Chapter 14 I AM CALLED BLACK

Widowed, abandoned and aggrieved, my beloved Shekure fled with featherlike steps, and I stood as if stunned in the stillness of the house of the Hanged Jew, amid the aroma of almonds and dreams of marriage she'd left in her wake. bewildered, but my mind was churning so fast it almost hurt. Without even a chance to grieve properly over my Enishte's death, I quickly returned home. On the one hand, a worm of doubt was gnawing at me: Was Shekure using me as a pawn in a grand scheme, was she duping me? On the other hand, fantasies of a blissful marriage stubbornly played before my eyes. After making conversation with my landlady who interrogated me at the front door as to where I'd gone and whence I was coming at this morning hour, I went to my room and removed the twenty-two Venetian gold pieces from the lining of the sash I'd hidden in my mattress, placing them in my money purse with trembling fingers. When I returned to the street, I knew immediately I'd see Shekure's dark, teary, troubled eyes for the rest of the day.

I changed five of the Venetian Lions at a perpetually smiling Jewish money changer. Next, deep in thought, I entered the neighborhood whose name I've yet to mention because I'm not fond of it: Yakutlar, where my deceased Enishte and Shekure, along with her children, awaited me at their house. As I made my way along the streets almost running, a tall plane tree seemed to reproach me for being overjoyed by dreams and plans of marriage on the very day my Enishte had passed away. Next, as the ice had melted, a street fountain hissed into my ear: “Don' t take matters too seriously, see to your own affairs and your own happiness.” “That’s all fine and good,” objected an ill-omened black cat licking himself on the corner, “but everybody, yourself included, suspects you had a hand in your uncle's murder."

The cat left off licking himself as I suddenly caught sight of its bewitching eyes. I don't have to tell you how brave these Istanbul cats get when the locals spoil them. I found the Imam Effendi, whose droopy eyelids and large black eyes gave him a perpetually sleepy look, not at his house, but in the courtyard of the neighborhood mosque, and there I asked him quite a trivial legal question: “When is one obligated to testify in court?” I raised my eyebrows as I listened to his haughty answer as if I were hearing this information for the first time. “Bearing witness is optional if other witnesses are present,” explained the Imam Effendi, “but, in situations where there was only one witness, it is the will of God that one bear witness.”

"That's just the predicament I find myself in now," I said, taking up the conversation. "In a situation everyone knows about, all the witnesses have shirked their responsibilities and avoided going to court with the excuse that "it's only voluntary," and as a result the pressing concerns of those I'm trying to help are being completely disregarded." "Well," said the Imam Effendi, "why don't you loosen your purse-strings a little more?" I took out my pouch and showed him the Venetian gold pieces huddled within: The broad space of the mosque courtyard, the face of the preacher, everything was suddenly illuminated by the glimmer of gold. He asked me what my dilemma was all about.

I explained who I was. “Enishte Effendi is ill,” I confident. “Before he dies, he wants his daughter's widowhood certified and an alimony to be instituted.” I didn't even have to mention the proxy of the uskudar judge. The Imam Effendi understood at once and said the entire neighborhood had long been troubled over the fate of hapless Shekure, adding that the situation had already persisted too long. for a second witness required for a legal separation at the door of the uskudar judge, the Imam Effendi suggested his brother. Now, if I were to offer an additional gold piece to the brother, who lived in the neighborhood and was familiar with the predicament of Shekure and her darling children, I'd be doing a good pious turn. After all, for only two gold coins the Imam Effendi was giving me a deal on the second witness. We immediately agreed. The Imam Effendi went to fetch his brother .

The rest of our day rather resembled the “cat-and-mouse” stories that I'd watched storytellers in Aleppo coffeehouses act out. Because of all the adventure and trickery, such stories written up as narrative poems and bound were never taken seriously even if presented in fine calligraphy; that is, they were never illustrated. I, on the other hand, was quite pleased to divide our daylong adventure into four scenes, imagining each in the illustrated pages of my mind. In the first scene, the miniaturist ought to depict us amid mustachioed and muscled oarsmen, forging our way across the blue Bosphorus toward uskudar in the four-oared red longboat we'd boarded in Unkapan 1. The preacher and his skinny dark-complexioned brother , pleased with the surprise voyage, are engaging the oarsmen in friendly chatter. Meanwhile, amid blithe dreams of marriage that play ceaselessly before my eyes, I stare deep into the waters of the Bosphorus, flowing clearer than usual on this sunny winter morning, on guard for an ominous sign within its currents. I'm afraid, for example, that I might see the wreck of a pirate ship below. Thus, no matter how joyously the miniaturist colors the sea and clouds, he ought to include something equivalent to the darkness of my fears and as intense as my dreams of happiness—a terrifying-looking fish, for example—in the depths of the water so the reader of my adventure won't assume all is rosy.

Our second picture ought to show the palaces of sultans, the meetings of the Divan Council of State, the reception of European ambassadors, and detailed and carefully composed crowded interiors of a subtlety worthy of Bihzad; tricks and irony. Thereby, while the Kadi Effendi apparently makes an open-handed “halt” gesture indicating “never” or “no” to my bride, with his other hand he ought to be shown obligingly pocketing my Venetian gold coins, and the The ultimate result of this bride should be depicted in the same picture: Shahap Effendi, the Shafu proxy presiding in place of the uskudar judge. The simultaneous depiction of sequential events could only be achieved through an intelligent miniaturist's cunning facility. the observer, who first sees me giving a bride, notices elsewhere in the painting that the man sitting cross-legged on the judge's cushion is the proxy, he'll realize, even if he hasn't read thestory, that the honorable judge has temporarily given up his office so his proxy might grant Shekure a divorce.

