Chapter 3 I AM CALLED BLACK-2

When I first laid eyes on her child, I knew at once what I'd long and mistakenly recalled about Shekure's face. Like Orhan's face, hers was thin, though her chin was longer than what I remembered. So, then the mouth of my beloved was surely smaller and narrower than I imagined it to be. For a dozen years, as I ventured from city to city, I'd widened Shekure's mouth out of desire and had imagined her lips to be more pert, fleshy and irresistible, like a large, shiny cherry. Had I taken Shekure's portrait with me, rendered in the style of the Venetian masters, I wouldn't have felt such loss during my long travels when I could scarcely remember my beloved, whose face I'd left somewhere behind me. For if a lover's face survives emblazoned on your heart, the world is still your home.

Meeting Shekure's youngest son and speaking with him, seeing his face up close and kissing him, aroused in me a restlessness peculiar to the luckless, to murderers and to sinners. An inner voice urged me on, “Be quick now, go and see her .” For a while, I considered silently quitting my Enishte's presence and opening each of the doors along the wide hallway—I'd counted them out of the corner of my eye, five dark doors, one of which, naturally, opened onto the staircase— until I found Shekure. But, I'd been separated from my beloved for twelve years because I recklessly revealed what lay in my heart. I decided to wait discreetly, listening to my Enishte while admiring the objects that Shekure had touched and the large pillow upon which she'd reclined who knows how many times.

He recounted to me that the Sultan wanted to have the book completed in time for the thousandth-year anniversary of the Hegira. Our Sultan, Refuge of the World, wanted to demonstrate that in the thousandth year of the Muslim calendar He and His state could make use of the styles of the Franks as well as the Franks themselves. Because He was also having a Book of Festivities made, the Sultan granted that the master miniaturists, whom He knew were quite busy, be permitted to sequester themselves at home to work in peace instead of among the crowds at the workshop. He was, of course, also aware that they all regularly paid clandestine visits to my Enishte.

“You shall visit Head Illuminator Master Osman,” said my Enishte. “Some say he's gone blind, others that he's lost his senses. I think he's blind and senile both.” Despite the fact that my Enishte didn't have the standing of a master illustrator and that this wasn't his field of artistic expertise at all, he did have control over an illustrated manuscript. This, in fact, was with the permission and encouragement of the Sultan, a situation that, of course, strained his relationship with the elderly Master Osman. Thinking of my childhood, I allowed my attention to be absorbed by the furniture and objects within the house. From twelve years ago, I still remembered the blue kilim from Kula covering the floor, the copper ewer, the coffee set and tray, the copper pail and the delicate coffee cups that had come all the way from China by way of Portugal, as my late aunt had boasted numerous times. These effects, like the low X-shaped reading desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the stand for a turban nailed to the wall, the red velvet pillow whose smoothness I recalled as soon as I touched it, were from the house in Aksaray where I'd passed my childhood with Shekure, and they still carried something of the bliss of my days of painting in that house.

Painting and happiness. I would like my dear readers who have given close attention to my story and my fate to bear these two things in mind, as they are the genesis of my world. At one time, I was contented here, among these books , calligraphy brushes and paintings. Then, I fell in love and was banished from this Paradise. In the years I endured my amorous exile, I often thought how I was in fact deeply indebted to Shekure and my love for her, because they had enabled me to adapt optimally to life and the world. Since I had, in my childlike na?vete, no doubt that my love would be reciprocated, I grew exceedingly assured and came to regard the world as a good place. You see, it was with this same earnestness that I involved myself with books and came to love them, to love the reading my Enishte required of me back then, my religious school lessons and my illustrating and painting. But as much as I owed the sunny, festive and more Fertile first half of my education to the love I fe lt for Shekure, I owed the dark knowledge that poisoned the latter time to being rejected; my desire on icy nights to sputter out and vanish like the dying flames in the iron stoves of a caravansary, repeatedly dreaming after a night of love that I was Plunging into a desolate abyss along with whichever woman lay beside me, and the notion that I was simply worthless—all of it was furnished by Shekure.

“Were you aware,” my Enishte said much later, “that after death our souls will be able to meet with the spirits of men and women in this world who are peacefully asleep in their beds?” "No, I was not." “We take a long journey after death, so I'm not afraid of dying. What I fear is dying before I finish Our Sultan's book.” Part of me felt I was stronger, more reasonable and more reliable than my Enishte, and part of me was dwelling on the cost of the caftan that I'd purchased on my way here to meet with this man who'd denied me his daughter's hand and on the silver bridle and hand-worked saddle of the horse which, soon after going downstairs, I'd take out of the stable and ride away.

I told him I'd apprise him of everything I learned during my visits to the various miniaturists. I kissed his hand and brought it to my forehead. I walked down the stairs, entered the courtyard, and sensing the snowy cold upon me, accepted that I was neither a child nor an old man: I joyously felt the world upon my skin. As I shut the stable door, a breeze began to stir. I led my white horse by the bridle over the stone walkway to the earthen part of the courtyard, and we both shuddered: I felt as if his strong, large-veined legs, his impatience and his stiffness were my own. As soon as we entered the street, I was about to quickly mount my steed and disappear down the narrow way like a fabled horseman, never to return again, when an enormous woman, a Jewess dressed all in pink and carrying a bundle, appeared out of nowhere and accosted me. She was as large and wide as an armoire. lively and even coquettish.

