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her son a name. It was a way of protecting him from Azrael, the Angel of Death. If the baby had no particular affiliation, she thought, Azrael would not be able to find him, even if he wished to. Thus the boy spent his first year on earth without a name, like an envelope with no address. As well as his second, third and fourth years. When they had to call him, they would say, ‘Son!’ or ‘Hey, lad!’
    Why didn’t her husband, Adem, object to this nonsense? Why didn’t he take control of the situation and name his heir like every other man did? There was something holding him back, something stronger than his quick temper and male pride, a secret between the two of them that empowered Pembe and weakened Adem, pushing him away from home towards an underground world in Istanbul, where he could gamble and be the king, even if only for one night.
    Not until the boy had turned five did Adem take the reins in his hands and announce that this could not go on for ever. His son would soon start school, and if he did not have a name by then the other children would make sure he had the most ridiculous one imaginable. Grudgingly, Pembe complied but only on one condition. She would take the child to her native village and get her twin’s and family’s blessings. Once there, she would also consult with the three village elders, who, by now, were as old as Mount Ararat, but still dispensing sage advice.
    *
    ‘It was wise of you to come to us,’ said the first village elder, who was so frail now that when a door slammed near by its vibration shook him to the core.
    ‘It is also good that you did not insist on naming the baby yourself, like some mothers do nowadays,’ remarked the second elder, who had only one tooth left in his mouth – a little pearl shining out like the first tooth of a toddler.
    The third elder then spoke, but his voice was so low, his words so slurred, that no one understood what he said.
    After a bit more discussion the elders reached a decision: a stranger would name the boy – someone who knew nothing about the family and, by extension, Naze’s spectre.
    With a borrowed confidence Pembe agreed to the plan. A few miles away there was a stream that ran low in winter and frantically high in spring. The peasants crossed the water in a makeshift boat attached to a wire that had been stretched between the two banks. The journey was unsafe, and every year a few passengers would fall into the river. It was decided that Pembe would wait where the boat landed and ask the first man who got across to name her son. The village elders, meanwhile, would hide behind the bushes and intervene should the need arise.
    Thus Pembe and her son waited. She was attired in a crimson dress that reached below her ankles and a black lace shawl. He was wearing his only suit and looked like a miniature of a man. Time crept by and the child got bored. Pembe told stories to entertain him. One of those stories would stand out in his memory for ever.
    ‘
When Nasreddin Hodja was a boy he was the apple of his mother’s eye.
’
    ‘Did she have apples in her eyes?’ he asked.
    ‘That’s an expression, my sultan. It means she loved him very much.
The two of them lived in a nice cottage on the outskirts of the town.
’
    ‘Where was the father?’
    ‘He had gone off to war. Now listen.
One day his mother had to go to the bazaar. She said to him, “You should stay at home and watch the door. If you see a burglar trying to break in, start shouting at the top of your voice. That’ll frighten him away. I’ll be back before noon.” So Nasreddin did as he was told, not taking his eyes from the door for even a moment.
’
    ‘Didn’t he have to pee?’
    ‘He had a potty with him.’
    ‘Wasn’t he hungry?’
    ‘His mother had left him food.’
    ‘Pastries?’
    ‘And sesame
halva
,’ Pembe said, knowing her son well. ‘
After an hour, there was a knock at the door. It was Nasreddin’s uncle, checking on how they were doing. He