The third illustration should show the same scene, but this time the wall ornamentation should be darker and rendered in the Chinese style, the curly branches being more intricate and dense, and colorful clouds should appear above the judge's proxy so the chicanery in the story might be apparent. Though the Imam Effendi and his brother have actually tested separately before the judge's proxy, in the illustration they are shown together explaining how the husband of anguished Shekure hasn't returned from war for four years, how she is in a state of destitution without a husband to look after her, how her two fatherless children are perpetually in tears and hungry, how there is no prospect for remarriage because she's still considered married, and how in this state she can't even receive a loan without permission from her husband. They're so convincing that even a man as deaf as a stone would grant her a divorce through a cascade of tears. The heartless proxy, however, having none of it, asks about Shekure's legal guardian. After a moment of hesitation, I immediately interrupt, declaring that her esteemed father, who has served as herald and ambassador for Our Sultan, is still alive.

"Until he tests in court, I'll never grant her a divorce!" said the proxy. Thereupon, thoroughly flustered, I explained how my Enishte Effendi was ill, bed-ridden and struggling for his life, how his last wish to God was to see his daughter divorced, and how I was his representative. “What does she want with a divorce?” asked the proxy. “Why would a dying man want to see his daughter divorced from her husband who's long vanished at war anyway? Listen, I'd understand if there were a good, trustworthy candidate for son-in-law, because then he wouldn't pass away with his wish unfulfilled."

"There is a prospect, sir," I said. "Who might that be?" "It is I!" "Come now! You're the guardian's representative!" said the judge's proxy. "What line of work are you in?" “In the eastern provinces, I served as secretary, chief secretary and assistant treasurer to various pashas. I completed a history of the Persian wars that I intend to present to Our Sultan. I'm a connoisseur of illustrating and decoration. I've been burning with love for this woman for twenty years.” “Are you a relative of hers?” I was so embarrassed at having fallen so abruptly and unexpectedly into groveling meekness before the judge's proxy, at having bared my life like some dull object devoid of any mystery, that I fell completely silent.

“Instead of turning beet red, give me an answer, young man, lest I refuse to grant her a divorce.” "She's the daughter of my maternal aunt." “Hmmm, I see. Will you be able to make her happy?” When he asked the question he made a vulgar hand gesture. The miniaturist should omit this indelicacy. It'd be enough for him to show how much I blushed. “I make a decent living.” “As I belong to the Shafu sect, there is nothing contrary to the Holy Book or my creed in my granting the divorce of this unfortunate Shekure, whose husband has been missing at the front for four years,” said the Proxy Effendi. “I grant the divorce. And I rule that her husband no longer has any superceding rights should he return.” The subsequent illustration, that is, the fourth, ought to depict the proxy recording the divorce in the ledger, unleashing obedient armies of black-ink letters, before presenting me with the document declaring that my Shekure is now a widow and there is no obstacle to her immediate remarriage. Neither by painting the walls of the courtyard red, nor by situating the picture within bloodred borders could the blissful inner radiance I felt at that moment be expressed. Running back through the crowd of false witnesses and other men gathering before the judge's door seeking divorces for their sisters, daughters or even aunts, I set out on my return journey. After I crossed the Bosphorus and headed directly to the Yakutlar neighborhood, I dismissed both the considerate Imam Effendi, who wanted to perform the marriage ceremony, and his brother. Since I suspected everyone I saw on the street of hatching some mischief ousy out of jealousy the incredible happiness I was on the verge of attaining, I ran straight to Shekure's street. How had the omnious crows divined the presence of a body in the house and taken to hopping around excitedly on the terra-cotta shingles? 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. 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. moment, we gazed hopefully at each other, my fair lady and I. She was so beautiful and becoming. 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 near each other, we removed ourselves to the cover of the fig trees. “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; '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. 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 comes 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 out of the muddy courtyard. 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 uskudar 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; chance she was pregnant by him. I hastened to add that the uskudar 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 female cousins ​​is not an obstacle; her previous marriage had been nullified; there were no religious, social or monetary 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 accomplishing a pious act before God for the fatherless children of a widowed woman. Did the Imam Effendi, I inquired, enjoyed 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 turbine and arrive in time to perform the nuptials. 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. 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, including 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-complexioned, full-lipped, green- eyed boy-apprentice—who looked upon his master with awe. Compared with twelve years ago, the shop was cleaner and more orderly. After filling the hanging basin, which hung from the ceiling on a new chain, with boiling water, he carefully washed my hair and face with water from the brass faucet at the bottom of the basin. The old broad basins were newly tinned with no signs of rust, the heating braziers were clean, and the agate-handled razors were sharp. He wore an immaculate silk waistcoat, something he was loath to wear twelve years ago. I assumed that the elegant apprentice, tall for his age and of slender build, had helped bring some order to the shop and its owner, and rendering myself to the soapy, rose-scented and steamy pleasures of a shave, I couldn't help thinking how marriage not only brought new vitality and prosperity to a bachelor's home, but to his work and his shop as well. I'm not