“My brave man, my young hero, I see you're truly as handsome as they say you are,” she said. “Might you be married? Or might you be a bachelor? Would you design to buy a silk handkerchief for your secret lover from Esther, Istanbul's premier peddler of fine cloth?" "Nay." “A red sash of Atlas silk?” "Nay." “Don't go on piping ”nay' at me like that! How could a brave heart like you not have a fiancee or a secret lover? Who knows how many teary-eyed maidens are burning with desire for you?” Her body lengthened like the slender form of an acrobat and she leaned toward me with an elegant gesture. At the same time, with the skill of a

magician who plucks objects out of thin air, she caused a letter to appear in her hand. I stealthily grabbed it, and as if I'd been training for this moment for years, I hastily and artistically placed it into my sash. It was a thick letter and felt like fire against the icy skin of my side, between my belly and back. “Ride at an amble,” said Esther the clothes peddler. “Turn right at the corner, following the curve of the wall without breaking stride, but when you get to the pomegranate tree turn and look at the house you've just left, at the window to your right." She went on her way and vanished in an instant.

I mounted the horse, but like a novice doing so for the first time. My heart was racing, my mind was overcome by excitement, my hands had forgotten how to control the reins, but when my legs tightly gripped the horse's body, sound reason and skill took control of my horse and me, and as Esther had instructed, my wise horse ambled steadily and, how lovely, we turned right onto the sidestreet! It was then that I felt I might in truth be handsome. As in fairy tales, from behind every shutter and every latticed window, a coy woman was watching me and I felt I might burn once again with that same fire that had once consumed me . Is this what I desired? Was I succumbing anew to the illness from which I'd suffered for so many years? The sun suddenly broke through the clouds, startling me.

Where was the pomegranate tree? Was it this thin, melancholy tree here? Yes! I turned slightly to the right in my saddle. I saw a window behind the tree, but there was nobody there. I'd been duped by that wench Esther! Just as I was thinking such thoughts, the window's iced-over shutters opened with a loud burst, as if they'd exploded, and after twelve years, I saw my beloved's stunning face among snowy branches, framed by the window whose icy trim shone brightly in the sunlight. Was my dark-eyed beloved looking at me or at another life beyond me? I couldn't tell whether she was sad or smiling or smiling sadly. Foolish horse, heed not my heart, slow down! I calmly twisted in my saddle again, Fixing my desirable stare for as long as possible, until her gaunt, elegant and mysterious face disappeared behind the branches. Much later, after opening her letter and seeing the illustration within, I thought how my visit to her at the window on horseback closely resembled that moment, pictured a thousand times, in which Husrev visits Shirin beneath her window—only in our case, there was that melancholy tree between us. When I recognized this similarity, oh how I burned with a love such as they describe in those books we so cherish and adore. I AM ESTHER All of you, I know, are wondering what Shekure penned in that letter I presented to Black. As this was also a curiosity of mine, I learned everything there was to know. If you would, then, pretend you're flipping back through the pages of the story and let me tell you what happened before I delivered that letter. Now, it's getting on toward evening, I've retired to our house in the quaint little Jewish quarter at the mouth of the Golden Horn with my husband Nesim, two old people huffing and puffing, trying to keep warm by feeding logs into the stove . Pay no mind to my calling myself “old.” When I load my wares—items cheap and precious alike, certain to lure the ladies, rings, earrings, necklaces and baubles—into the folds of silk handkerchiefs, gloves, sheets and the colorful shirt cloth sent over in Portuguese ships, when I shoulder that bundle, Esther's a ladle and Istanbul's a kettle, and there's nary a street I don't visit. There isn't a word of gossip or letter that I haven't carried from one door to the next, and I've played matchmaker to half the maidens of Istanbul, but I didn't begin this recital to brag. As I was saying, we were taking our ease in the evening, and “rap, rap ” someone was at the door. I went and opened it to discover Hayriye, that idiot slave girl, standing before me. S he held a letter in her hand. I couldn't tell whether it was from the cold or from excitement, but she was trembling as she explained Shekure's wishes. At first, I assumed this letter was to be taken to Hasan, that's why I was so astonished. You know about pretty Shekure's husband, the one who never returned from the war—if you ask me, he's long since had his hide pierced. Well you see, that never-to-return soldier-husband also has an eager, lovesick brother by the name of Hasan. So imagine my surprise when I saw that Shekure's letter wasn't meant for Hasan, but for someone else. the letter say? Esther was mad with curiosity, and in the end, I did succeed in reading it. But alas, we don't know each other that well, do we? To be honest, I was overcome with embarrassment and worry. How I read the letter you'll never know. Maybe you'll shame and belittle me for my meddling —as if you yourself aren't as nosy as barbers. I'll just relate to you what I learned from reading the letter. This is what sweet Shekure had written: Black Effendi, you're a visitor to my house thanks to your close relations with my father. But don't expect a nod from me. Much has happened since you left. I was wed, and have two strong and spirited sons. One of them is Orhan, he's the one whom you saw just now come to the workshop. While I've been awating the return of my husband these four years, little else has entered my thoughts. my two children and an elderly father. I miss the strength and protection of a man, but let no one assume he might take advantage of my situation. Therefore, it would please me if you ceased calling on us. You did embarrass