The Gaze Read Online Free PDF Page A

entering the tent. For this reason, after the evening call to prayer, carrying swollen bundles and with their fussing children beside them, they crossed the threshold of the westward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent pushing one another and grasping their long woollen coats.
    Most went on foot. Because those who insisted on going by carriage could be the victims of mysterious accidents. Sometimes nothing went wrong; even if the horses were sweating profusely, they went straight up the hill and succeeded in making it to the top. Sometimes the carriages would overturn for no reason. Sometimes they would slip on the ice, sending the passengers rolling back down at great speed. When these incidents were spoken of, it was with much exaggeration, and the addition of a sprinkling of mystery. When this was the case, the women who were accustomed to detecting the warning of a disaster usually caused by carelessness, preferred to leave their carriages at the foot of the hill and climb on foot, for there was no need to anger the saints buried on the hill. From time to time, there were also some groups who arrived on litters. These, pale complexioned women from elite families, would climb the hill with dignified expressions on the shoulders of their strong powerful servants. But as is the way of the world, these too overturned from time to time.
    Those who turned and looked back when they reached the top of the hill could see the sea. The sea was blue, bluer than blue; it was hostage to its own clear stillness. Once in a while some women got a crazy idea. The sea was a breast, gently swollen, aching, calling softly from afar for a mouth for its milk. Now…without regret for the past or concern for the future; as if…just by relaxing, opening their mouths and closing their eyes, it would be possible to be filled with time by sucking deeply on the present moment. In any event, their responsibilities were ready and waiting to be wrapped up. The loose string would quickly be re-wound. Children would take care of their mothers, mothers-in-law would take care of their daughters-in-law, and friends would take care of each other; those who were still captivated by the sea would be reminded that they had to reach the cherry-coloured tent before it grew dark. It worked. Once those who were lost in empty dreams were reminded of who they were, they would come on their own. In any event, as Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi often said: if the ship of womanhood were to sink, it would not be from a slow leak in the cargo hold of womanly duty motherly responsibility, but from a resounding and heavy rain of cannon balls of dreams. Women were susceptible to the lure of dreams.
    Even though in time this area came to be called a swamp, no one who had ever smelled the heady fragrance of the fig and lemon trees, or seen their delicate purple buds would want to believe it. Here, sparrows would chirp merrily, peacocks would strut around showing off, and nightingales would compose melodies to roses of unsurpassed beauty. For all of the women, if the area surrounding the cherry-coloured tent was a part of heaven, then that steep hill was the bridge which the righteous will pass over and from which the unrighteous will fall on the Day Of Judgement. But no one bothered their heads much about this question. It wasn’t the outside of the tent that was important, it was the inside. And if anyone knew the truth of the matter, it would be Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi.
    Here, it was possible to meet women of every temperament and nature. Matchmakers eagerly cast their eyes about for marriageable girls, irritable old women who constantly moved their lips as they cursed everything, cunning and foul-mouthed cloth peddlers looking for customers to corner, widows wrapped from head to toe in grief, cheap sluts who had aged before their time, greying whores who looked older than they were, fresh young girls whose pink complexions showed that they’d spent the