certain how much time had passed. I melted into the warmth of the brazier that gently heated the small shop and the barber's adept fingers. With life having suddenly presented me the greatest of gifts today, as if for free, and after so much suffering, I felt a profound thanks toward exalted Allah. I felt an intense curiosity, wondering out of what mysterious balance this world of His had emerged, and I felt sadness and pity for Enishte, who lay dead in the house where, a while later, I would become master. I was readying myself to spring into action when there was a commotion at the always-open door of the barbershop: Shevket! Flustered, but with his usual self-confidence, he held out a piece of paper. Unable to speak and expecting the worst, my insides were chilled as if by an icy draft as I read: If there isn't going to be a bride's procession, I'm not getting married—Shekure. Grabbing Shevket by the arm, I lifted him onto my lap. I would've liked to have responded to my dear Shekure by writing, “As you wish, my love!” but what would pen and ink be doing in the shop of an illiterate barber? So, with a calculated reserve, I whispered my response into the boy's ear: “All right.” Still whispering, I asked him how his grandfather was doing. "He's sleeping." I now sense that Shevket, the barber and even you are suspicious about me and my Enishte's death (Shevket, of course, suspects other things as well). What a pity! I forced a kiss upon him, and he quickly left, displeased. During the wedding, dressed in his holiday clothes, he glare at me with hostility from a distance. Since Shekure wouldn't be leaving her father's house for mine, and I would be moving into the paternal home as bridegroom, the bridal procession was only fitting. Naturally, I was in no position to bedeck my wealthy friends and relatives and have them wait at Shekure's front gate mounted on their horses as others might have done. Even so, I invited two of my childhood friends whom I'd run into during my six days back in Istanbul (one had become a clerk like myself and the other was running a bath house) as well as my dear barber, whose eyes had watered as he wished me happiness during my shave and haircut. Mounted upon my white horse, which I'd been riding that first day, I knocked at my beloved Shekure's gate as if poised to take her to another house and another life. To Hayriye, who opened the gate, I presented a generous tip. Shekure, dressed in a bright-red wedding gown with pink bridal streamers flowing from her hair to her feet, emerged amid cries, sobs, sighs (a woman scolded the children) , outbursts, and shouts of “May God protect her,” and gracefully mounted a second white horse which we'd brought with us. As a hand-drummer and shrill zurna piper, kindly arranged by the barber for me at the last minute, began to play a slow bride's melody, our poor, melancholy, yet proud procession set out on its way. As our horses began to saunter, I understood that Shekure, with her usual cunning, had arranged this spectacle for the sake of safeguarding the nuptials. Our procession, having announced our wedding to the entire neighborhood, even if only at the last moment, had Essentially secured everyone's approval, thereby neutralizing any future objects to our marriage. Nevertheless, announcing that we were on the verge of marriage, and having a public wedding—as if to challenge our enemies, Shekure's former husband and his family—further the ho endang affair. Had it been left to me, I'd have held the ceremony in secret, without telling a soul, without a wedding celebration; I'd have preferred becoming her husband first and defending the marriage afterwards. I led the parade astride my fickle white fairy-tale horse, and as we moved through the neighborhood, I nervously watched for Hasan and his men, whom I expected to ambush us from an alleyway or a shadowy courtyard gate. I noticed how young men , the elders of the neighborhood and strangers stopped and waved from door fronts, without completely understanding all that was transpiring. In the small market area we'd unintentionally entered, I figured out that Shekure had masterfully activated her grapevine, and that her divine marriage to me was quickly winning acceptance in the neighborhood. This was evident from the excitement of the fruit-and-vegetable seller, who without leaving his colorful quinces, carrots and apples for too long, joined us for a few strides shouting “Praise be to God, may He protect you both,” and from the smile of the woeful shopkeeper and from the approving glances of the baker, who was having his apprentice scrape away the burnt residue in his pans. Still, I w as anxious, maintaining my vigil against a sudden raid, or even a word of vulgar heckling. For this reason, I wasn't at all disturbed by the commotion of the crowd of money-seeking children that had formed behind us as we left the bazaar. I understood from the smiles of women I glimpsed behind windows, bars and shutters that the enthusiasm of this noisy throng of children protected and supported us. As I gazed at the road along which we'd advanced and were now, thank God, finally winding our way back toward the house, my heart was with Shekure and her sorrow. Actually, it wasn't her misfortune in having to wed within a day of her father's murder that saddened me, it was that the wedding was so unadorned and meager. My dear Shekure was worthy of horses with silver reins and ornamented saddles, mounted riders outfitted in sable and silk with gold embroidery, and hundreds of carriages laden with gifts and dowry; she deserved to lead an endless process of pasha's daughters, sultans and carriages full of elderly harem women chattering about the extravagances of days bygone. But Shekure's wedding lacked even the four pole bearers to hold aloft the opy red silk ordinarily protected rich maidens from prying eyes; for that matter, there wasn't even one servant to lead the procession bearing large wedding candles and tree-shaped decorations ornamented with fruit, gold, silver lea f and polished stones. More than embarrassment, I felt a sadness that threatened to fill my eyes with tears each time the disrespectful hand-drum and zurna players simply stopped playing when our procession got swallowed up in crowds of market-goers or servants fetching water from the fountain in the square because we had no one clearing the way with shouts of “Here comes the bride.” As we were nearing the house, I mustered the courage to turn in my saddle and gaze at her, and was relieved that beneath her pink bride's tinsel and red veil, far from being saddened by all these pitiful shortcomings, she seemed heartened to know that we'd concluded our procession and our