me once before , and afterwards, I had to endure much suffering to regain my honor in my father's eyes! Along with this letter, I'm also returning the picture you painted and sent to me when you were an impulsive youth with his wits not yet about him . I do this so you won't harbor any false hopes or misread any signs. It's a mistake tobelieve that one could fall in love gazing at a picture. It'd be best if you stopped coming to our house completely. My poor Shekure, you're neither a nobleman nor a pasha with a fancy seal to stamp your letter! At the bottom of the page, she signed the first letter of her name, which looked like a small, frightened bird. Nothing more. I said “seal.” You’re probably wondering how I open and close these wax-sealed letters. But in fact the letters aren’t sealed at all. “That Esther is an illiterate Jew,” my dear Shekure had assumed.” She'll never understand my writing." True, I can't read what's written, but I can always have someone else read it. And as for what's not written, I can quite readily "read" that myself. Confused, are you? Let me put it this way, so even the most thick-headed of you will understand: A letter doesn't communicate by words alone. A letter, just like a book, can be read by smelling it, touching it and fondling it. Thereby, intelligent folk will say, “Go on then, read what the letter tells you! ” whereas the dull-witted will say, “Go on then, read what he's written!” Listen, now, to what else Shekure said: Though I've sent this letter in secret, by relying on Esther, who's made letter-delivery a matter of commerce and custom, I'm signing that I don't intend to conceal that much at all. . That I've folded it up like a French pastry implies secrecy and mystery, true. But the letter isn't sealed and there's a huge picture enclosed. The apparent implication is, “Pray, keep our secret at all costs,” which more benefits an invitation to love than a letter of rebuke. Furthermore, the smell of the letter confirms this interpretation. The fragrance was faint enough to be ambiguous—did she intentionally perfume the letter?—yet alluring enough to fire readers' curiosity—is this the aroma of attar or the smell of her hand And a fragrance, which was enough to capture the poor man who read the letter to me, will surely have the same effect on Black. .I am Esther, who knows neither how to read nor write, but this I do know: Although the flow of the script and the handwriting seems to say “Alas, I am rushed, I am writing carelessly and without paying serious attention,” these letters that twitter elegantly as if caught in a gentle breeze convey the exact opposite message. Even her phrase “just now come” when referring to Orhan, implying that the letter was written at that very moment, betrays a ploy no less obvious than care taken in each line. . The picture sent along with the letter depicts pretty Shirin gazing at handsome Husrev's image and falling in love, as told in the story that even I, Esther the Jews, know well. All the loverorn ladies of Istanbul adore this story, but never have I know someone to send an illustration relating to it. It happens all the time to you fortunate literate people: A maiden who can't read begs you to read a love letter she's received. The letter is so surprising, exciting and disturbing that its owner, though embarrassed at your becoming privy to her most intimate affairs, ashamed and distraught, asks you all the same to read it once more. You read it again. In the end, you've read the letter so many times that both of you have memorized it. Before long, she'll take the letter in her hands and ask, “Did he make that statement there?” and “Did he say that here?” As you point to the appropriate places, she'll pore over those passages, still unable to make sense of the words there. As she stars at the curvy letters of the words, sometimes I am so moved I forget that I myself can't read or write and feel the urge to embrace those illiterate maidens whose tears fall to the page. Then there are those truly accursed letter-readers; pray, don't you turn out to be like one of them: When the maiden takes the letter in her own hands to touch it again, desiring to look at it without understanding which words were spoken where, these beasts will say to her, “What are you trying to do? You can't read, what more do you want to look at?” Some of them won't even return the letter, treating it henceforth as if it belonged to them. At times, the task of accosting them and retrieving the letter falls to me, Esther. That's the kind of good woman I am. If Esther likes you, she'll come to your aid as well. I, SHEKURE Oh, why was I there at the window just when Black rode by on his white steed? Why did I open the shutters intuitively at that exact moment and stare at him so long from behind the snowy branches of the pomegranate tree? can't tell you for sure. I'd sent word to Esther by way of Hayriye. I was, of course, well aware that Black would take that route. Meanwhile, I'd gone up alone to the room with the built- in closet and the window facing the pomegranate tree to inspect the sheets in the chest. On a whim, and at just the right moment, I pushed the shutters open with all my strength and sunlight flooded the room: Standing at the window, I came face-to-face with Black, who, like the sun, dazzled me. Oh, it was quite lovely. He'd grown and matured and, having lost his awkward youthful lankiness, he turned out to be a comely man. Listen Shekure, my heart did tell me, he's not only handsome, look into his eyes, he possesses the heart of a child , so pure, so alone: ​​Marry him. I, however, sent him a letter where in I'd given him quite the opposite message. Though he was twelve years my elder, when I was twelve, I was more mature than he. Back then, instead of standing straight and tall before me in a fashion befitting a man and announcing that he was going to do this or that, jump From this spot or climb onto that thing, he'd just bury his face in some book or picture, hiding as if everything embarrassed him. In time, he also fell in love with me. He made a painting declaring his love. We' d both matured by then. When I turned twelve, I sensed that Black could no longer look into my eyes, as if he were afraid I'd