Chapter 26 I AM ESTHER

I was putting lentil soup on the boil for our evening meal when Nesim said, “There's a visitor at the door.” I replied, “Make sure the soup doesn't burn,” handing him the spoon and giving it a couple of turns in the pot while holding his aged hand. If you don't show them, they'll stand there for hours idly holding the spoon in the pot. When I saw Black at the door I felt nothing but pity for him. There was such an expression on his face I was afraid to ask what had happened. "Don't bother to come inside," I said, "I'll be out as soon as I change clothes."

I donned the pink and yellow garments that I wear when I'm invited to Ramadan festivals, wealthy banquets and lengthy weddings, and took up my holiday satchel. “I'll have my soup when I get back,” I said to poor Nesim . Black and I had crossed one street in my little Jewish neighborhood whose chimneys labor to expel their smoke, the way our kettles force out their steam, and I said: "Shekure's former husband is back." Black fell silent and stayed that way until we left the neighborhood. His face was ashen, the color of the waning day. “Where are they?” he asked sometime later.

From this question I guessed that Shekure and her children weren't at home. “They're at their house,” I said. Because I meant Shekure's previous home, and knew at once that this would singe Black's heart, I opened a door of hope for him by tacking the word “probably” onto the end of my statement. “Have you seen her newly returned husband?” he asked me, looking deep into my eyes. "I haven't seen him, neither did I see Shekure's flight from the house." "How did you know they'd left?" "From your face." “Tell me everything,” he said decisively.

Black was so troubled he didn't understand that Esther—her eye eternally at the window, her ear eternally to the ground—could never “tell everything” if she wanted to continue to be the Esther who found husbands for so many dreamy maidens and knocked on the doors of so many unhappy homes. "What I've heard," I said, "is that the brother of Shekure's former husband, Hasan, visited your house"—it heartened him when I said "your house"—"and told Shevket that his father was on his way home from war, that he would arrive around midafternoon, and that if he didn't find Shevket's mother and brother in their righteous home, he'd be very upset. Shevket told this to his mother, who acted cautiously, but couldn't come to a decision. Toward midafternoon, Shevket left the house to be with his Uncle Hasan and his grandfather.”

“Where did you learn these things?” “Hasn't Shekure told you about Hasan's schemes over the last two years to get her back to his house? There was a time when Hasan sent letters to Shekure through me." “Did she ever respond to them?” “I know all the varieties of women in Istanbul,” I said proudly, “there’s no one who’s as bound to her house, her husband and her honor as Shekure is.” “But I am her husband now.” His voice bore that typically male uncertainty that always depressed me. Amazingly, to whichever side Shekure fled, the other side went to pieces. “Hasan wrote a note and gave it to me to deliver to Shekure. It described how Shevket had come home to await the return of his father, how Shekure had been married in an illegitimate ceremony, how Shevket was very unhappy on account of the false husband who was supposed to be his new father and how he was never going back.”

"How did Shekure respond?" “She waited for you all through the night with poor Orhan.” "What about Hayriye?" “Hayriye's been waiting for years for the opportunity to drown your beautiful wife in a spoonful of water. This was why she began sleeping with your Enishte, may he rest in peace. When Hasan saw that Shekure was spending the night alone in fear of murderers and ghosts, he sent along another note through me.” "What did he write?" Thanks be to God that your unfortunate Esther can't read or write, because when irate Effendis and irritable fathers ask this question, she can say: "I couldn't read the letter, only the face of the beautiful maiden reading the letter. "

"What did you read in Shekure's face?" "Helplessness." For a long time we didn't speak. Awaiting nightfall, an owl was perched on the dome of a small Greek church; runny-nosed neighborhood kids laughed at my clothes and bundle, and a mangy dog ​​happily scratching himself loped down from the cemetery lined with cypresses to greet the night. "Slow down!" I shouted at Black later, "I can't get up these hills the way you can. Where are you taking me with my satchel like this?" “Before you bring me to Hasan's house, I'm taking you to some generous and brave young men so you can spread out your bundle and sell them some flowery handkerchiefs, silk sashes and purses with silver embroidery for their secret lovers.”

