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and whispers his name as the umbilical cord is cut. His name is to be Mustafa, the Chosen.

CHAPTER 4

    i am philothei (1)
    i am philothei an i am six eveone says wat a pritty gilr an i was born lik that an so i am usd to it i am prittier than anyon else but i dont bost abot it i sor ibrahim today an he was folowing me and I wosent sposed to see him i went with drosoula who is not pritty by ugli but she is my fren anway an ibrahim was playign with karatavuk and mehmetçik and they were blowing thier berdwhissles an pertendin to be berds an ibrahin sed wen we are old we wil be maried an I sed yes proberly an he gav me a fether an a snale shel an a pink stone with a patern on an he tuched my arm an tomorow we are gong to eat pijjun becos it is my name day and i will go to the curckh with the ikon of my saynt and leve it ther al nite with candels

CHAPTER 5

    Exiled in Cephalonia, Drosoula Remembers Philothei
    Philothei was my best friend, even though she was so beautiful and I was born so hideous. We were born at about the same time, but I might as well have been born in the shade. She was like the evening star, when I was like a bug.
    When you are old your memory plays tricks with you. Sometimes I can’t remember what I was doing five minutes ago, or where I put down the onion I was peeling, but then sometimes I can remember things that happened when I was seven years old, so clearly that it’s as if I was a little girl again. I’ve noticed, though, that occasionally you think you remember something as if you’d witnessed it yourself, when in fact it’s only that you’ve been told it so many times, and you’ve thought about it so much, that eventually you come to think that it really is your own memory when in fact it isn’t. What I am saying is, that although Philothei was my best friend, I can no longer separate my own memories of her from all the stories that people liked to tell about her.
    I know it’s stupid to claim that one human being is special, or picked out by God, when in fact there are hundreds of millions of human beings in the world, and God knows how many millions of people long dead who have been lost to history, all of whom were probably special to someone, but I still think that Philothei was touched by an angel, and I don’t suppose it matters much to you whether or not what I say is true. I am just an old woman, and you know what old women are like, going on and on about their memories, and sighing over the old days that they won’t see the like of again. You don’t have to pay any attention.
    I remember hearing so many times about how Abdulhamid Hodja, the imam, came to visit her when she was born, and left a saintly stigma on her hand where he kissed it. I can’t remember seeing it exactly, but I feel as though I did. I picture it as being red and blotchy, like those stains that you sometimes see on people’s faces.
    And why are you screwing up your face like that, and spitting? Because I mentioned the imam? Because I mentioned a Turk? Well, you should think before you spit, because I may be Greek now, but I was practically a Turk then, and I’m not ashamed of it either, and I’m not the only one, and this country’s full of people like me who came from Anatolia because we didn’t have any choice in the matter. When I came here I didn’t even speak Greek, didn’t you know that? I still dream in Turkish sometimes. I came here because the Christians had to leave, and they thought all the Christians like me were Greek, because the people who run the world never did and never will have any idea how complicated it really is, so if you call me a Turk you might think you’re insulting me, but it’s half true, and I am not ashamed. People used to call me “Turk” when I first came here, and they didn’t mean it kindly either, and they pushed in front of me and shoved me aside, and they muttered things under their breath when I passed by. I’m not like you, you see. You were brought up