discover he loved me. “Hand me that ivory-handled knife,” he'd say, for example, looking at the knife but unable to look at me. If I asked him, for instance, “Is the cherry sherbet to your liking?” he couldn't simply indicate so with a delicate smile or nod, as we do when our mouths are full, you see. Instead, he'd scream “Yes” at the top of his lungs, as if trying to communicate with a deaf man. He feared looking me in the face. I was a maiden of striking beauty then. Any man who caught sight of me even once, from afar, or from between parted curtains or yawning doors, or even through the layers of my modest head coverings, immediately became enamored of me. I'm not being a braggart, I'm explaining this so you'll understand my story and be better able to share in my grief. In the well-known tale of Husrev and Shirin, there's a moment that Black and I had discussed at length. Husrev's friend, Shapur, intends to make Husrev and Shirin fall in love. One day Shirin embarks on a countryside outing with her ladies of the court, when she sees a picture of Husrev that Shapur has secretly hung from the branch of one of the trees beneath which the outing party has stopped to rest. Beholding this picture of the handsome Husrev in that beautiful garden, Shirin is Stricken by love. Many paintings depict this moment—or “scene” as the miniaturists would have it—consisting of Shirin's look of adoration and bewilderment as she gazes upon the image of Husrev. While Black was working with my father, he'd seen this picture many times and had twice made exact copies by eyeing the original as he painted. After falling in love with me, he made a copy for himself. But this time in place of Husrev and Shirin, he portrayed himself and me, Black and Shekure. If it weren't for the captions beneath the figures, only I would've known who the man and maiden in the picture were, because sometimes when we were joking around, he'd depict us in the same manner and color: I all in blue, he all in red. And if this weren't indication enough, he'd also wrote our names beneath the figures. He'd left the painting where I would find it and run off. He watched me to see what my reaction to his composition would be. I was well aware that I wouldn't be able to love him like a Shirin, so I feigned ignorance. On the evening of that summer's day when Black gave me his painting, during which we'd tried to cool ourselves with sour-cherry sherbets made with ice said to have been brought all the way from snow-capped Mount Ulu, I told my father that he'd made a declaration of love. At that time, Black had just graduated from the religious school. He taught in remote neighborhoods and, more out of my father's insistence than his own desire, Black was attempting to obtain the patronage of the powerful and esteemed Naim Pasha. But according to my father, Black didn't yet have his wits about him. My father, who 'd took great pains to win Black a place in Naim Pasha's circle, at least as a clerk to begin, complained that he wasn't doing much to further his own cause; in other words, Black was being an ignoramus. And that very night in reference to Black and me, my father declared, “I think he's set his sights v ery high, this impoverished nephew," and without regard for my mother's presence, he added, "he's smarter than we'd supposed." I remember with misery what my father did in the following days, how I kept my distance from Black and how he ceased to visit our house, but I won't explain all of this for fear that you'll dislike my father and me. I swear to you, we had no other choice. You know how in such situations reasonable people immediately sense that love without hope is simply hopeless, and understanding the limits of the illogical realm of the heart, make a quick end of it by politely declaring, “They didn’t find us suitably matched. That’s just the way it is.” But, I’ll have you know that my mother said several times, “At least don’t break the boy’s heart. ” Black, whom my mother referred to as a “boy,” was twenty-four, and I was half his age. Because my father considered Black's declaration of love an act of insolence, he wouldn't humor my mother's wishes. Though we hadn't forgotten him altogether by the time we received news that he'd left Istanbul, we'd let him slip completely out of our affections. Because we hadn't received news about him from any city for years, I deemed it appropriate to save the picture he'd made and shown me, as a token of our childhood memories and friendship. To prevent my father, and later my soldier -husband, from discovering the picture and getting upset or jealous, I expertly concealed the names “Shekure” and “Black” beneath the figures by making it appear as if someone had dribbled my father's Hasan Pasha ink onto them, in an accident later to be disguised as flowers. Since I've returned that picture to him today, maybe those among you inclined to take a dim view of how I revealed myself to him at the window will feel ashamed and reconsider your prejudices somewhat. Having exposed my face to him, I remained for a while there at the window, showered in the crimson hue of the evening sun, and gazed in awe at the garden bathed in reddish-orange light, until I felt the chill of the evening air . There was no breeze. I didn't care what someone passing in the street would've said upon seeing me at the open window. One of Ziver Pasha's daughters, Mesrure, who always laughed and enjoyed herself saying the most surprising things at the most inopportune times when we went merrily and playfully to the public baths each week, once told me that a person never knows exactly what she herself is thinking. This is what I know: Sometimes I'll say something and realize upon uttering it that it is of my own thinking; but no sooner do I arrive at that realization than I'm convinced the very opposite is true. I was sorry when poor Effendi, one of the miniaturists my father often invited to the house—and I won't pretend I haven't spied on each of them—went missing, much like my unfortunate husband. ugliest among them and the most impoverished of spirit. I closed the shutters, left the room and went down to the kitchen. "Mother, Shevket didn't listen to you," Orhan said. "While Black was taking his horse