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with one of the thin； clean sticks reserved for this task。 I was ready to bee
genuine red； but the issue of my consistency was of utmost importance： The
liquid shouldn’t be permitted to just boil away。 He drew the tip of his stirring
stick across the nail of his thumb （any other finger was absolutely
unacceptable）。 Oh； how exquisite it is to be red！ I gracefully painted that
thumbnail without running off the side in watery haste。 In short； I was the
right consistency； but I still contained sediment。 He took the pot off the stove
and strained me through a clean piece of cheesecloth； purifying me even
further。 Next； he heated me up again； bringing me to a frothy boil twice more。
After adding a pinch of crushed alum； he left me to cool。
A few days passed and I sat there quietly in the pan。 In the anticipation of
being applied to pages； of being spread everywhere and onto everything；
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sitting still like that broke my heart and spirit。 It was during this period of
silence that I meditated upon what it meant to be red。
Once； in a Persian city； as I was being applied by the brush of an apprentice
to the embroidery on the saddle cloth of a horse that a blind miniaturist had
drawn by heart； I overheard two blind masters having an argument：
“Because we’ve spent our entire lives ardently and faithfully working as
painters； naturally； we； who have now gone blind； know red and remember
what kind of color and what kind of feeling it is；” said the one who’d made
the horse drawing from memory。 “But； what if we’d been born blind？ How
would we have been truly able to prehend this red that our handsome
apprentice is using？”
“An excellent issue；” the other said。 “But do not forget that colors are not
known； but felt。”
“My dear master； explain red to somebody who has never known red。”
“If we touched it with the tip of a finger； it would feel like something
between iron and copper。 If we took it into our palm； it would burn。 If we
tasted it； it would be full…bodied； like salted meat。 If we took it between our
lips； it would fill our mouths。 If we smelled it； it’d have the scent of a horse。 If
it were a flower； it would smell like a daisy； not a red rose。”
One hundred and ten years ago Veian artistry was not yet threat enough
that our rulers would bother themselves about it； and the legendary masters
believed in their own methods as fervently as they believed in Allah； therefore；
they regarded the Veian method of using a variety of red tones for every
ordinary sword wound and even the most mon sackcloth as a kind of
disrespect and vulgarity hardly worth a chuckle。 Only a weak and hesitant
miniaturist would use a variety of red tones to depict the red of a caftan； they
claimed—shadows were not an excuse。 Besides； we believe in only one red。
“What is the meaning of red？” the blind miniaturist who’d drawn the
horse from memory asked again。
“The meaning of color is that it is there before us and we see it；” said the
other。 “Red cannot be explained to he who cannot see。”
“To deny God’s existence； victims of Satan maintain that God is not visible
to us；” said the blind miniaturist who’d rendered the horse。
“Yet； He appears to those who can see；” said the other master。 “It is for this
reason that the Koran states that the blind and the seeing are not equal。”
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The handsome apprentice ever so delicately dabbed me onto the horse’s
saddle cloth。 What a wonderful sensation to fix my fullness； power and vigor
to the black and white of a well…executed illustration： as the cat…hair brush
spreads me onto the waiting page； I bee delightfully ticklish。 Thereby； as I
bring my color to the page； it’s as if I mand the world to “Be！” Yes； those
who cannot see would deny it； but the truth is I can be found everywhere。
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I； SHEKURE
Before the children awoke； I wrote Black a brief note telling him to hurry to
the house of the Hanged Jew and pressed it into Hayriye’s hand so that she
might rush to Esther。 As Hayriye took the letter； she looked into my eyes with
more fearlessness than usual despite worrying what was to bee of us； and
I； who no longer had a father to fear； returned her glare with newfound
temerity。 This exchange would determine the tone of our relationship in the
future。 Over the last two years； I suspected Hayriye might even have a child by
my father； and forgetting her status as slave； maneuver to bee lady of the
house。 I visited my unfortunate father； respectfully kissing his now stiffened
hand； which； oddly； hadn’t lost its softness。 I hid my father’s shoes； quilted
turban and purple cloak； then explained to the children once they awoke that
their grandfather had gotten better and had left for the Mustafa Pasha district
early in the morning。
Hayriye returned from her morning errand。 As she was laying out the low
table for breakfast； and I was placing a portion of orange jam in the middle of
it； I imagined how Esther was now calling at Black’s door。 The snow had
stopped and the sun had begun to shine。
In the garden of the Hanged Jew； I encountered a familiar scene。 The icicles
hanging from the eaves and window casings were quickly shrinking； and the
garden that smelled of mold and rotting leaves was eagerly absorbing the sun。 I
found Black waiting in the spot where I’d first seen him last night—it seemed
so long ago； as if weeks had passed。 I raised my veil and said：
“You can be glad； if you feel the urge。 My father’s objections and doubts
will not e between us anymore。 While you were craftily trying to lay your
hands on me here last night； a devil…of…a…man broke into our empty house and
murdered my father。”
Rather than wondering about Black’s reaction； you’re probably puzzling
over why I spoke so coldly and somewhat insincerely。 I don’t quite know the
answer myself。 Maybe I thought I’d cry otherwise； provoking Black to embrace
me； and I’d bee intimate with him sooner than I wanted。
“He destroyed our home with a thoroughness that clearly reveals anger and
hatred。 I don’t think his work is done either； I don’t expect this devil will
calmly retire to some corner now。 He stole the final picture。 I’m calling on you
to protect me—protect us—and keep my father’s book from him。 Now tell
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me； under what arrangement and conditions will you see to our safety？ This is
what we have to resolve。”
He made an overture to speak； but I easily silenced him with a look—as
though this were something I’d done countless times before。
“In the eyes of the judge； it is my husband and his family who succeed my
father as my guardians。 This was the case even before his death； for according
to the judge my husband is still alive。 It was only because Hasan tried to