journey with neither accident nor mishap. So, like all grooms, I lowered my beautiful bride , whom I would shortly wed, from her horse, took her by the arm, and handful by handful, slowly emptied a bag of silver coins over her head before the gleeful crowd. While the children who'd followed behind our meager parade scrambl ed for the coins, Shekure and I entered the courtyard and crossed the stone walkway, and as soon as we entered the house, we were struck not only by the heat, but the horror of the heavy smell of decay. While the throng from the procession was making itself comfortable in the house, Shekure and the crowd of elders, women and children (Orhan was glaring suspiciously at me from the corner) carried on as if nothing were amiss, and momentarily I doubted my senses; but I knew how corpses left under the sun after battle, their clothes tattered, boots and belts stolen, and their faces, their eyes and lips ravaged by wolves and birds smelled. It was a stench that had so often filled my mouth and lungs to the point of suffocation that I could not mistake it. Downstairs in the kitchen, I asked Hayriye about Enishte Effendi's body, aware that I was speaking to her for the first time as master of the house. “As you asked, we laid out his mattress, dressed him in his nightclothes, drew his quilt over him and placed bottles of syrup beside him. If he's giving off an unpleasant smell, it's probably due to the heat from the brazier in the room ,” the woman said through tears. One or two of her tears fell, sizzling into the pot she was using to fry the mutton. From the way she was crying, I supposed that Enishte Effendi had been taking her into his bed at night. Esther, who was quietly and proudly sitting in a corner of the kitchen, swallowed what she was chewing and stood. “Make her happiness your foremost concern,” she said. “Recognize her worth.” In my thoughts I heard the lute I'd heard on the street the first day I'd come to Istanbul. More than sadness, there was vigor in its melody. I heard the melody of that music again later, in the half-darkened room where my Enishte lay in his white nightgown, as the Imam Effendi married us. Because Hayriye had furtively aired out the room beforehand and placed the oil lamp in a corner so its light was dimmed, one could scarcely tell that my Enishte was sick let alone dead. Thus, he served as Shekure's legal guardian during the ceremony. the barber, along with a know-it-all neighborhood elder, served as witnesses. Before the ceremony ended with the hopeful blessings and advice of the preacher and the prayers of all in attendance, a nosy old man, concerned about the state of my Enishte's health, was about to lower his skeptical head toward the deceased; but as soon as the preacher completed the ceremony, I leapt from my spot, grabbed my Enishte's rigid hand and shouted at the top of my voice: "Put your worries to rest, my sir, my dear Enishte. I'll do everything within my power to care for Shekure and her children, to see they're well clothed and well fed, loved and untroubled." Next, to suggest that my Enishte was trying to whisper to me from his sickbed, I carefully and respectfully pressed my ear to his mouth, pretending to listen to him intently and wide-eyed, as young men do when an elder they respect offers one or two words of advice distilled from an entire lifetime, which they then imbibe like some magic elixir. The Imam Effendi and the neighborhood elder appeared to appreciate and approve of the loyalty and eternal devotion I showed my father-in-law. nobody still thinks I had a hand in his murder. I announced to the wedding guests still in the room that the afflicted man wished to be left alone. They abruptly began to leave, passing into the next room where the men had gathered to feast on Hayriye's pilaf and mutton (at this point I could scarcely distinguish the smell of the corpse from the aroma of thyme, cumin and frying lamb). I stepped into the wide hallway, and like some morose patriarch roaming absentmindedly and wistfully through his own house, I opened the door to Hayriye's room, paying no mind to the women who were horrified to have a man in their midst, and gazing sweetly at Shekure, whose eyes beamed with bliss to see me, said: "Your father's calling for you, Shekure. We're married now, you're to kiss his hand." The handful of neighborhood women to whom Shekure had sent last-minute invitations and the young maidens I assumed were relatives motioned to collect themselves and cover their faces, all the while scrutinizing me to their heart's content. Not long after the evening call to pray the wedding guests dispersed, having heartily partaken of the walnuts, almonds, dried fruit leather, comforts and clove candy. In the women's quarters, Shekure's incessant crying and the bikering of the unruly children had dampened the festival Among the men, my stony-faced silence in response to the mirthful wedding-night gibes of the neighbors was attributed to my preoccupation with my father-in-law's illness. Amid all the distress, the scene most clearly ingrained in my memory was my leading Shekure to Enishte's room before dinner. We were alone at last. After both of us kissed the dead man's cold and rigid hand with sincere respect, we withdrew to a dark corner of the room and kissed each other as if slaking a great thirst . Upon my wife's fiery tongue, which I'd successfully taken into my mouth, I could taste the hard candies that the children greedily ate. I, SHEKUREThe last guests of our woeful wedding veiled and covered themselves, put on their shoes, dragged off their children, who were tossing a last piece of candy into their mouths, and left us to a penetrating silence. We were all in the courtyard, nothing could be heard but the faint noise of a sparrow gingerly drinking water from the half-filled well bucket. This sparrow, whose tiny head feathers gleamed in the light of the stone hearth, abruptly vanished into the blackness, and I felt the insistent presence of the corpse in my father's bed within our emptied house, now swallowed by night. “Children,” I said in the cadence Orhan and Shevket recognized as the one I used to announce something, “come here, the both of you.” They did so. “Black is now your father. Let's see you kiss his hand.” They did so, quietly and docilely. “Since they've grown up without a father, my unfortunate children know nothing of obeying one, of heeding his words while looking into his eyes, or of trusting in him,” I said to Black. “Thus, if they behave disrespectfully, wildly, immaturely or childishly toward you, I know that you'll show them tolerance at first, understanding that they've been raised without ever once obeying their father, whom