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one’s；” I said。 “A poor relative of his who’s on his deathbed in the
Bayrampasha sickhouse and needs money。”
“Oh my；” she said； unconvinced； “who is the unfortunate man？”
“How did your son die in the war？” I asked stubbornly。
We began to glare at each other with hostility。 She was a widow and all
alone。 Her life must’ve been quite difficult。 If you ever happen to bee a
clothier…cum…messenger like Esther； you’ll soon learn that only wealth； might
and legendary romances stir people’s curiosity。 Everything else is but worry；
separation； jealousy； loneliness； enmity； tears； gossip and never…ending poverty。
Such things never change； just like the objects that furnish a home： a faded old
kilim； a ladle and small copper pan resting on an empty baking sheet； tongs
and an ash box resting beside the stove； two worn chests—one small； one
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large—a turban stand maintained to conceal the widow’s solitary life and an
old sword to scare thieves off。
Black hastily returned with his money purse。 “Clothier woman；” he said；
making himself heard to the meddling landlady rather than myself。 “Take this
and bring it to our suffering patient。 If he has any response for me； I’ll be
waiting。 You can find me at Master Enishte’s house； where I’ll spend the rest
of the day。”
There’s no need for all of these games。 No cause for a young brave…heart like
Black to hide his amatory maneuvers； the signals he receives； the handkerchiefs
and letters he sends in pursuit of a maiden。 Or does he truly have his eye on
his landlady’s daughter？ At times； I didn’t trust Black at all and was afraid that
he was deceiving Shekure terribly。 How is it that； despite spending his entire
day with Shekure in the same house； he’s incapable of giving her a sign？
Once I was outside； I opened the purse。 It contained twelve silver coins and
a letter。 I was so curious about the letter that I nearly ran to Hasan。 Vegetable…
sellers had spread out cabbage； carrots and the rest in front of their shops。 But
I didn’t even have it in me to touch the plump leeks that were crying out to
me to fondle them。
I turned onto the side street； and saw that the blind Tatar was there waiting
to heckle me again。 “Tuh；” I spat in his direction； that was all。 Why doesn’t this
biting cold freeze these vagrants to death？
As Hasan silently read the letter； I could barely maintain my patience。
Finally； unable to restrain myself； I suddenly said “Yes？” and he began reading
aloud：
My Dearest Shekure； you’ve requested that I plete your father’s book。 You
can be certain that I have no other goal。 I visit your house for this reason； not to
pester you； as you’d earlier indicated。 I’m quite aware that my love for you is my
own concern。 Yet； due to this love； I’m unable properly to take up my pen and
write what your father—my dear Uncle—has requested for his book。 Whenever I
sense your presence in the house； I seize up and am of no service to your father。 I’ve
mulled this over extensively and there can be but one cause： After twelve years； I’ve
seen your face only once； when you showed yourself at the window。 Now； I quite
fear losing that vision。 If I could once more see you close…up； I’d have no fear of
losing you； and I could easily finish your father’s book。 Yesterday； Shevket brought
me to the abandoned house of the Hanged Jew。 No one will see us there。 Today； at
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whatever time you see fit； I’ll go there and wait for you。 Yesterday； Shevket
mentioned that you dreamt your husband had died。
Hasan read the letter mockingly； in places raising his already high…pitched
voice even higher like a woman’s； and in places； emulating the trembling
supplication of a lover who’d lost all reason。 He made light of Black’s having
written his wish “to see you just once” in Persian。 He added； “As soon as Black
saw that Shekure had given him some hope； he quickly began to negotiate。
Such haggling isn’t something a genuine lover would resort to。”
“He’s genuinely in love with Shekure；” I said naively。
“This ment proves that you’ve taken Black’s side；” he said。 “If Shekure
has written that she dreamt my older brother was dead； it means she accepts
her husband’s death。”
“That was just a dream；” I said like an idiot。
“I know how smart and cunning Shevket is。 We lived together for many
years！ Without his mother’s permission and prodding； he’d never have taken
Black to the house of the Hanged Jew。 If Shekure thinks she’s through with my
older brother—with us—she’s terribly mistaken！ My older brother is still alive
and he’ll return from the war。”
Before he had a chance to conclude； he went into the next room where he
intended to light a candle； but succeeded only in burning his hand。 He let out
a howl。 All the while licking the burn； he finally lit the candle and placed it
beside a folding worktable。 He produced a reed pen from its case； dipped it
into an inkwell and began furiously writing on a small piece of paper。 I sensed
his pleasure at my watching him； and to show that I wasn’t afraid； I smiled
exaggeratedly。
“Who is this Hanged Jew； you must know？” he asked。
“Just beyond these houses there’s a yellow one。 They say that Moshe
Hamon； the beloved doctor of the previous Sultan and the wealthiest of men；
had for years hidden his Jewish mistress from Amasya and her brother there。
Years ago in Amasya； on the eve of Passover； when a Greek youth supposedly
”disappeared‘ in the Jeed that he’d been strangled
so unleavened bread could be made from his blood。 When false witnesses were
brought forward； an execution of Jews began； however； the Sultan’s beloved
doctor helped this beautiful woman and her brother escape； and hid them
with the permission of the Sultan。 After the Sultan died； His enemies couldn’t
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find the beautiful woman； but they hanged her brother； who’d been living
alone。“
“If Shekure doesn’t wait for my brother to e back from the front； they’ll
punish her；” said Hasan； handing me the letters。
No anger or wrath could be seen on his face； just the misfortune and
sorrow particular to the love…stricken。 I suddenly saw in his eyes how fast love
had aged him。 The money he’d begun to earn working in customs hadn’t
made him more youthful at all。 After all his offended grimaces and threats； it
dawned on me that he might once again ask me how Shekure could be won
over。 But he’d e so close to being thoroughly evil that he could no
longer ask。 Once one accepts evil—and rejection in love is a significant cause
for doing so—cruelty folloe afraid of my thoughts and that
terrible red sword the boys talked about； which severed whatever it touched；
in my desperation to leave； in a near frenzy； I stumbled outside onto the street。
This was how