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in my desperation to leave； in a near frenzy； I stumbled outside onto the street。
This was how I fell unwitting victim to the curses of the Tatar beggar。 But I
immediately pulled myself together。 I softly dropped a small stone I’d picked
off the ground into his handkerchief and said； “There you go； mangy Tatar。”
Without laughing； I watched his hand reach hopefully for the stone he
thought was a coin。 Ignoring his curses； I headed toward one of my
“daughters；” whom I’d married off to a good husband。
That sweet “daughter” of mine served me a piece of spinach pie； a leftover；
but still crisp。 For the afternoon meal she was preparing lamb stew in a sauce
heavy with beaten eggs and spiced with sour plum； just the way I like it。 So as
not to disappoint her； I waited and ate two full ladles with fresh bread。 She’d
also made a nice pote of stewed grapes。 Without any hesitation； I
requested some rose…petal jam； a spoonful of which I stirred into the pote
before topping off my meal。 Afterward； I went on to deliver the letters to my
melancholy Shekure。
149
I； SHEKURE
I was in the midst of folding and putting away the clothes that had been
washed and hung out to dry yesterday when Hayriye announced Esther had
e…or； this was what I planned to tell you。 But why should I lie？ All right
then； when Esther arrived； I was spying on my father and Black through the
closet peephole； impatiently waiting for the letters from Black and Hasan； and
thus； my mind was preoccupied with her。 Just as I sensed that my father’s
fears of death were justified； I also knew Black’s interest in me wasn’t eternal。
He was in love insofar as he wanted to be married； and because he wanted to
be married； he easily fell in love。 If not me； he’d love。 If not me； he’d marry
another； taking care to fall in love with her beforehand。
In the kitchen； Hayriye sat Esther in a corner and handed her a glass of
rosewater sherbet； as she gave me a guilty look。 I realized that since Hayriye
had bee my father’s mistress； she might be reporting to him everything
she sees。 I’m afraid that this may indeed be the case。
“My black…eyed girl； my dark…fortuned beauty； my stunning beauty of
beauties； I was delayed because Nesim； my pig of a husband； kept me occupied
with all sorts of nonsense；” said Esther。 “You have no husband senselessly
haranguing you； and I hope you know the value of this。”
She took out the letters； I snatched them from her hand。 Hayriye withdrew
to a corner where she wouldn’t be in the way； but could still hear everything
that passed between us。 So Esther wouldn’t be able to see my expression； I
turned my back on her and read Black’s letter first。 When I thought about the
house of the Hanged Jew； I shuddered for a moment。 “Don’t be afraid；
Shekure； you can manage in any situation；” I said to myself and began reading
Hasan’s letter。 He was on the verge of madness：
Shekure； I’m burning with desire； yet I know you’re not in the least concerned。
In my dreams； I see myself chasing you over deserted hilltops。 Every time you leave
one of my letters—that I know you read—unanswered； a three…feathered arrow
pierces my heart。 I’m writing in hopes that you’ll respond this time。 The word is
out； everyone’s spreading the news； even your children are saying it： You’ve
dreamed that your husband has died； and now you claim that you’re free。 I cannot
say whether or not it’s true。 What I do know is that you’re still married to my
older brother and bound to this household。 Now that my father finds me justified；
we’re both going to the judge to have you returned here。 We’ll be ing with a
150
group of men we’ve assembled； so let your father be forewarned。 Collect your
things； you’re to e back to this house。 Send your response with Esther
immediately。
After reading the letter a second time； I pulled myself together and gazed at
Esther with questioning eyes； but she told me nothing new about Hasan or
Black。
I pulled out the reed pen that I kept hidden in a corner of the pantry；
placed a sheet of paper on the breadboard and was about to begin writing a
letter to Black when I froze。
Something came to mind。 I turned toward Esther： She’d fallen upon the
rosewater sherbet with the joy of a chubby child and so it seemed ridiculous
to me that she could be aware of what was going through my mind。
“See how sweetly you’re smiling； my dear；” she said。 “Don’t worry； in the
end everything will be all right。 Istanbul is rife with rich gentlemen and pashas
who’d give their souls to be wed to a stunning beauty； possessed of so many
talents like yourself。”
You understand what I’m talking about： Sometimes you’ll say something
you’re convinced of； but no sooner do the words leave your mouth than you
ask yourself； “Why did I say this so halfheartedly； even though I believe it
through and through？” That was what happened when I said the following：
“But Esther； who’d want to marry a widow with two kids； for Heaven’s
sake？”
“A widow like you？ Plenty； a slew of men；” she said； conveying them all
with a hand gesture。
I looked into her eyes。 I was thinking I did not like her。 I fell so silent that
she knew I wasn’t going to give her a letter and even that it would be better if
she left。 After Esther had gone； I withdrew to my own corner of the house as
though I could feel my silence—how should I put it—in my soul。
Leaning on the wall； for a long while I stood still in the blackness。 I thought
of myself； of what I should do； of the fear that was growing within me。 All the
while I could hear Shevket and Orhan chattering upstairs。
“And you’re as timid as a girl；” said Shevket。 “You only attack from behind。”
“My tooth is loose；” said Orhan。
151
At the same time； another part of my mind was concentrating on what was
transpiring between my father and Black。
The blue door of the workshop was open； and I could easily hear them：
“After beholding the portraits of the Veian masters； we realize with
horror；” said my father； “that； in painting； eyes can no longer simply be holes
in a face； always the same； but must be just like our own eyes； which reflect
light like a mirror and absorb it like a well。 Lips can no longer be a crack in the
middle of faces flat as paper； but must be nodes of expression—each a
different shade of red—fully expressing our joys； sorrows and spirits with their
slightest contraction or relaxation。 Our noses can no longer be a kind of wall
that divides our faces； but rather； living and curious instruments with a form
unique to each of us。”
Was Black as surprised as I was that my father referred to those infidel
gentlemen who had their pictures made as “we”？ When I looked through the
p