they do not even remember.” “I remember my father,” said Shevket. “Hush…and listen,” I said. “From now on Black's word carries more weight than even my own.” I faced Black. “If they refuse to listen to you, if they are disobedient or show even the slightest sign of being rude, spoiled or ill-mannered, first warn them, but forgive them,” I said, forgoing the mention of beatings that was on the tip of my tongue. “Whatever space I occupy in your heart, they shall share that space, too.” “I didn't marry you solely to be your husband,” said Black, “but also to be father to these dear boys.” “Did you two hear that?” “Oh my Lord, I pray you never neglect to shine your light down upon us,” Hayriye interjected from a corner. “My dear God, I pray you protect us, my Lord.” “You two did hear, didn't you?” I said. “Good for you, my pretty young men. Since your father loves you like this, should you suddenly lose control and disregard his words, he will have forgiven you for it beforehand.” “And I'll forgive them afterward, as well,” said Black. “However, if you two defy his warning a third time…then, you'll have earned the right to a beating,” I said. “Are we understood? Your new father, Black, has come here from the vilest, the worst of battles, from wars that were the very wrath of God and from which your late father did not return; yes, he's a hardened man. Your grandfather has spoiled you and indulged you. Your grandfather is now very ill.” “I want to go and be with him,” Shevket said. “If you're not going to listen, Black will teach you what it means to get a beating from Hell. Your grandfather won't be able to save you from Black the way he used to protect you from me. If you don't want to suffer your father's wrath, you're not to fight anymore, you're to share everything, tell no lies, perform your prayers, not go to bed before memorizing your lessons and you're not to speak roughly to Hayriye or tease her…Are we understood?” In one movement, Black crouched down and took Orhan up in his arms. Shevket kept his distance. I had the fleeting urge to embrace him and weep. My poor forlorn and fatherless son, my poor solitary Shevket, you're so alone in this immense world. I thought of myself as a small child, like Shevket, a child all alone in the world, and remembered how once I'd been held in my dear father's arms the way Orhan was now being held by Black. But unlike Orhan, I wasn't awkward in my father's embrace, like a fruit unaccustomed to its tree. I was delighted; I recalled how my father and I would often embrace, sniffing each other's skin. I was on the verge of tears, but restrained myself. Though I hadn't planned to say anything of the sort, I said: “Come now, let's hear you call Black ”Father.““ The night was so cold and our courtyard was so very silent. In the distance dogs were barking and howling pitifully and sorrowfully. A few more minutes passed. The silence bloomed and spread secretly like a black flower. “All right, children,” I said much later. “Let's go inside so we all don't catch cold out here.” It wasn't only Black and I who felt the timidity of a bride and groom left alone after the wedding, but Hayriye and the children, all of us, entered our home hesitantly as though it were the darkened house of a stranger. We were met with the smell of my father's corpse, but nobody seemed to be aware of it. We silently climbed the stairs, and the shadows cast onto the ceiling by our oil lamps, as always, spun and merged, now expanding, now shrinking, yet seemed somehow to be doing so for the first time. Upstairs, as we were removing our shoes in the hall, Shevket said: “Before I go to sleep can I kiss my grandfather's hand?” “I checked in on him just now,” Hayriye said. “Your grandfather is in such pain and discomfort it's clear that evil spirits have taken hold of him. The fever of the illness has consumed him. Go to your room so I can prepare your bed.” Hayriye herded them into the room. As she laid out the mattress and spread out the sheets and quilts, she was going on as if every object she held was a marvel unique to the world, and muttering about how sleeping here in a warm room between clean sheets and under warm down quilts would be like spending the night in a sultan's palace. “Hayriye, tell us a story,” said Orhan as he sat on his chamber pot. “Once upon a time there was a blue man,” said Hayriye, “and his closest companion was a jinn.” “Why was the man blue?” said Orhan. “For goodness sake, Hayriye,” I said. “Tonight at least don't tell a story about jinns and ghosts.” “Why shouldn't she?” said Shevket. “Mother, after we fall asleep do you leave the bed and go to be with Grandfather?” “Your grandfather, Allah protect him, is gravely ill,” I said. “Of course I go to his bedside at night to look after him. Then, I return to our bed, don't I?” “Have Hayriye look after Grandfather,” said Shevket. “Doesn't Hayriye look after my grandfather at night anyway?” “Are you finished?” Hayriye asked of Orhan. As she wiped Orhan's behind with a wet rag, his face was overcome with a sweet lethargy. She glanced into the pot and wrinkled up her face, not due to the smell, but as if what she saw wasn't sufficient. “Hayriye,” I said. “Empty the chamber pot and bring it back. I don't want Shevket to leave the room in the middle of the night.” “Why shouldn't I leave the room?” asked Shevket. “Why shouldn't Hayriye tell us a story about jinns and fairies?” “Because there are jinns in the house, you idiot,” Orhan said, not so much out of fear, but with the dumb optimism I always noticed in his expression after he'd relieved himself. “Mother, are there jinns here?” “If you leave the room, if you attempt to see your grandfather, the jinn will catch you.” “Where will Black lay out his bed?” said Shevket. “Where will he sleep tonight?” “I'm not sure,” I said. “Hayriye will be preparing his bed.” “Mother, you're still going to sleep with us, aren't you?” said Shevket. “How many times do I have to tell you? I'll sleep together with you two as before.” “Always?” Hayriye left carrying the chamber pot. From the cabinet where I'd hidden them, I removed the remaining nine illustrations left behind by the unspeakable murderer and sat on the bed. By the light of a candle, I stared at them for a long time trying to fathom their secret. These illustrations were beautiful enough that you might mistake them for your own forgotten memories; and as with writing, as you looked at them, they spoke. I'd lost myself in the pictures. I understood from the scent of Orhan's beautiful head, upon which I'd rested my nose, that he, too, was looking at that odd and suspicious Red. As occasionally happened, I had the urge to take out my breast and nurse him. Later, when