It was a good sign that Black could still make jokes in his pitiable state, but I could fathom the seriousness behind his mirth. “If you're going to gather a pose, I'll never take you to Hasan's house,” I said "I'm frightened to death of fights and brawls." “If you continue to be the intelligent Esther you’ve always been,” he said, “there’ll be neither fight nor brawl.” We passed through Aksaray and entered the road heading back, straight toward the Langa gardens. On the upper part of the muddy road, in a neighborhood that had seen happier days, Black walked into a barbershop that was still open. the master barber being shaved by an honest-looking boy with lovely hands by the light of an oil lamp. Before long, the barber, his handsome apprentice, and later, two more of his men joined up with us at Aksaray. and axes. At a side street in Shehzadebash 1, a theology student, whom I couldn't picture involved in such rough affairs, joined us in the darkness, sword in hand.

“Do you plan on raiding a house in the middle of the city in broad daylight?” I said. “It’s not day, it’s night,” said Black in a tone more pleased than joking. "Don't be so confident just because you've put together a gang," I said. "Let's hope the Janissaries don't catch sight of this fully equipped little army wandering around." "No one will catch sight of us." “Yesterday the Erzurumis first raided a tavern and then the dervish house at Sa? 1rkap 1, beating up everyone they found in both places. An elderly man who took a blow to his head with a stick died. In this pitch blackness, they might think you're of their lot."

“I hear you went to dearly departed Elegant Effendi's house, saw his wife, God bless her, and the horse sketches with the smeared ink before relaying it all to Shekure. Had Elegant Effendi been spending a lot of time with the henchmen of the preacher from Erzurum?" “If I sounded out Elegant Effendi's wife, it was because I thought it might ultimately help my poor Shekure,” I said. “Anyway, I'd gone there to show her the latest cloth which had come off the Flemish ship, not to involve myself in your legal and political affairs—which my poor brain couldn’t fathom anyway.” As we entered the street, which ran behind Charsh 1kap 1, my heart quickened with fear. The bare, wet

