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by guilt because I hadn’t been able to grieve for my Enishte or even shed a
single tear； even so； I knew from the tightly closed shutters and door of the
house； from the silence； and even from the look of the pomegranate tree that
everything was proceeding as planned。
I was acting intuitively in a great haste。 I tossed a stone at the courtyard
gate but missed！ I tossed another at the house。 It landed on the roof。
Frustrated； I began pelting the house with stones。 A window opened。 It was
the second…story window where four days ago； on Wednesday； I’d first seen
Shekure through the branches of the pomegranate tree。 Orhan appeared； and
from the gap in the shutters I could hear Shekure scolding him。 Then I saw her。
For a moment； we gazed hopefully at each other； my fair lady and I。 She was so
beautiful and being。 She made a gesture that I took to mean “wait” and
shut the window。
There was still plenty of time before evening。 I waited hopefully in the
empty garden； awestruck by the beauty of the world； the trees and the muddy
street。 Before long； Hayriye came in； dressed and covered not like a servant； but
rather； like a lady of the house。 Without nearing each other； we removed
ourselves to the cover of the fig trees。
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“Everything is progressing as planned；” I said to her。 I showed her the
document I’d obtained from the proxy。 “Shekure is divorced。 As for the
preacher from another neighborhood…” I was going to add； “I’ll see to that；”
but instead blurted out； “He’s on his way。 Shekure should be ready。”
“No matter how small； Shekure wants a bride’s procession； followed by a
neighborhood reception with a wedding repast。 We’ve prepared a stewpot of
pilaf with almonds and dried apricots。”
In her excitement； she seemed prepared to tell me everything else she’d
cooked but I cut her off。 “If the wedding is going to be such an elaborate
affair；” I cautioned； “Hasan and his men will hear of it； they’ll raid the house；
disgrace us； have the marriage nullified and we’ll be able to do nothing about
it。 All our efforts will have been in vain。 We need to protect ourselves not only
from Hasan and his father； but from the devil who murdered Enishte Effendi
as well。 Aren’t you afraid？”
“How could we not be？” she said and began to cry。
“You’re not to tell anyone a thing；” I said。 “Dress Enishte in his
nightclothes； spread out his mattress and lay him upon it； not as a dead man；
but as though he were sick。 Arrange glasses and bottles of syrup by his head；
and draw the shutters closed。 Make certain there are no lamps in his room so
that he can act as Shekure’s guardian； her sick father； during the ceremony。
There’s no place now for a bride’s procession。 You can invite a handful of
neighbors at the last minute； that’s all。 While you’re inviting them； say that
this was Enishte Effendi’s last wish…It won’t be a joyous wedding； but a
melancholy one。 If we don’t see ourselves through this affair； they’ll destroy
us； and they’ll punish you as well。 You understand； don’t you？”
She nodded as she wept。 Mounting my white horse； I said I’d secure the
witnesses and return before long； that Shekure ought to be ready； that
hereafter； I would be master of the house； and that I was going to the barber。 I
hadn’t thought through any of this beforehand。 As I spoke； the details came to
me； and just as I’d felt during battles from time to time； I had the conviction
that I was a cherished and favored servant of God and He was protecting me；
thus； everything was going to turn out fine。 When you feel this trust； do
whatever es to mind； follow your intuition and your actions will prove
correct。
I rode four blocks toward the Golden Horn from the Yakutlar neighborhood
to find the black…bearded； radiant…faced preacher of the mosque in Yasin Pasha；
the adjacent neighborhood； broom in hand； he was shooing shameless dogs
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out of the muddy courtyard。 I told him about my predicament。 By the will of
God； I explained； my Enishte’s time was upon him； and according to his last
wish； I was to marry his daughter； who； by decision of the üsküdar judge； had
just been granted a divorce from a husband lost at war。 The preacher objected
that by the dictates of Islamic law a divorced woman must wait a month
before remarrying； but I countered by explaining that Shekure’s former
husband had been absent for four years； and so； there was no chance she was
pregnant by him。 I hastened to add that the üsküdar judge granted a divorce
this morning to allow Shekure to remarry； and I showed him the certifying
document。 “My exalted Imam Effendi； you may rest assured that there’s no
obstacle to the marriage；” I said。 True； she was a blood relation； but being
maternal cousins is not an obstacle； her previous marriage had been nullified；
there were no religious； social or moary differences between us。 And if he
accepted the gold pieces I offered him up front； if he performed the ceremony
at the wedding scheduled to take place before the entire neighborhood； he’d
also be acplishing a pious act before God for the fatherless children of a
widowed woman。 Did the Imam Effendi； I inquired； enjoy pilaf with almonds
and dried apricots？
He did； but he was still preoccupied with the dogs at the gate。 He took the
gold coins。 He said he’d don his wedding robes； straighten up his appearance；
see to his turban and arrive in time to perform the nuptials。 He asked the way
to the house and I told him。
No matter how rushed a wedding might be—even one that the groom has
dreamed about for twelve years—what could be more natural than his
forgetting his worries and troubles and surrendering to the affectionate hands
and gentle banter of a barber for a prenuptial shave and haircut？ The barber’s；
where my feet took me； was located near the market； on the street of the run…
down house in Aksaray； which my late Enishte； my aunt and fair Shekure had
quitted years after our childhood。 This was the barber I’d faced five days ago；
my first day back。 When I entered he embraced me and as any good Istanbul
barber would do； rather than asking where the last dozen years had gone；
launched into the latest neighborhood gossip； concluding the conversation
with an allusion to the place we would all go at the end of this meaningful
journey called life。
The master barber had aged。 The straight…edged razor he held in his freckled
hand trembled as he made it dance across my cheek。 He’d given himself over
to drinking and had taken on a pink…plexioned； full…lipped； green…eyed
boy…apprentice—who looked upon his master with awe。 pared with
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twelve years ago； the shop was cleaner