Orhan was frightened by the terrifying picture of Death, gently and sweetly breathing through his reddish lips, I suddenly wanted to eat him. “I'll eat you up, do you understand me?” “Mama, tickle me,” he said and threw himself down. “Get off there, get up you beast,” I screamed and slapped him. He'd lain across the pictures. I checked the illustrations; apparently no harm had come to them. The image of the horse in the topmost picture was faintly, yet unnoticeably, crumpled. Hayriye entered with the empty chamber pot. I gathered the pictures and was about to leave the room when Shevket began to cry: “Mother? Where are you going?” “I'll be right back.” I crossed the freezing hallway. Black was seated across from my father's empty cushion, in the same position that he'd spent four days discussing painting and perspective with him. I laid out the illustrations on the folding bookstand, the cushion and on the floor before him. Color abruptly suffused the candlelit room with a warmth and an astonishing liveliness, as if everything had been set in motion. Utterly still, we looked at the pictures at length, silently and respectfully. When we made even the slightest movement, the still air, which bore the scent of death from the room across the wide hall, would make the candle flame flicker and my father's mysterious illustrations seemed to move too. Had the paintings taken on such significance for me because they were the cause of my father's death? Was I mesmerized by the peculiarity of the horse or the uniqueness of Red, by the misery of the tree or the sadness of the two wandering dervishes, or was it because I feared the murderer who'd killed my father and perhaps others on account of these illustrations? After a while, Black and I fully understood that the silence between us, as much as it might've been caused by the paintings, was also due to our being alone in the same room on our wedding night. Both of us wanted to speak. “When we wake tomorrow morning, we should tell everybody that my hapless father has passed away in his sleep,” I said. Although what I'd said was correct, it appeared as if I were being insincere. “Everything will be fine in the morning,” said Black in the same peculiar manner, unable to believe in the truth of what he'd spoken. When he made a nearly imperceptible gesture to draw closer to me, I had the urge to embrace him and, as I did with the children, to take his head into my hands. Just at that moment, I heard the door to my father's room open and, springing up in terror, I ran over, opened our door and looked out: By the light that filtered into the hallway, I was shocked to see my father's door half open. I stepped into the icy hallway. My father's room, heated by the still-lit brazier, reeked of decay. Had Shevket or somebody else come here? His body, dressed in his nightgown, rested peacefully, bathed in the faint light of the brazier. I thought about the way, on some nights, I'd say, “Have a good night, dear Father,” while he read the Book of the Soul by candlelight before going to sleep. Raising himself slightly, he'd take the glass I'd brought him out of my hand and say, “May the water bearer never want for anything,” before kissing me on the cheek and looking into my eyes as he used to do when I was a girl. I stared down at my father's horrid face and, in short, I was afraid. I wanted to avoid looking at him, while at the same time, goaded by the Devil, I wanted to see how gruesome he'd become. I timidly returned to the room with the blue door whereupon Black made an advance on me. I pushed him away, more unthinkingly than out of anger. We struggled in the flickering light of the candle, though it wasn't really a struggle but rather the imitation of a struggle. We were enjoying bumping into each other, touching one another's arms, legs and chests. The confusion I felt resembled the emotional state that Nizami had described with regard to Husrev and Shirin: Could Black, who'd read Nizami so thoroughly, sense that, like Shirin, I also meant “Continue” when I said, “Don't bruise my lips by kissing them so hard”? “I refuse to sleep in the same bed with you until that devil-of-a-man is found, until my father's murderer is caught,” I said. As I fled the room, I was seized by embarrassment. I'd spoken in such a shrill voice it must've seemed I wanted the children and Hayriye to hear what I'd said—perhaps even my poor father and my late husband, whose body had long decayed and turned to dust on who knows what barren patch of earth. As soon as I was back with the children, Orhan said, “Mama, Shevket went out into the hallway.” “Did you go out?” I said, and made as if to slap him. “Hayriye,” said Shevket and hugged her. “He didn't go out,” said Hayriye. “He was in the room the entire time.” I shuddered and couldn't look her in the eyes. I realized that after my father's death was announced, the children would thenceforth seek refuge in Hayriye, tell her all our secrets, and that this lowly servant, taking advantage of this opportunity, would try to control me. She wouldn't stop there either, but would try to place the onus of my father's murder onto me, then she'd have the guardianship of the children passed on to Hasan! Yes, indeed she would! All this shameless scheming because she'd slept with my father, may he rest in divine light. Why should I hide all this from you any longer? She was, in fact, doing this, of course. I smiled sweetly at her. Then, I lifted Shevket onto my lap and kissed him. “I'm telling you, Shevket went out into the hallway,” Orhan said. “Get into bed, you two. Let me get between you so I can tell you the story of the tailless jackal and the black jinn.” “But you told Hayriye not to tell us a story about jinns,” said Shevket. “Why can't Hayriye tell us the story tonight?” “Will they visit the City of the Forsaken?” asked Orhan. “Yes they will!” I said. “None of the children in that city have a mother or a father. Hayriye, go downstairs and check the doors again. We'll probably be asleep by the middle of the story.” “I won't fall asleep,” said Orhan. “Where is Black going to sleep tonight?” said Shevket. “In the workshop,” I said. “Snuggle up tight to your mother so we can warm up nicely under the quilt. Whose icy little feet are these?” “Mine,” said Shevket. “Where will Hayriye sleep?” I'd begun telling the story, and as always, Orhan fell asleep first, after which I lowered my voice. “After I fall asleep, you're not going to leave the bed, right, Mama?” said Shevket. “No, I won't leave.” I really didn't intend to leave. After Shevket fell asleep, I was musing about how pleasurable it was to fall asleep cuddled up with my sons on the night of my second wedding—with my