The Perforated Amulet

In Şaban, the eighth month of the Islamic calendar, a saintly cherubic son was born to my esteemed master İzzet Efendi, originally from Salonika. The boy was a beautiful, tender little thing. The midwife told İzzet Efendi that the darling boy should be named Necip, so they called the darling boy Necip. Grandmothers, wet nurses, great-grandmothers all tut-tutted as, one after the other, they pinned gold pieces to Necip's pillow with great generosity. Why didn't the poor child have an amulet? Very well, very well, the father said, and he went to İstavro the jeweller in Rıhtım Street, where he bought an amulet of the purest gold that he pinned to the pillow of darling Necip, to the applause of the great-grandmothers, wet nurses, and grandmothers.

Ah, ah, who will inherit the farms? They will go to Necip. Who else should own the products of Pişona Farm, the cattle, hens, eggs, chicks, broilers, the steaming milk, cream, honey, oh and the traitorous Bulgarians' finest yoghurt, the goose livers, lamb livers, chicken breasts, and the breasts of all the women with their abundance of milk? Necip, of course Necip. They all belonged to Necip, didn't they? Had they not all been waiting for the birth of Necip? The magic of the amulet would multiply all that ten times, a thousand times over for Necip. Why not? Had it not all just been waiting for the birth of Necip? Let the amulet ward against the evil eye. Let its magic make the peaches, melons, and pears even sweeter and juicier.

Necip urinated, oh how he urinated. Necip defecated, oh how he defecated; nappies, nappies, and yet more nappies were washed, washed, and washed again with busy hands, wagging tongues, and much swearing by scullions, orphaned servant girls, and Greek nannies. Hey you scullions, hey you servants, put Necip on your backs, carry Necip downstairs, carry Necip upstairs. Giddy up, scullions, giddy up, servant girls, giddy up, giddy up, with a clip to the ear, a slap on the butt. As Necip's hands grew, he grew big enough to clip and slap for himself, and he hit out with his own dear little hand.

He pulled people's hair, first his mother's, then his wet nurse's, his great-grandmother's, his grandmother's, his grandfather's, and the servant girls'. He threw the amulet at their heads, he jabbed the pin of the amulet in their backsides over and over again, but they knew it wasn't the fault of the amulet; God was protecting him, ensuring that the evil eye would seek out other children. He shouted "donkey," first at his mother, then at his father, his wet nurse, his great-grandmother, his grandfather, and the bald servant girl. Oh bless his little mouth, he was so cute when he said "donkey." What a gorgeous rosebud mouth, sweet little tongue. He said "shit"; how delicious, but oh my, this dear little boy shouldn't speak like that to his mother, father, grandfather, great-grandmother, and grandmother! Or to the servant girl, scullions, or the Greek nanny. Oh oh.

Ten exhausting years passed and he was still being breastfed. Continually urinating, feeding, shouting "donkey," saying "shit," hitting scullions and everyone else, jumping on people's backs, spurring them as if they were horses, downstairs and upstairs. However, those years were so constructive that by the end of his tenth year, Necip abandoned his mother's shriveled breast and started sucking on the fresh young breasts of the servant girls, young scullions, and widows living under the family's protection. The evil eye would never touch him because the amulet was always there, ha ha.

He sucked and he beat, he sucked and he cursed. As he cursed, sucked, and beat, he grew and he grew until eventually he became a man; it was all thanks to the team of scullions, servant girls, and all the other parasites!

İzzet Efendi's son Necip, that gentleman, that gentleman of gentlemen, that hero of heroes, that pasha of pashas for whom...