Branches of the chestnut and mulberry trees glimmered in the pale light of the half-moon. A breeze kicked up by jinns and the living dead rippled the laced edging of my satchel, whistled through the trees and carried the scent of our group to neighborhood dogs lying in wait. As they began to bark one by one, I pointed out the house to Black. We stared quietly at its dark roof and shutters. Black had the men take positions around the house: in the empty garden, on either side of the courtyard gate and behind the fig trees in back. “In that entryway over there is a vile Tatar beggar,” I said. “He's blind, but he'll know who's come and gone along this street better than the neighborhood headman does. He continually plays with himself as if he were one of the Sultan's vulgar monkeys. Without letting your hand touch his, give him eight or ten silver pieces and he'll tell you everything he knows." From a distance, I watched Black hand over the coins, then lay his sword against the throat of the beggar and begin to pressure him with questions. Next, I'm not sure how it happened, the barber's apprentice, who I thought was simply watching the house, began to beat the Tatar with the butt of his axe. I watched for a while, thinking it wouldn't last, but the Tatar was wailing. I ran over and pulled the beggar away before they killed him. “He cursed my mother,” said the apprentice. “He says that Hasan isn't home,” Black said. “Can we trust what this blind man says?” He handed me a note that he'd quickly written. “Take this, bring it to the house, give it to Hasan, and if he's not there, give it to his father," he said. “Haven't you wrote anything for Shekure?” I asked as I took the note. "If I send her a separate note, it'll incite the men of the house even more," Black said. "Tell her I've found her father's vile murderer." "Is this true?" "Just tell her." Chastising the Tatar, who was still crying and complaining, I quieted him down. “Don't forget what I've done for you,” I said, coming to the realization that I'd drawn out the incident so I wouldn't have to leave. Why had I stuck my nose into this affair? Two years ago in the Edirne Gate neighborhood they'd killed a clothes peddlar—after cutting off her ears—because the maiden she'd promised to one man married another. My grandmother used to tell me that Turks would often kill a man for no reason. I longed to be with my dearest Nesim, at home having lentil soup. Even though my feet resisted, I thought about how Shekure would be there, and walked to the house. Curiosity was eating at me. “Clothierrr! I have new Chinese silks for holiday outfits.” I sensed the orangish light filtering out between the shutters move. The door opened. Hasan's polite father invited me inside. The house was warm, like the houses of the rich. When Shekure, who was seated at a low dining table with her boys saw me, she rose to her feet. "Shekure," I said, "your husband's here." "Which one?" "The newer," I said. "He's surrounded the house with his band of armed men. They're prepared to fight Hasan." "Hasan isn't here," said the polite father-in-law. "How fortunate. Take a look at this," I said, giving him Black's note like a proud ambassador of the Sultan executing His merciless will. As the gentlemanly father-in-law read the note, Shekure said, “Esther, come and let me pour you a bowl of lentil soup to warm you up.” "I don't like lentil soup," I said at first. I didn't like the way she spoke as if she were mistress of the house. But when I understood that she wanted to be alone with me, I grabbed the spoon and rushed after her. "Tell Black that it's all because of Shevket," she whispered. "Last night I waited all night alone with Orhan deathly afraid of the murderer. Orhan trembled with fright until morning. My children had been separated! What kind of mother could remain apart from her child? When Black failed to come back, they told me that Our Sultan's torturers had made him talk and that he'd a hand in my father's death." “Wasn’t Black with you when your father was being killed?” "Esther," she said, opening her beautiful black eyes wide, "I beg of you, help me." “Then tell me why you’ve come back here so I might understand and help.” "Do you think I know why I've returned?" she said. She seemed on the verge of tears. "Black was rough with my poor Shevket," she said. "And when Hasan said that the children's real father had returned, I believed him." But I could tell from her eyes that she was lying, and she knew I could tell. “I was duped by Hasan!” she whispered, and I sensed that she wanted me to infer from this that she loved Hasan. But did Shekure realize that she was thinking more and more about Hasan because she had married Black? The door opened and Hayriye entered carrying freshly baked bread whose aroma was irresistible. When she caught sight of me, I could tell from her expression of distress that after the death of Enishte Effendi, the poor thing—she couldn't be sold, couldn't 't be dismissed—had become a legacy of misery for Shekure. The scent of fresh bread filled the room, and I understood the truth of the matter as Shekure faced the children: Whether it be their real father, Hasan or Black, her problem wasn't finding a husband she could love, her challenge was to find a father who would love these boys, both of whom were wide-eyed with fear. Shekure was ready, with the best of intentions, to love any good husband. "You're seeking what you want with your heart," I said unthinkingly, "whereas you need to be making decisions with your mind." “I'm prepared to go back to Black immediately with the children,” she said, “but I have certain conditions!” She fell quiet. “He must treat Shevket and Orhan well. He shan't inquire about my reasons for coming Here. Above all, he must abide by our original conditions of marriage—he'll know what I'm talking about. He left me all alone to fend for myself last night against murderers, thieves and Hasan." "He hasn't yet found your father's murderer, but he told me to tell you he has." "Should I go to him?" Before I could answer, the former father-in-law, who'd long since finished reading the note, said, "Tell Black Effendi I can't take the responsibility of handing over my daughter-in-law without my son being present .” "Which son?" I said for the sake of being shrewish, but softly. “Hasan,” he said. Since he was a man of etiquette, he blushed. “My oldest son is on his way back from Persia; there are witnesses.” “Where's Hasan?” I asked. I ate two spoonfuls of the soup Shekure had offered