out of the stable, Shevket left the kitchen and spied on him from the peephole." "What of it!" Shevket said, waving his hand in the air. "Mother sped on him from the hole in the closet." “Hayriye,” I said. “Fry some bread in a little butter and serve it to them with marzipan and sugar.” Orhan jumped up and down with joy though Shevket was silent. But as I walked back upstairs, they both caught up to me, screaming, pushing and shoving by me excitedly. “Be slow, slow down,” I said with a laugh. You rascals.” I patted them on their delicate backs. How wonderful it is to be home with children as evening approaches! My father had quietly given himself over to a book. "Your guest has departed," I said. "I hope he didn't trouble you much?" “On the contrary,” he said. “He entertained me. He's as respectful as ever of his Enishte.” "Good." “But now he’s also measured and calculating.” He'd said that less to observe my reaction than to close the subject in a manner that made light of Black. On any other occasion, I would've answered him with a sharp tongue, as I am wont to do. This time, though, I just thought of Black making ground on his white horse, and I shuddered. I'm not sure how it happened, but later in the room with the closet, Orhan and I found ourselves hugging each other. Shevket joined us; there was a brief skirmish between them. As they tussled we all rolled over onto the floor. I kissed them on the backs of their necks and their hair, I pressed them to my bosom and felt their weight on my breasts. “Ahhh,” I said. “Your hair stinks. I'm going to send you to the baths tomorrow with Hayriye.” “I don’t want to go to the baths with Hayriye anymore,” Shevket said. "Why? Are you too grown-up?" I said. “Mother, why did you wear your fine purple blouse?” Shevket said. I went into the other room and removed my purple blouse. I pulled on the faded green one that I usually wear. As I was changing, I felt cold and shivered, but I could sense that my skin was aflame, my body vibrant and alive . I'd rubbed a bit of rouge onto my cheeks, which probably smudged while I was rolling around with the children, but I evened it out by licking my palm and rubbing my cheeks. Are you aware that my relatives, the women whom I meet at the baths and everyone who sees me, swear that I look more like a sixteen-year-old maiden than a twenty-four-year-old mother of two past her prime? Believe them, truly believe them, or I shan't tell you any more. Don't be surprised that I'm talking to you. For years I've combed through the pictures in my father's books looking for images of women and great beauties. They do exist, if few and far between, and always look shy, embarrassed, gazing only at one another, as if apologetically. Never do they raise their heads, stand straight and face the people of the world as soldiers and sultans would. Only in cheap, hastily illustrated books by careless artists are the eyes of some women trained not on the ground or on some thing in the illustration—oh, I don't know, let's say a lover or a goblet—but directly at the reader. I've long wondered about that reader. I shudder in delight when I think of two-hundred-year-old books, dating back to the time of Tamerlane, volumes for which acquisitive giaours gleefully relinquish gold pieces and which they carry all the way back to their own countries: Perhaps one day Someone from a distant land will listen to this story of mine. Isn't this what lies behind the desire to be inscribed in the pages of a book? Isn't it just for the sake of this delight that sultans and viziers proffer bags of gold to have their histories written? When I feel this delight, just like those beautiful women with one eye on the life within the book and one eye on the life outside, I, too, long to speak with you who are observing me from who knows which distant time and place. I'm an attractive and intelligent woman, and it pleases me that I'm being watched. And if I happen to tell a lie or two from time to time, it's so you don't come to any false conclusions about me. Maybe you've noticed that my father adores me. He had three sons before me, but God took them one by one and left me, his daughter. My father dotes on me, though I married a man not of his choosing. to a spahi cavalry soldier whom I'd noticed and fancied. If it were left to my father, my husband would not only be the greatest of scholars, he'd also have an appreciation for painting and art, be possessed of power and authority , and be as rich as Karun, the wealthiest of men in the Koran. The inkling of such a man couldn't even be found in the pages of my father's books, and so I would've been forced to pine away at home forever . My husband's handsomeness was legendary, and I gave him the nod through intermediates. He found the opportunity to appear before me as I was returning from the public baths. His eyes were as brilliant as fire, and I immediately fell in love. dark-haired, fair-skinned, green-eyed man with strong arms; but at heart, he was innocent and quiet like a sleepy child. Nevertheless, it seemed, to me at least, that he also had the tang of blood about him, perhaps because he expended all his strength slaying men in battle and amassing booty, even though at home he was as gentle and quiet as a lady. This man—whom my father looked upon as a penniless soldier, and hence, disapproved of—was later allowed to marry me because I threatened to kill myself otherwise. And after they gave him a military fief worth ten thousand silver coins, a reward for his heroism in battle after battle wherein he performed the greatest acts of bravery, truly, everyone envied us. Four years ago when he failed to return with the rest of the army from warring against the Safavids I wasn't worried at first. For the more experience he had on the battlefield, the more adept and clever he became in creating opportunities for himself, in bringing home greater spoils, in winning larger fiefs, and in enlisting more soldiers of his own. There were witnesses who said he fled to the mountains with his own men after he became separated from a division of the army. In the beginning, I suspected a scheme and hoped he'd return, but after two years, I slowly grew accustomed to his absence; and when I realized how