lover and was much less fortable。 But
the situation quickly grew worse when instead of “Your money or your life！”
the thieves began to shout “Your honor or your life！” Lining up； they took him
by turns。 I don’t dare describe the agony we suffered in that cramped hole。 It’s
for this reason that I dislike leaving Istanbul。
I’ve been well received in Istanbul。 Young girls kiss me as if I were the
husband of their dreams； they hide me beneath their pillows； between their
huge breasts； and in their underwear； they even fondle me in their sleep to
make certain I’m still there。 I’ve been stored next to the furnace in a public
bath； in a boot； at the bottom of a small bottle in a wonderful…smelling musk
seller’s shop and in the secret pocket sewn into a chef’s lentil sack。 I’ve
wandered through Istanbul in belts made of camel leather； jacket linings made
from checkered