handsome, intelligent and desirous husband in the next room. I'd dozed off with such thoughts, but my sleep was fitful. Later, this is what I remembered about that strange restless realm between dreaming and wakefulness: First I settled accounts with my deceased father's angry spirit, then I fled the specter of that disgraceful murderer who wanted to send me off to be with my father. As he pursued me, the unyielding murderer, even more terrifying than my father's spirit, began making a clattering ruckus. In my dream, he tossed stones at our house. They struck the windows and landed on the roof. Later, he tossed a rock at the door, at one point even trying to force it open. Next, when this evil spirit began to wail like some ungodly animal, my heart began to pound. I awoke covered in sweat. Had I heard those sounds in my dream or had I been awakened by sounds from somewhere in the house? I couldn't decide, and so snuggled up with the children, and without moving, I waited. I'd nearly assured myself that the noises were only in my sleep when I heard the same wail. Just then, something large landed in the courtyard with a bang. Was this also a rock, perhaps? I was paralyzed with terror. But the situation immediately got worse: I heard noises from within the house. Where was Hayriye? In which room had Black fallen asleep? In what state was my father's pitiful corpse? My God, I prayed, protect us. The children were deep asleep. Had this happened before I was married, I'd have risen from bed, and taking charge of the situation like the man of the house, I'd have suppressed my fears and scared away the jinns and spirits. In my present condition, however, I cowered and hugged the children. It was as if there were no one else in the world. Nobody was going to come to the aid of the children and me. Expecting something awful to happen, I prayed to Allah for deliverance. As in my dreams, I was alone. I heard the courtyard gate open. It was the courtyard gate, wasn't it? Yes, absolutely. I rose abruptly, grabbed my robe and quitted the room without even knowing myself what I was doing. “Black!” I hissed from the top of the stairs. After hastily donning shoes, I descended the stairs. The candle I'd lit at the brazier blew out as soon as I stepped out onto the courtyard's stone walkway. A strong wind had begun to blow, though the sky was clear. As soon as my eyes adjusted, I saw that the half-moon was flooding the courtyard with moonlight. My dearest Allah! The courtyard gate was open. I stood stunned, atremble in the cold. Why hadn't I brought a knife with me? Neither did I have a candlestick or even a piece of wood. For a moment, in the blackness, I saw the gate move of its own accord. Later, after it appeared to have stilled, I heard it squeal. I remember thinking, This seems like a dream. When I heard a noise from within the house, as if from just beneath the roof, I understood that my father's soul was struggling to leave his body. Knowing my father's soul was in such torment both put me at ease and plunged me into agony. If Father is the cause of these noises, I thought, then no evil will befall me. On the other hand, his tormented soul, frantically fluttering about, trying to escape and ascend, so troubled me that I prayed to Allah to comfort him. But when it occurred to me that his soul would protect me and the children, a feeling of great relief washed over me. If there were truly some demon contemplating evil just beyond the gate, let him fear my father's restless soul. Just then, I worried that perhaps it was Black that was upsetting my father so much. Would my father bring evil upon Black? Where was he? Just then, outside the courtyard gate, on the street, I noticed him and froze. He was speaking with somebody. A man was talking to Black from the trees in the empty yard on the far side of the street. I was able to infer that the howling I'd heard as I lay in bed had come from this man whom I straightaway knew to be Hasan. There was a plaintive strain, a weeping in his voice, but also a threatening overtone. I listened to them from a distance. Within the silent night they'd given themselves over to settling accounts. I understood that I was all alone in the world with my children. I was thinking that I loved Black, but to tell the truth, what I wanted was to love only Black—for Hasan's melancholy voice singed my heart. “Tomorrow, I'll return with the judge, Janissaries and witnesses who'll swear that my older brother is alive and still fighting in the mountains of Persia,” he said. “Your marriage is illegitimate. You're committing adultery in there.” “Shekure wasn't your wife, she was your late brother's wife,” Black said. “My older brother's still alive,” Hasan said with conviction. “There are witnesses who have seen him.” “This morning, based on the fact that he hasn't returned after four years campaigning, the uskudar judge granted Shekure a divorce. If he is alive, have your witnesses tell him that he's now a divorced man.” “Shekure is restricted from remarrying for a month,” said Hasan. “Otherwise it's a sacrilege contrary to the Koran. How could Shekure's father consent to such disgraceful nonsense?” “Enishte Effendi,” Black said, “is very sick. He's on his death bed…and the judge sanctified our marriage.” “Did you work together to poison your Enishte?” said Hasan. “Did you plan this out with Hayriye?” “My father-in-law is deeply distressed by what you've done to Shekure. Your brother, if he's really still alive, could also call you to account for your dishonor.” “These are all lies, each one!” said Hasan. “These are only excuses cooked up by Shekure so she could leave us.” There came a cry from within the house; it was Hayriye who'd screamed. Next, Shevket screamed. They shouted to each other. Unwitting and afraid, without being able to restrain myself, I shouted too and ran into the house without knowing what I was doing. Shevket ran down the stairs and fled out into the courtyard. “My grandfather is as cold as ice,” he cried. “My grandfather has died.” We hugged each other. I lifted him up. Hayriye was still shouting. Black and Hasan heard the shouts and everything that was said. “Mother, they've killed grandfather,” Shevket said this time. Everyone heard this, too. Had Hasan heard? I squeezed Shevket tightly, and calmly walked with him back inside. At the top of the stairs, Hayriye was wondering how the child had awoken and sneaked out. “You promised you wouldn't leave us,” said Shevket, who began to cry. My mind was preoccupied now with Black. Because he was busy with Hasan, he didn't think to close the gate. I kissed Shevket on either cheek and hugged him even tighter, taking in the scent of his neck, consoling him and, finally