many lonely women like me with missing soldier-husbands there were in Istanbul, I resigned myself to my fate. At night, in our beds, we'd hug our children and mope and cry. To quiet their tears, I'd tell them hopeful lies; for example, that so-and-so had proof their father would return before spring. Afterward, when my lie would circulate, changing and spreading until it found its way back to me, I'd be the first to believe the good news. When the main support of the household vanished, we fell upon hard times. We were living in a rented house in Charsh?kap? with my husband's gentlemanly Abkhazian father, who'd never lived an easy life, and his brother, who had green eyes as well. My father-in-law, who left his mirror-making business after his oldest son made his fortune soldiering, returned to take up his trade at a late age. Hasan, my husband's bachelor brother, worked in customs, and as he prospered he made plans to assume the role of “man of the house.” One winter, fearing they wouldn't be able to pay rent, they hastily took the slave who saw to the household chores to the slave market and sold her, after which they wanted me to do the kitchen work, wash the clothes and even go out to the bazaars to do the shopping in her stead. I didn't protest by saying, “Am I the type of woman to take on such drudgery?” I swallowed my pride and went to work. But when that brother-in-law of mine Hasan, now without his slave girl to take into his room at night, began forcing my door, I didn't know what to do. Of course, I could've immediately come back here to the home of my father, but according to the kadi judge my husband was legally alive, and were I to anger my in-laws, they might not stop at forcing my children and me back to my husband's home, but humiliate us further by having me and my father, who had “detained” me, punished. To tell the truth, I could've loved Hasan, whom I found to be more humane and reasonable than my husband, and who was obviously very much in love with me. But if I were to do this without careful thought, I might find myself, God forbid, his slave instead of his wife. In any event, because they were afraid that I would demand my portion of the inheritance and then abandon them and return to my father with the children, they, too, weren't eager for a judge's decision proclaiming my husband's death. If, in the eyes of the judge, my husband wasn't dead, I naturally couldn't wed Hasan, nor could I marry anyone else. Because this dilemma bound me to that house and that marriage, my in-laws preferred my having a “missing” husband, and the continuation of this vague situation. For lest you forget, I saw to all their household chores, I did everything from their cooking to their laundry, and furthermore, one of them was madly in love with me. When my father-in-law and Hasan grew dissatisfied with this arrangement and decided it was time for me to marry Hasan, it was necessary first to arrange for the witnesses to convince the judge of my husband's death. Thus, if my missing husband's closest kin, his father and brother, accepted his death, if there was no longer anyone who objected to declaring my husband dead, and if, for the price of a few silver coins, witnesses would testify that they'd seen the man's corpse in the field of battle, the judge would also oblige. It would be most difficult to convince Hasan once I was declared a widow that I wouldn't leave the household, demand my inheritance rights or ask for money to marry him; and moreover, that I'd marry him of my own free will. Naturally, I knew that to gain his trust in this regard, I'd have to sleep with him in a very convincing manner so he'd be completely assured I was giving myself to him, not to get his permission to divorce my husband, but because I was sincerely in love with him. With some effort, I could've fallen in love with Hasan. He was eight years younger than my missing husband, and when my husband was at home, Hasan was like my little brother, and this sentiment endeared him to me. I liked his humble and passionate demeanor, his pleasure in playing with my children and even the way he desirously looked at me as though he were dying of thirst and I were a glass of cold sour-cherry sherbet. On the other hand, I also knew I'd really have to force myself to fall in love with a man who made me wash clothes and didn't mind my having to wander through markets and bazaars like a common slave. During those days when I'd go to my father's house and cry endlessly as I stared at the pots, pans, bowls and cups, during those nights when the children and I would sleep cuddled up together in solidarity, Hasan never gave me cause for a change of heart. He had no faith that I could love him or that this essential and mandatory precondition for our marriage would manifest itself; and because he had no confidence in himself, he acted inappropriately. He tried to corner me, kiss me and fondle me. He declared that my husband would never return, that he would kill me. He threatened me, cried like a baby and in his haste and fluster, never allowed time for a true and noble love to be born. I knew I could never wed him. One night, when he tried to force the door of the room where I slept with the children, I rose immediately, and without a thought that I might frighten them, screamed at the top of my lungs that evil jinns had entered the house. This fit of jinn-panic and screaming awakened my father-in-law and thereby exposed Hasan, whose excited violence was still visible, to his father. Amid my ridiculous howls and inane rantings about jinns, the staid old man to his embarrassment acknowledged the awful truth: His son was besotted and had inappropriately approached his brother's wife, a mother of two. My father-in-law made no reply when I said I wouldn't sleep a wink till morning, keeping watch at the door to protect my children against “the jinns.” The following day, I announced that I'd be returning to my father's home with my children for an extended stay to care for him in his time of illness; thus did Hasan accept his defeat. I returned to my father's house, taking with me as mementos of my married life the clock with bells plundered from Hungarian lands by my husband (who'd never succumbed to the