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miss the strength and protection of a man； but let no one assume he might take
advantage of my situation。 Therefore； it would please me if you ceased calling on
us。 You did embarrass me once before； and afterward； I had to endure much
suffering to regain my honor in my father’s eyes！ Along with this letter； I’m also
returning the picture you painted and sent to me when you were an impulsive
youth with his wits not yet about him。 I do this so you won’t harbor any false
hopes or misread any signs。 It’s a mistake to believe that one could fall in love
gazing at a picture。 It’d be best if you stopped ing to our house pletely。
My poor Shekure； you’re neither a nobleman nor a pasha with a fancy seal
to stamp your letter！ At the bottom of the page； she signed the first letter of
her name； which looked like a small； frightened bird。 Nothing more。
I said “seal。” You’re probably wondering how I open and close these wax…
sealed letters。 But in fact the letters aren’t sealed at all。 “That Esther is an
illiterate Jew；” my dear Shekure had assumed。 “She’ll never understand my
writing。” True； I can’t read what’s written； but I can always have someone else
read it。 And as for what’s not written； I can quite readily “read” that myself。
Confused； are you？
Let me put it this way； so even the most thick…headed of you will
understand：
A letter doesn’t municate by words alone。 A letter； just like a book； can
be read by smelling it； touching it and fondling it。 Thereby； intelligent folk will
say； “Go on then； read what the letter tells you！” whereas the dull…witted will
say； “Go on then； read what he’s written！” Listen； now； to what else Shekure
said：
1。 Though I’ve sent this letter in secret； by relying on Esther； who’s made
letter…delivery a matter of merce and custom； I’m signifying that I don’t
intend to conceal that much at all。
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2。 That I’ve folded it up like a French pastry implies secrecy and mystery；
true。 But the letter isn’t sealed and there’s a huge picture enclosed。 The
apparent implication is； “Pray； keep our secret at all costs；” which more befits
an invitation to love than a letter of rebuke。
3。 Furthermore； the smell of the letter confirms this interpretation。 The
fragrance was faint enough to be ambiguous—did she intentionally perfume
the letter？—yet alluring enough to fire readers’ curiosity—is this the aroma of
attar or the smell of her hand？ And a fragrance； which was enough to
enrapture the poor man who read the letter to me； will surely have the same
effect on Black。
4。 I am Esther； who knows neither how to read nor write； but this I do
know： Although the flow of the script and the handwriting seems to say “Alas；
I am rushed； I am writing carelessly and without paying serious attention；”
these letters that twitter elegantly as if caught in a gentle breeze convey the
exact opposite message。 Even her phrase “just now e” when referring to
Orhan； implying that the letter was written at that very moment； betrays a
ploy no less obvious than care taken in each line。
5。 The picture sent along with the letter depicts pretty Shirin gazing at
handsome Hüsrev’s image and falling in love； as told in the story that even I；
Esther the Jewess； know well。 All the lovelorn ladies of Istanbul adore this
story； but never have I known someone to send an illustration relating to it。
It happens all the time to you fortunate literate people： A maiden who
can’t read begs you to read a love letter she’s received。 The letter is so
surprising； exciting and disturbing that its owner； though embarrassed at your
being privy to her most intimate affairs； ashamed and distraught； asks you
all the same to read it once more。 You read it again。 In the end； you’ve read the
letter so many times that both of you have memorized it。 Before long； she’ll
take the letter in her hands and ask； “Did he make that statement there？” and
“Did he say that here？” As you point to the appropriate places； she’ll pore over
those passages； still unable to make sense of the words there。 As she stares at
the curvy letters of the words； sometimes I am so moved I forget that I myself
can’t read or write and feel the urge to embrace those illiterate maidens whose
tears fall to the page。
Then there are those truly accursed letter…readers； pray； don’t you turn out
to be like one of them： When the maiden takes the letter in her own hands to
touch it again； desiring to look at it without understanding which words were
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spoken where； these beasts will say to her； “What are you trying to do？ You
can’t read； what more do you want to look at？” Some of them won’t even
return the letter； treating it henceforth as if it belonged to them。 At times； the
task of accosting them and retrieving the letter falls to me； Esther。 That’s the
kind of good woman I am。 If Esther likes you； she’ll e to your aid as well。
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I； SHEKURE
Oh； why was I there at the window just when Black rode by on his white
steed？ Why did I open the shutters intuitively at that exact moment and stare
at him so long from behind the snowy branches of the pomegranate tree？ I
can’t tell you for sure。 I’d sent word to Esther by way of Hayriye。 I was； of
course； well aware that Black would take that route。 Meanwhile； I’d gone up
alone to the room with the built…in closet and the window facing the
pomegranate tree to inspect the sheets in the chest。 On a whim； and at just
the right moment； I pushed the shutters open with all my strength and
sunlight flooded the room： Standing at the window； I came face…to…face with
Black； who； like the sun； dazzled me。 Oh； it was quite lovely。
He’d grown and matured and； having lost his awkward youthful lankiness；
he turned out to be a ely man。 Listen Shekure； my heart did tell me； he’s
not only handsome； look into his eyes； he possesses the heart of a child； so
pure； so alone： Marry him。 I； however； sent him a letter wherein I’d given him
quite the opposite message。
Though he was twelve years my elder； when I was twelve； I was more mature
than he。 Back then； instead of standing straight and tall before me in a fashion
befitting a man and announcing that he was going to do this or that； jump
from this spot or climb onto that thing； he’d just bury his face in some book
or picture； hiding as if everything embarrassed him。 In time； he also fell in love
with me。 He made a painting declaring his love。 We’d both matured by then。
When I turned twelve； I sensed that Black could no longer look into my eyes；
as if he were afraid I’d discover he loved me。 “Hand me that ivory…handled
knife；” he’d say； for example； looking at the knife but unabl