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husband’s corpse？ You’ve recently e from Persia； they would believe you。”
“I would testify； but I wasn’t the one who killed him。”
“All right； then。 Together with another witness； in order that I be declared a
widow； would you testify before the judge that you saw my husband’s bloody
corpse on the battlefield in Persia？”
“I didn’t actually see it； my dear； but for your sake I would testify so。”
“Do you love my children？”
“I do。”
“Tell me； what is it about them that you love？”
“I love Shevket’s strength； decisiveness； honesty； intelligence and
stubbornness；” I said。 “And I love Orhan’s sensitive and delicate demeanor
and his astuteness。 I love the fact that they’re your children。”
My black…eyed beloved smiled slightly and shed a few tears。 Then； in the
calculated fluster of a woman hoping to acplish a lot in a short time； she
changed the subject：
“My father’s book ought to be pleted and presented to Our Sultan。
This book is the source of the bad luck that plagues us。”
“What devilry has plagued us besides the murder of Elegant Effendi？”
This question displeased her。 Appearing insincere in her attempt to be
sincere； she said：
“The followers of Nusret Hoja are spreading rumors that my father’s book
is a desecration and bears the marks of Frankish infideldom。 Have the
miniaturists who frequent our house grown jealous of each other to the
degree that they’re hatching plans？ You’ve been among them； you would
know best！”
“Your late husband’s brother；” I said； “does he have any association with
these miniaturists； your father’s book or the followers of Nusret Hoja； or does
he keep to himself？”
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“He’s not involved in any of that； but he doesn’t keep to himself at all；” she
said。
A mysterious and strange quiet passed。
“When you lived in the same house with Hasan wasn’t there any way you
could get away from him？”
“As much as possible in a two…room house。”
A few dogs； not too far away； giving themselves over pletely to whatever
they were up to； began barking excitedly。
I couldn’t bring myself to ask why Shekure’s late husband； a man who’d
emerged victorious from so many battles and had bee the proprietor of a
fief； saw fit to have his wife live together with his brother in a two…room
house。 Timidly and hesitantly； I asked my childhood beloved the following
question： “Why did you see fit to marry him？”
“I was； of course； certain to be married off to someone；” she said。 This was
true； and it succinctly and cleverly explained her marriage in a way that
avoided praising her husband and upsetting me。 “You’d left； perhaps never to
return。 Disappearing in a sulk might be a symptom of love； yet a sulking lover
is also tiresome and holds no promise of a future。” This was true as well； but it
wasn’t cause enough to marry that rogue。 It wasn’t too difficult to deduce
from her coy expression alone that a short time after I’d abandoned Istanbul；
Shekure had forgotten about me； like everyone else had。 She’d told me this
blatant lie to mend my broken heart； if only a little； and I considered it a sign
of her good intentions； which demanded my gratitude。 I began to explain how
during my travels I couldn’t get her out of my thoughts； how at night her
image haunted me like a specter。 This was the most secret； most profound
agony I’d suffered and I assumed I’d never be able to share it with another；
the agony was quite real； but as I realized with surprise at that instant； it
wasn’t the least bit sincere。
So that my feelings and desires might be rightfully understood； I must
presently lay bare the meaning of this distinction between truth and sincerity
that I’ve e to know for the first time： How expressing one’s reality in
words； as truthful as they might be； goads one to insincerity。 Perhaps； the best
example might be made of us miniaturists； who’ve grown edgy of late due to
the murderer in our midst。 Consider a perfect painting—the image of a horse；
for instance—no matter how well it represents a real horse； the horse
meticulously conceived by Allah or the horses of the great master miniaturists；
it might still fail to match the sincerity of the talented miniaturist who drew
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it。 The sincerity of the miniaturist； or of us humble servants of Allah； doesn’t
emerge in moments of talent and perfection； on the contrary； it emerges
through slips of the tongue； mistakes； fatigue and frustration。 I say this for the
sake of those young ladies who will bee disillusioned when they see that
there was no difference between the strong desire I felt for Shekure at that
moment—as she too could tell—and； say； the dizzying lust I’d felt for a
delicately featured； copper…plexioned； burgundy…mouthed Kazvin beauty
during my travels。 With her profound God…given savvy and jinnlike intuition；
Shekure understood both my being able to withstand twelve years of pure
torture for love’s sake as well as my behaving like a miserable thrall of lust
who thought of nothing but the quick satisfaction of his dark desires the first
time we were alone。 Nizami had pared the mouth of that beauty of
beauties； Shirin； to an inkwell filled with pearls。
When the eager dogs began barking with renewed fervor； a restless Shekure
said； “I ought to go now。” It was at that moment we both realized that the
house of the Jew’s ghost had indeed bee quite dark； although there was
still time before nightfall。 My body sprung up of its own volition； to hug her
once again； but like a wounded sparrow； she quickly hopped away。
“Am I still beautiful？ Answer me quickly。”
I told her。 How beautifully she listened to me； believing and agreeing with
what I said。
“And my clothes？”
I told her。
“Do I smell nice？”
Of course； Shekure also knew that what Nizami referred to as “love chess”
did not consist of such rhetorical games； but of the hidden emotional
maneuvers between lovers。
“What kind of living do you expect to earn？” she asked。 “Will you be able
to care for my fatherless children？”
As I talked about my more than twelve years of governmental and
secretarial experience； the vast knowledge I’d acquired in battle and witnessing
death and my luminous prospects； I embraced her。
“How beautifully we embraced each other just now；” she said。 “And already
everything has lost its primal mystery。”
To prove how sincere I was； I hugged her even tighter。 I asked her why； after
having kept it for twelve years； she’d had Esther return the painting I’d made
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for her。 In her eyes I read surprise at my weariness and an affection that welled
up within her。 We kissed。 This time I didn’t find myself immobilized by a
staggering yoke of lust； both of us we