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took four or five steps beyond the entrance of the kitchen； where I stood； and
with respect and apprehension； she slowly pushed open the door of the room；
and by the light of the lamp she was holding； looked inside。 Unable at first to
see my father； she raised the lamp even higher； trying to illuminate the corners
of the large rectangular room。
“Aaah！” she screamed。 She’d caught sight of my father where I’d left him
just beside the door。 Frozen； she gazed at him。 The shadow she cast along the
floor and stable wall was motionless。 As she looked； I imagined what she was
seeing。 When she returned； she wasn’t crying。 I was relieved to see that she
still had her wits about her； enough to be able to register pletely what I
was prepared to tell her。
“Now listen to me； Hayriye；” I said。 As I spoke； I waved the fish knife； which
my hand had grabbed seemingly on its own。 “The upstairs has been ransacked
too； the same accursed demon has destroyed all； he’s made a shambles of
everything。 That’s where he crushed my father’s face and skull； that’s where he
killed him。 I brought him down here so the children wouldn’t see and so I
might have a chance to caution you。 After you three left； I also went out。
Father was home by himself。”
“I was not aware of that；” she said insolently。 “Where were you？”
I wanted her to take careful note of my silence。 Then I said； “I was with
Black。 I met with Black in the house of the Hanged Jew。 But you won’t breathe
a word of this to anyone。 Nor； for the time being； will you mention that my
father has been killed。”
“Who was it that murdered him？”
Was she truly such an idiot or was she trying to corner me？
“If I knew； I wouldn’t hide the fact that he was dead；” I said。 “I don’t know。
Do you？”
“How should I know anything？” she said。 “What are we going to do now？”
“You’re going to behave as if nothing whatsoever has happened；” I said。 I
felt the urge to wail； to burst out crying； but I restrained myself。 We both were
quiet。
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Much later； I said； “Forget about the fish for now； set out the dishes for the
children。”
She objected and started to cry； and I put my arms around her。 We hugged
each other tightly。 I loved her then； momentarily pitying； not only myself and
the children； but all of us。 But even as we embraced； a worm of doubt was
anxiously gnawing at me。 You know where I was while my father was being
murdered。 To further my own designs； I’d cleared the house of Hayriye and the
children。 You know that leaving my father alone in the house was an
unforeseen coincidence…But did Hayriye know？ Did she prehend what I’d
explained to her； will she understand？ Indeed； yes； she’d quickly understand
and grow suspicious。 I hugged her even tighter； but I knew that with her slave
girl’s mind she’d assume I was doing this to cover up my wiles； and before
long even I felt as if I were deceiving her。 While my father was being murdered
here； I was with Black engaged in an act of lovemaking。 If it were only Hayriye
who knew this； I wouldn’t feel as guilty； but I suspect that you might make
something of it as well。 So； admit it； you believe that I’m hiding something。
Alas； poor woman！ Could my fate be any darker？ I began to cry； then Hayriye
cried； and we embraced again。
I pretended to satisfy my hunger at the table we’d set upstairs。 From time
to time； with the excuse of “checking on Grandfather；” I would step into the
other room and burst into tears。 Later because the children were scared and
agitated； they snuggled up tightly next to me in bed。 For a long while they
were unable to sleep for fear of jinns； and as they tossed and turned they kept
asking； “I heard a noise； did you hear it？” To lull them to sleep； I promised to
tell them a love story。 You know how words take wing in the darkness。
“Mother； you’re not going to get married are you？” said Shevket。
“Listen to me；” I said。 “There was a prince who； from afar； fell in love with a
strikingly beautiful maiden。 How did this happen？ I’ll tell you how。 Before
laying eyes on the pretty maiden； he’d seen her portrait； that’s how。”
As I would often do when I was upset and troubled； I recounted the tale not
from memory； but improvising according to how I felt at that time。 And since I
colored it using a palette of my own memories and worries； what I recounted
became a kind of melancholy illustration to acpany all that had happened
to me。
After both children fell asleep； I left the warm bed and； together with
Hayriye； cleaned up what that vile demon had scattered about。 We picked up
ruined chests； books； cloth； ceramic cups； earthenware pots； plates and inkpots
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that had been thrown about and shattered； we cleared away a demolished
folding worktable； paint boxes and papers that had been torn up with furious
hatred； and while doing so one of us； periodically； would stop and break down
crying。 It was as though we were more distraught over the wreckage of the
rooms and their furnishings and the savage violation of our privacy； than we
were over my father’s death。 I can tell you from experience； unfortunates
who’ve lost loved ones are forted by the unchanged presence of objects in
the house； they’re lulled by the sameness of the curtains； blankets and
daylight； which； in turn； allows them occasionally to forget that Azrael has
carried away their beloved or kin。 The house that my father looked after with
patience and love； whose nooks and doors he had meticulously embellished；
had been mercilessly vandalized； thus； we were not only devoid of fort and
pleasant memories but； reminded of the pitilessness of the culprit’s damned
soul； we were terrified as well。
When； for example； at my insistence we went downstairs； drew fresh water
from the well； performed our ablutions and were reciting from the “Family of
Imran” chapter—which my dearly departed father said he loved so much
because it mentioned hope and death—out of his most cherished Herat…
bound Koran； we were under sway of this terror and alarmed that the
courtyard gate had begun to creak。 It was nothing。 But； after we checked that
the latch was locked； and barricaded the gate by moving with our bined
strength the planter of sweet basil that my father would water on spring
mornings with freshly drawn well water； we reentered the house in the dead of
night； and it suddenly seemed that the elongated shadows we were casting by
the light of the oil lamp belonged to others。 Most frightening of all was the
horror that overcame us like a silent act of piety； as we solemnly washed his
bloodied face and changed his clothes so that I might deceive myself into
believing that my father had died at his appointed time； “Hand me his sleeve
from underneath；” Hayriye had whispered to