temptation to sell it), the whip made from the sinews of the most explosive of Arab steeds, the Tabriz-made ivory chess set whose pieces the children used to play war and the silver candlesticks (booty from the Battle of Nahjivan), which I'd fought so desperately to keep when money was short. As I expected, quitting my absent husband's house turned Hasan's obsessive and disrespectful love into a hopeless inferno. Knowing full well that his father wouldn't stand behind him, instead of threatening me, he sought my pity by sending me love letters in whose corners he drew forlorn birds, teary-eyed lions and sad gazelles. I won't hide from you the fact that I've recently begun to read them anew, those letters that reveal Hasan's rich imagination, of which I wasn't aware when we lived together under the same roof—assuming he didn't enlist one of his more artistic or poetic friends to write and embellish them. In his last letter, Hasan pledged that I would no longer be a slave to housework, and that he'd made a lot of money. This disclosure in his sweet, respectful and humorous tone, compounded by the endless fights and demands of the children, and my father's complaints, turned my head into a veritable kettledrum. Indeed, it was in order to heave a sigh of relief to the world that I'd opened the shutters of that window. Before Hayriye set the dinner table, I prepared a draught of bitters from the best Arabian date palm flower; I mixed in a spoonful of honey and a little lemon juice, then quietly entered my father's company as he was reading the Book of the Soul, and like a spirit myself, placed it before him without making my presence known, as he preferred. “Is it snowing?” he asked in such a faint and melancholy voice that I understood at once this would be the last snowfall my poor father would ever see. I AM A TREE I am a tree and I am quite lonely. I weep in the rain. For the sake of Allah, listen to what I have to say. Drink down your coffee so your sleep abandons you and your eyes open wide. Stare at me as you would at jinns and let me explain to you why I'm so alone. . They allege that I've been hastily sketched onto nonsized, rough paper so the picture of a tree might hang behind the master storyteller. True enough. At this moment, there are no other slender trees beside me, no seven-leaf steppe plants, no dark billowing rock formations which at times resemble Satan or a man and no coiling Chinese clouds. Just the ground, the sky, myself and the horizon. But my story is much more complicated. . As a tree, I need not be part of a book. As the picture of a tree, however, I'm disturbed that I'm not a page within some manuscript. Since I'm not representing something in a book, what comes to mind is that my picture will be nailed to a wall and the likes of pagans and infidels will prostrate themselves before me in worship. May the followers of Erzurumi Hoja not hear that I secretly take pride in this thought—but then I'm overcome with the utmost fear and embarrassment. . The essential reason for my loneliness is that I don't even know where I belong. I was supposed to be part of a story, but I fell from there like a leaf in autumn. Let me tell you about it: Falling from My Story Like a Leaf Falls in Fall Forty years ago, the Persian Shah Tahmasp, who was the archenemy of the Ottomans as well as the world's greatest patron-king of the art of painting, began to grow senile and lost his enthusiasm for wine, music, poetry and painting; furthermore, he quit drinking coffee, and naturally, his brain stopped working. Full of the suspicions of a long-faced, dark-spirited old geezer, he transferred his capital from Tabriz, which was then Persian territory, to Kazvin so it would be farther from the Ottoman armies. One day when he had grown even older, he was possessed by a jinn, had a nervous fit, and begging God's forgiveness, completely swore off wine, handsome young boys and painting, which is proof enough that after this great shah lost his taste for coffee, he also lost his mind. This was why the divinely inspired bookbinders, calligraphers, gilders and miniaturists, who created the greatest masterpieces in the world over a twenty-year period in Tabriz, scattered like a covey of partridges to other cities. Shah Tahmasp's nephew and son-in-law, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza, invited the most gifted among them to Mashhad, where he served as provincial governor, and settled them in his miniaturists' workshop to copy out a marvelous illuminated and illustrated manuscript of all seven fables of the Seven Thrones of Jami—the greatest poet in Herat during the reign of Tamerlane. Shah Tahmasp, who both admired and envied his intelligent and handsome nephew, and regretted having given his daughter to him, was consumed by jealousy when he heard about this magnificent book and angrily ousted his nephew from the post of Governor of Mashhad, banishing him to the city of Kain, before sending him off to the smaller town of Sebzivar in a renewed fit of anger. The calligraphers and illuminators of Mashhad thereupon dispersed to other cities and regions, to the book-arts workshops of other sultans and princes. Miraculously, however, Sultan Ibrahim Mirza's marvelous volume did not remain unfinished, for in his service he had a devoted librarian. This man would travel on horseback all the way to Shiraz where the best master gilders lived; then he'd take a couple pages to Isfahan seeking the most elegant calligraphers of Nestalik script; afterward he'd cross great mountains till he'd made it all the way to Bukhara where he'd arrange the picture's composition and have the figures drawn by the great master painter who worked under the Uzbek Khan; next he'd go down to Herat to commission one of its half-blind old masters to paint from memory the sinuous curves of plants and leaves; visiting another calligrapher in Herat, he'd direct him to inscribe, in gold Rika script, the sign above a door within the picture; finally, he'd be off again to the south, to Kain, where displaying the half-page he had finished during his six months of traveling, he'd receive the praises of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza. At this pace, it was clear that the book would never be