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wanted to cling to tightly。 These things were behind me; in the direction of the
hill leading down to the sea and Galleon Harbor which I would never reach。
My head would never again turn and see them; or the rest of the world。 I
forgot about them and let my thoughts take me away。
This is what occurred to me the moment before I was beheaded: The ship
shall depart from the harbor; this was joined in my mind with a mand to
hurry; it was the way my mother would say “hurry” when I was a child。
Mother; my neck aches and all is still。
This is what they call death。
But I knew that I wasn’t dead yet。 My punctured pupils were motionless;
but I could still see quite well through my open eyes。
What I saw from ground level filled my thoughts: The road inclining slightly
upward; the wall; the arch; the roof of the workshop; the sky…this is how the
picture receded。
It seemed as if this moment of observation went on and on and I realized
seeing had bee a variety of memory。 I was reminded of what I thought
when staring for hours at a beautiful picture: If you stare long enough your
mind enters the time of the painting。
All time had now bee this time。
It seemed as if no one would see me; as my thoughts faded away; my mud…
covered head would go on staring at this melancholy incline; the stone wall
and the nearby yet unattainable mulberry and chestnut trees for years。
This endless waiting suddenly assumed such bitter and tedious proportions;
I wanted nothing more than to quit this time。
437
I; SHEKURE
Black had hidden us away in the house of a distant relative; where I spent a
sleepless night。 In the bed where I curled up with Hayriye and the children; I
was occasionally able to nod off amid the sounds of snoring and coughing; but
in my restless dreams; I saw strange creatures and women whose arms and legs
had been severed and randomly reattached; they wouldn’t stop chasing me
and continually woke me。 Toward morning; the cold roused me and I covered
Shevket and Orhan; embracing them; kissing their heads and begging Allah for
pleasant dreams; such as I’d enjoyed during the blissful days when I slept in
peace under my late father’s roof。
I couldn’t sleep; however。 After the morning prayers; looking out on the
street through the shutters of the window in the small; dark room; I saw what
I’d always seen in my happy dreams: A ghostly man; exhausted from warring
and the wounds he’d received; brandishing a stick as if it were a sword;
longingly approach me with familiar steps。 In my dream; whenever I was on
the verge of embracing this man; I’d awake in tears。 When I saw the man in
the street was Black; the scream that would never leave my throat in dreams
sounded。
I ran and opened the door。
His face was swollen and bruised purple from fighting。 His nose was
mangled and covered in blood。 He had a large gash from his shoulder to his
neck。 His shirt had turned bright red from the blood。 Like the husband of my
dreams; Black smiled at me faintly because he had; in the end; successfully
returned。
“Get inside;” I said。
“Call for the children;” he said。 “We’re going home。”
“You’re in no condition to return home。”
“There’s no reason to fear him anymore;” he said。 “The murderer is Velijan
Effendi; the Persian。”
“Olive…” I said。 “Did you kill that miserable rogue?”
“He’s fled to India on the ship that departed from Galleon Harbor;” he said
and avoided my eyes; knowing that he hadn’t properly acplished his task。
“Will you be able to walk back to our house?” I said。 “Shall we have them
bring a horse for you?”
438
I sensed that he would die upon arriving home and I pitied him。 Not
because he would die alone; but because he’d never known any true
happiness。 I could see from the sorrow and determination in his eyes that he
wished not to be in this strange house; and that he actually wanted to
disappear without being seen by anybody in this horrible state。 With some
difficulty; they mounted him on a horse。
During our trip back; as we passed through side streets clinging to our
bundles; the children were at first too frightened to look Black in the face。 But
from astride the slowly ambling horse; Black was still able to describe how he
foiled the schemes of the wretched murderer who’d killed their grandfather
and how he challenged him to a sword fight。 I could see that the children had
warmed up to him somewhat; and I prayed to Allah: Please; don’t let him die!
When we reached the house; Orhan shouted; “We’re home!” with such joy
I had the intuition that Azrael; the Angel of Death; pitied us and Allah would
grant Black more time。 But I knew from experience that one could never tell
when exalted Allah would take one’s soul; and I wasn’t overly hopeful。
We helped Black down from the horse。 We brought him upstairs; and
settled him into the bed in my father’s room; the one with the blue door。
Hayriye boiled water and brought it upstairs。 Hayriye and I undressed him;
tearing his clothes and cutting them with scissors; removing the bloodied shirt
stuck to his flesh; his sash; his shoes and his underclothes。 When we opened
the shutters; the soft winter sunlight playing on the branches in the garden
filled the room; reflected off the ewers; pots; glue boxes; inkwells; pieces of
glass and penknives; and illuminated Black’s deathly pale skin; and his flesh…
and sour…cherry…colored wounds。
I soaked pieces of bedding in hot water and rubbed them with soap。 Then I
wiped clean Black’s body; carefully as though cleaning a valuable antique
carpet; and affectionately and eagerly as though caring for one of my boys。
Without pressing on the bruises that covered his face; without jarring the cut
in his nostril; I cleansed the horrible wound on his shoulder as a doctor might。
As I’d do when bathing the children when they were babies; I cooed to him in
a singsong voice。 There were cuts on his chest and arms as well。 The fingers of
his left hand were purple from being bitten。 The rags I used to wipe his body
were soon bloodsoaked。 I touched his chest; I felt the softness of his abdomen
with my hand; I looked at his cock for a long time。 The sounds of the children
were ing from the courtyard below。 Why did some poets call this thing a
“reed pen”?
439
I could hear Esther enter the kitchen with that joyous voice and mysterious
air she adopted when she brought news; and I went down to greet her。
She was so excited she began without embracing or kissing me: Olive’s
severed head was found in front of the workshop; the pictures proving his guilt
in the crimes and his satchel had also been recovered。 He was intending to flee
to Hindustan; but had decided first to call at the workshop one last time。
There were witnesses to the ordeal: Hasan; encountering Ol