me. “He went to gather the clerks, porters and other men of the Customs Office,” he said in the childish manner of decent yet dull men who cannot lie. “After what the Erzurumis did yesterday, the Janissaries are certain to be on the streets tonight." "We didn't see anything of the sort," I said as I walked toward the door. "Is this all you have to say?" I asked this question of the father-in-law to intimidate him, but Shekure knew full well that I was really addressing her. Was her head truly this befuddled or was she hiding something; for example, was she awaiting the return of Hasan and his men? Oddly, I sensed that I liked her indecisiveness. “We don’t want Black,” Shevket said confidently. “And make this your last visit, fat lady.” “But then who'll bring around the lace tablecloths, the handkerchiefs embroidered with flowers and birds that your pretty mother likes, and your favorite red shirt cloth?” I said, leaving my bundle in the middle of the room. “Until I return , you can open it up and take a look, try on, alter and sew whatever you like.” I was saddened as I left. I'd never seen Shekure's eyes so wet with tears. As soon as I adjusted to the cold outside, Black stopped me on the muddy road, sword in hand. “Hasan's not home,” I said. “Perhaps he's gone to the market to buy wine to celebrate Shekure's return. Perhaps he'll soon be back with his men. In that case you'll come to blows, because he's crazy. And If he takes up that red sword of his, there's no telling what he'll do." "What did Shekure say?" "The father-in-law said absolutely not, I won't give up my daughter-in-law, but if I were you I wouldn't worry about him, worry about Shekure. Your wife is confused. If you ask me , she took refuge here two days after her father perished for fear of the murderer, because of Hasan's threats and your disappearance without a word. She knew she couldn't spend another night in that same house plagued by the same fears. They also told her that you had a hand in her father's death. But her first husband hasn't come back or anything like that. Shevket, and it seems the father-in-law, believed Hasan's lie. She wants to return to you, but she has certain conditions.” Staring directly into Black's eyes, I listed her conditions. He accepted at once with an official air as if he were speaking with a genuine ambassador. "I, too, have a condition," I said. "I'm heading back into the house again." I pointed out the shutters of the window behind which the father-in-law sat. "In a little while attack from there and the front door. When I scream, that'll be the signal for you to stop. If Hasan arrives, don't hesitate to attack him." My words, of course, did not benefit an ambassador, to whom no harm should come, but I let myself get carried away, you see. This time, as soon as I yelled “Clothierrr,” the door opened. the father-in-law. “The entire neighborhood, and the judge who presides over these parts, that is everyone, knows that Shekure has long been divorced and properly remarried in keeping with the dictates of the Koran,” I said. “Even if your son, who has long Since passed away, came back to life and returned here to you from Heaven in the company of the Prophet Moses, it'd be of no use for he's divorced from Shekure. You've abducted a married woman and are holding her here against her will. Black requested that I tell you he and his men will see to your punishment for this crime before the judge can." "Then he will have made a grave mistake," said the father-in-law delicately. "We didn't abduct Shekure at all! I'm the grandfather of these children, praise be to God. Hasan is their uncle. When Shekure was left all alone, what choice did she have but to seek shelter here? If she wants, she can leave now and take her children with her. But never forget that this is her first home, where she gave birth to her children and happily raised them." "Shekure," I said unthinkingly, "do you want to return to your father's house?" She'd began to cry on account of the “happy heart” speech. “I have no father,” she said, or was that how I heard it? Her children first embraced her legs, then sat her down and hugged her; three of them hugged one another in a large ball and wept. But Esther is no idiot: I knew full well that Shekure's tears were meant to appease both sides without her having to make a decision. But I also knew they were genuine tears, because they moved me to cry, too. A while later, I noticed that Hayriye, that snake, was also crying. As if to pay back the green-eyed father-in-law for being the sole person in the room who wasn't crying, Black and his men began their attack on the house that very moment by banging on the shutters and forcing the door . Two men were at the front door with a battering ram whose blows sounded like cannonfire through the house. "You're an experienced and dignified man," I said, encouraged by my own tears, "open the door and tell those rabid mongrels out there that Shekure is on her way." "Would you send an unprotected woman, your daughter-in-law no less, who'd taken refuge in your house, out onto the streets with those dogs?" “She herself wants to go,” I said. With my purple handkerchief I wiped my nose, which had stuffed up from crying. "In that case she's free to open the door and leave," he said. I sat down beside Shekure and her children. At each new blow, the terrifying noise made by the men forcing the door became yet another excuse for yet more tears, the children began to cry louder, which in turn increased Shekure's wailing and mine as well Still, even taking into account the threatening cries from outside and the blows of the battering ram that seemed on the verge of destroying the house, both of us knew we were crying to gain time. “My beautiful Shekure,” I said, “your father-in-law has given you permission and your husband Black has accepted all of your terms, he's waiting for you lovingly, you no longer have any business in this house. Put on your cloak, don your veil, take your belongings and your children, and open the door so we can go quietly back to your house.” This statement of mine made the children wail even more, and caused Shekure to open her eyes in shock. "I'm afraid of Hasan," she said, "his revenge will be horrible. He's wild. Remember, I came here on my own." "This doesn't cancel out your new marriage," I said. "You were left helpless, of course you were going to take refuge somewhere. Your husband's forgiven you, he's prepared to take you back. As for Hasan, we'll deal with him the way we have for