completed, so mounted Tatar couriers were hired. In addition to the manuscript leaf, which was to receive artwork and scripted text, each horseman was given a letter describing the desired work in question to the artist. Thus, messengers carrying manuscript pages passed over the roads of Persia, Khorasan, the Uzbek territory and Transoxania. The creation of the book sped up with the fleet messengers. At times, on a snowy night, Chapter and , for example, would cross paths in a caravansary wherein the howlings of wolves could be heard, and as they struck up a friendly conversation, they'd discover that they were working on the same book project and would try to determine between themselves where and in which fable the prospective pages, retrieved from their rooms for this purpose, actually belonged. I was meant to be among the pages of this illustrated manuscript that I sadly heard was completed today. Unfortunately, on a cold winter's day, the Tatar courier who was carrying me as he crossed a rocky mountain pass was ambushed by thieves. First they beat the poor Tatar, then they robbed him and raped him in a manner befitting thieves before mercilessly killing him. As a result, I know nothing about the page I've fallen from. My request is that you look at me and ask: “Were you perhaps meant to provide shade for Mejnun disguised as a shepherd as he visited Leyla in her tent?” or “Were you meant to fade into the night, representing the darkness in the soul of a wretched and hopeless man?” How I would've wanted to complement the happiness of two lovers who fled from the whole world, traversing oceans to find solace on an island rich with birds and fruit! I would've wanted to shade Alexander during the final moments of his life on his campaign to conquer Hindustan as he died from a persistent nosebleed brought on by sunstroke. Or was I meant to symbolize the strength and wisdom of a father offering advice on love and life to his son? Ah, to which story was I meant to add meaning and grace? Among the brigands who'd killed the messenger and taken me with them, dragging me headlong from mountain to mountain and city to city, there was a thief who occasionally understood my worth, and had the refinement to realize that looking at the drawing of a tree is more pleasant than looking at a tree; but because he didn't know to which story I belonged, he quickly tired of me. After dragging me from city to city, this rogue didn't tear me apart and dispose of me as I'd feared he might, but sold me to a cultivated man in a caravansary for a jug of wine. Sometimes at night this unfortunate delicate-spirited man would stare at me by candlelight and cry. In time, he died of grief and they sold his belongings. Thanks to the master storyteller who purchased me, I've come all the way to Istanbul. Now, I'm most happy, and honored to be here tonight among you, the Ottoman Sultan's miraculously inspired, eagle-eyed, iron-willed, elegant-wristed, sensitive-spirited miniaturists and calligraphers—and for Heaven's sake, I beg of you not to believe those who claim I've been hastily sketched onto coarse paper by some master miniaturist as a wall prop. But hear yet what other lies, slander and brazen untruths are being spread! You might remember how last night my master nailed the picture of a dog here on the wall and recounted the adventures of this crass beast; and how at the same time he told of the adventures of Husret Hoja of Erzurum! Well now, the admirers of His Excellency Nusret Hoja have completely misunderstood this story; they think he was the target of our account. Could we have possibly said that the great preacher, His Esteemed Excellency, was of uncertain birth? God forbid! Would it have even crossed our minds? What mischief, what a crude lie! Clearly, Husret of Erzurum is being confused with Nusret of Erzurum, so let me proceed to tell you the story of Cross-Eyed Nedret Hoja of Sivas and the Tree. Besides denouncing the wooing of pretty boys and the art of painting, this Cross-Eyed Nedret Hoja of Sivas maintained that coffee was the Devil's work and that coffee drinkers would go to Hell. Hey, you from Sivas, have you forgotten how this enormous branch of mine was bent? Let me tell you about it, then, but swear you won't tell anyone, and may Allah protect you from baseless slander. One morning, I awoke to find that a giant of a man—God protect him, he was as tall as a minaret with hands like a lion's claws—had climbed up onto this branch of mine and hidden beneath my lush leaves together with the aforementioned Hoja and, excuse the expression, they were going at it like dogs in heat. While the giant, whom I later realized was the Devil, attended to his business with our hero, he was compassionately kissing his lovely ear and whispering into it, “Coffee is a sin, coffee is a vice…” Accordingly, those who believe in the harmful effects of coffee, believe not in the commandments of our good religion, but in the Devil himself. And finally, I shall make mention of Frank painters, so if there are degenerates among you who have pretensions to be like them, may you heed my warning and be deterred. Now, these Frank painters depict the faces of kings, priests, noblemen and even women in such a manner that after gazing upon the portrait, you'd be able to identify that person on the street. Their wives roam freely on the streets anyway—now, just imagine the rest. As if this weren't enough, they've taken matters even further. I don't mean in regard to pimping, but in regard to painting. A great European master miniaturist and another great master artist are walking through a Frank meadow discussing virtuosity and art. As they stroll, a forest comes into view before them. The more expert of the two says to the other: “Painting in the new style demands such talent that if you depicted one of the trees in this forest, a man who looked upon that painting could come here, and if he so desired, correctly select that tree from among the others.” I thank Allah that I, the humble tree before you, have not been drawn with such intent. And not because I fear that if I'd been thus depicted all the dogs in Istanbul would assume I was a real tree and piss on me: I don't want to be a tree, I want to be its meaning.