handing him over to Hayriye, I whispered, “You two go upstairs.” They went upstairs. I returned and stood a few steps behind the gate. I assumed Hasan couldn't see me. Had he changed his position in the darkened garden across the way, perhaps moving behind the trees that lined the street? As it happened, however, he could see me, and as he spoke he addressed me, too. It was unnerving to convene in the dark with somebody whose face I couldn't see, but it was even worse, as Hasan accused me, accused us, to realize deep down that he was justified. With him, as with my father, I always felt guilty, always in the wrong. And now, moreover, I knew with great sadness that I was in love with the man who was incriminating me. My beloved Allah please help me. Love isn't suffering for the sake of suffering, but a means to reach You, is it not? Hasan claimed that I'd killed my father in league with Black. He said he'd heard what Shevket had said, adding that everything had been laid bare and that we'd committed an unpardonable sin deserving of the torments of Hell. Come morning he'd go to the judge to explain it all. If I were found to be innocent, if my hands weren't red with my father's blood, he swore to have me and the children returned to his house where he'd serve as father until his older brother came back. If, however, I were found guilty, a woman like me, who'd mercilessly abandoned her husband—a man willing to make the highest sort of sacrifice—for her no punishment was too severe. We patiently listened to his fury, then noticed that there was an abrupt silence amid the trees. “If you return of your own free will to the home of your true husband, now,” said Hasan, assuming a completely different tone, “if you silently pitter-patter back with your children without being seen by anyone, I'll forget the fake wedding ploy, the crimes you've committed, all of it, I'll forgive it all. And, we'll wait together, Shekure, year after year, patiently, for my brother's return.” Was he drunk? There was something so infantile in his voice and what he was now proposing to me in front of my husband that I feared it might cost him his life. “Do you understand?” he called out from among the trees. I couldn't determine exactly where he was in the blackness. My dear God, come to our aid, to us, Your sinning servants. “Because you won't be able to live under the same roof with the man who killed your father, Shekure. This I know.” I momentarily thought that he could've been the one who killed my father, and that he was now mocking us, perhaps. This Hasan was the Devil incarnate. But I couldn't be certain of anything. “Listen to me, Hasan Effendi,” Black called out to the darkness. “My father-in-law was murdered, this much is true. The most despicable of men killed him.” “He'd been murdered before the wedding, isn't that so?” said Hasan. “You two killed him because he opposed this marriage sham, this fake divorce, the false witnesses and all your deceits. If he'd considered Black to be appropriate, he'd have given his daughter to him years ago.” Having lived for years with my late husband, with us, Hasan knew our past as well as we ourselves did. And with the passion of a spurned lover, he remembered every last detail of everything I'd discussed with my husband at home, but had subsequently forgotten, or now wanted to forget. Over the years, we'd shared so many memories—he, his brother and I—that I worried how strange, new and distant Black would seem to me if Hasan were to begin recounting the past. “We suspect that you were the one who killed him,” Black said. “On the contrary, you were the ones who killed him so you could marry. This is evident. As for me, I have no motive.” “You killed him so we wouldn't get married,” said Black. “When you learned that he'd permitted Shekure's divorce and our marriage, you lost your mind. Besides, you were furious with Enishte Effendi because he'd encouraged Shekure to return home to live with him. You wanted revenge. As long as he remained alive, you knew you'd never get your hands on Shekure.” “Be done with your stalling,” Hasan said decisively. “I refuse to listen to this prattle. It's very cold here. I froze out here trying to get your attention with the rocks—didn't you hear them?” “Black had lost himself in my father's illustrations,” I said. Had I done wrong in saying this? Hasan spoke in precisely the same false tone that I sometimes resorted to with Black: “Shekure, as you are my brother's wife, your best course of action is to return now with your children to the house of the hero spahi cavalryman to whom you're still wed according to the Koran.” “I refuse,” I said, as if hissing into the heart of the night. “I refuse, Hasan. No.” “Then, my responsibility and devotion to my brother forces me to alert the judge first thing tomorrow morning of what I've heard here. Otherwise, they'll call me to account.” “They're going to call you to account anyway,” said Black. “The moment you go to the judge, I'll reveal that you're the one who murdered Our Sultan's cherished servant, Enishte Effendi. This very morning.” “Very well,” said Hasan calmly. “Make that revelation.” I shrieked. “They'll torture the both of you!” I shouted. “Don't go to the judge. Wait. Everything will become clear.” “I have no fear of torture,” Hasan said. “I've been tortured twice before, and both times I understood it was the only way the guilty could be culled from the innocent. Let the slanderers fear torture. I'm going to tell the judge, the captain of the Janissaries, the Sheikhulislam, everybody about poor Enishte Effendi's book and its illustrations. Everybody is talking about those illustrations. What is it about them? What's in those pictures?” “There's nothing in them,” Black said. “Which means you examined them at the first opportunity.” “Enishte Effendi wants me to finish the book.” “Very well. I hope, God willing, that they'll torture the both of us.” The two of them fell silent. Next, Black and I heard footsteps in the empty yard. Were they leaving or approaching us? We could neither see Hasan nor tell what he was doing. It would've been senseless for him to push through the thorns, shrubs and brambles lining the far end of the garden in the pitch-blackness. He could've easily left without being seen, had he passed through the trees and wound his way before us, but we didn't hear any footsteps nearing us. I boldly shouted, “Hasan!” There was no response. “Hush,” said Black. We were both trembling from the cold. Without hesitating too long, we closed the gate and the doors tightly behind us. Before entering my bed warmed by the children, I checked on my father again. Meanwhile, Black once again seated himself before the pictures.