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and never found the plume needle I hid in my undergarment。 When I emerged
onto the streets of Istanbul from the palace courtyard； I slipped into a
passageway and removed the terrifying object； with which the legendary
Bihzad had blinded himself； from where it was； and stuck it into my sash。 I
practically ran through the streets。
The cold of the Treasury chambers had so perated my bones that it
seemed as though the gentle weather of an early spring had settled over the
city streets。 As I passed the grocer； barber； herbalist； fruit and vegetable shop
and firewood shop of the Old Caravansary Bazaar； which were shutting down
one by one for the night； I slowed my pace and carefully examined the casks；
cloth sheets； carrots and jars in the warm shops lit by oil lamps。
My Enishte’s street （I still couldn’t say “Shekure’s street” let alone “my
street”） appeared even stranger and more distant after my two…day absence。
But the joy of being reunited safe and sound with my Shekure； and the
thought that I’d be able to enter my beloved’s bed tonight—since the
murderer was as good as caught—made me feel so intimate with the whole
world that upon seeing the pomegranate tree and the repaired and closed
shutters； I had to restrain myself from shouting like a farmer hollering to
someone across a stream。 When I saw Shekure； I wanted the first words out of
my mouth to be； “We know who the wretched murderer is！”
I opened the courtyard gate。 I’m not sure if it was from the squeak of the
gate； the carefree way the sparrow drank water from the well bucket； or the
darkness of the house； but with the wolflike prescience of a man who’d lived
alone for twelve years； I understood at once that nobody was home。 Even
bitterly realizing that one’s been left to his own devices； one will still open and
close all of the doors； the cabis and even lift the lids of pots； and that’s just
what I did。 I even looked inside the chests。
366
In this silence； the only sound I heard was the thudding of my own racing
heart。 Like an old man who’s done everything he will ever do； I felt consoled
when I abruptly girded my sword； which I’d kept hidden at the bottom of the
most out of the way chest。 It was this ivory…handled sword which always
provided me with inner peace and balance during all those years I worked
with the pen。 Books； which we mistake for consolation； only add depth to our
sorrow。
I went down to the courtyard。 The sparrow had flown away。 As if
abandoning a sinking ship； I left the house to the silence of an impending
darkness。
My heart； now more confident； told me to run and find them。 I ran； but I
slowed through crowded places and the mosque courtyards where dogs picked
up my trail and joyously followed； anticipating some kind of amusement。
367
I AM ESTHER
I was putting lentil soup on the boil for our evening meal when Nesim said；
“There’s a visitor at the door。” I replied； “Make sure the soup doesn’t burn；”
handing him the spoon and giving it a couple of turns in the pot while
holding his aged hand。 If you don’t show them； they’ll stand there for hours
idly holding the spoon in the pot。
When I saw Black at the door I felt nothing but pity for him。 There was such
an expression on his face I was afraid to ask what had happened。
“Don’t bother to e inside；” I said； “I’ll be out as soon as I change
clothes。”
I donned the pink and yellow garments that I wear when I’m invited to
Ramadan festivities； wealthy banquets and lengthy weddings； and took up my
holiday satchel。 “I’ll have my soup when I get back；” I said to poor Nesim。
Black and I had crossed one street in my little Jewish neighborhood whose
chimneys labor to expel their smoke； the way our kettles force out their steam；
and I said：
“Shekure’s former husband is back。”
Black fell silent and stayed that way until we left the neighborhood。 His face
was ashen； the color of the waning day。
“Where are they？” he asked sometime later。
From this question I guessed that Shekure and her children weren’t at
home。 “They’re at their house；” I said。 Because I meant Shekure’s previous
home； and knew at once that this would singe Black’s heart； I opened a door
of hope for him by tacking the word “probably” onto the end of my
statement。
“Have you seen her newly returned husband？” he asked me； looking deep
into my eyes。
“I haven’t seen him； neither did I see Shekure’s flight from the house。”
“How did you know they’d left？”
“From your face。”
“Tell me everything；” he said decisively。
Black was so troubled he didn’t understand that Esther—her eye eternally
at the window； her ear eternally to the ground—could never “tell everything”
368
if she wanted to continue to be the Esther who found husbands for so many
dreamy maidens and knocked on the doors of so many unhappy homes。
“What I’ve heard；” I said； “is that the brother of Shekure’s former husband；
Hasan； visited your house”—it heartened him when I said “your house”—
“and told Shevket that his father was on his way home from war； that he
would arrive around midafternoon； and that if he didn’t find Shevket’s
mother and brother in their rightful home； he’d be very upset。 Shevket told
this to his mother； who acted cautiously； but couldn’t e to a decision。
Toward midafternoon； Shevket left the house to be with his Uncle Hasan and
his grandfather。”
“Where did you learn these things？”
“Hasn’t Shekure told you about Hasan’s schemes over the last two years to
get her back to his house？ There was a time when Hasan sent letters to Shekure
through me。”
“Did she ever respond to them？”
“I know all the varieties of women in Istanbul；” I said proudly； “there’s no
one who’s as bound to her house； her husband and her honor as Shekure is。”
“But I am her husband now。”
His voice bore that typically male uncertainty that always depressed me。
Amazingly； to whichever side Shekure fled； the other side went to pieces。
“Hasan wrote a note and gave it to me to deliver to Shekure。 It described
how Shevket had e home to await the return of his father； how Shekure
had been married in an illegitimate ceremony； how Shevket was very unhappy
on account of the false husband who was supposed to be his new father and
how he was never going back。”
“How did Shekure respond？”
“She waited for you all through the night with poor Orhan。”
“What about Hayriye？”
“Hayriye’s been waiting for years for the opportunity to drown your
beautiful wife in a spoonful of water。 This was why she began sleeping with
your Enishte； may he rest in peace。 When Hasan saw that Shekure was
spending the night alone in fear of murdere