years.” I smiled. "But I'm not going to open the door," she said, "because then I'll have returned to him of my own free will." "My dearest Shekure, I cannot open the door either," I said. "You know as well as I that this would mean I've meddled in your affairs. They'd bitterly avenge such meddling." I could see from her eyes that she understood. “Then no one will open the door,” she said. “Let's wait for them to break it down and take us by force.” I knew at once this would be the best alternative for Shekure and her children, and I was afraid. “But that means blood will be spilled,” I said. “If the judge isn't involved in this affair, blood will flow, and a blood feud will last for years. No honorable man could stand by and watch as his house was broken into and raided to abduct a woman residing there.” I once again understood regretfully how deceptive and calculating this Shekure was as she embraced her two boys and wailed with all her being rather than answer. A voice was telling me to forget everything and leave, but I could no longer walk back through the door, which was being battered to the breaking point. Actually, I was afraid of both what would happen if they broke down the door and came through and what would happen if they didn't; I kept thinking that Black's men, who trusted in me, were worried about going too far and might retreat at any moment, which would, in turn, embrace the father-in-law. When he went to Shekure's side, I knew he'd began to cry fake tears, but what's worse, he was trembling in a way that couldn't be feigned. Stepping toward the door, I screamed with all my strength, “Stop, that’s enough!” The commotion outside and the wailing inside ended in a heartbeat. “Mother, have Orhan open the door,” I said in a moment of inspiration and in a sweet voice, as if I were speaking to the boy. “He wants to go home, no one will take issue with that.” The words had hardly left my mouth when Orhan freed himself from his mother's loosening arms, and like somebody who'd lived here for years, slid open the bolt, lifted the wooden bar, then unfastened the latch, and moved backward two steps. cold from outside entered as the door yawned open. There was such a silence that all of us heard a lazy dog ​​bark off in the distance. Shekure kissed Orhan, who was back in his mother's lap, and Shevket said, “I'm going to tell Uncle Hasan." I saw Shekure stand, take up her cloak and prepare her bundle to leave, and I was so greatly relieved, I was afraid I might laugh. I seated myself and had two more spoonfuls of the lentil soup. Black was intelligent enough not to come anywhere near the door of the house. For a time, Shevket locked himself in his late father's room, and even though we called for Black's help, neither he nor his men came. After Shekure agreed to let Shevket Take along his Uncle Hasan's ruby-handled dagger, the boy was willing to leave the house with us. “Be afraid of Hasan and his red sword,” said the father-in-law with genuine worry rather than an air of defeat and vengeance. He kissed each of his grandchildren, sniffing their heads. He also whispered into Shekure's ear. When I saw Shekure gazing one last time at the door, walls and stove of the house, I remembered once again how this was where she spent the happiest years of her life with her first husband. But could she also tell that this same house was the refuge of two miserable and lonely men, and that it bore the stench of death? I didn't walk with her on the way back for she had broken my heart by coming back here. It wasn't the cold and blackness of the night that brought together the two fatherless children and three women—one servant, one Jewess and one widow—it was the strange neighborhoods, the nearly impassable streets and the fear of Hasan. Our crowded company was under the protection of Black's men, and just like a caravan carrying treasure, we walked over out-of-the-way roads, backstreets and solitary, seldom-visited neighborhoods, so as to avoid running into guards, Janissaries, curious neighborhood thugs , thieves or Hasan. At times, through blackness in which you couldn't see your hand before your face, we groped our way, perpetually bumping against each other and the walls. We walked clinging to one another, overcome by the sensation that the living dead, jinns and demons would surely emerge from underground and abduct us into the night. Just behind the walls and closed shutters, which we felt blindly with our hands, we heard the snoring and coughing of people in the nighttime cold asWell as the low of beasts in their stables. Even Esther, no stranger to the poorest and worst districts, who'd walked all the streets of Istanbul—that is excluding those neighborhoods where in migrants and the members of various unfortunate communities congregated—occasionally felt that we would vanish, which streewists and turned without end through an endless blackness. Yet I could still make out certain street corners that I'd patiently passed in the daytime toting my satchel; for example, I recognized the walls of Head Tailor's Street, the sharp smell of manure—which for some reason reminded me of cinnamon—coming from the stable adjacent to Nurullah Hoja's property, the fire-ravaged sites on Acrobats Street and the Falconers Arcade that led into the square with the Blind Haji Fountain, and thus I knew we weren't heading toward the house of Shekure's late father at all, but to some other, mysterious destination. There was no telling what Hasan would do if angry, and I knew Black had found another place to hide his family from him—and from that devil of a murderer. If I could've made out where that place was, I would tell you , now, and Hasan tomorrow morning—not out of spite, but because I'm convinced that Shekure will again want to have Hasan's interest. But Black, intelligent as he was, no longer trusted me. We were walking down a dark street behind the slave market when a commotion of cries and wails erupted at the far end of the street. We heard the sounds of a scuffle, and I recognized with fear the clamorous start of a fight: the clash of axes, swords and sticks and the bellow of bitter pain. Black handed his own large sword to one of his most trusted men, forcibly took the dagger from Shevket, causing the boy to cry, and had the barber's apprentice and two other men move Shekure, Hayriye and the children a safe distance away. Theology student told me he'd take me home by way of a shortcut; that is, he didn't let me stay with the others. Was this a twist of fate or some cunning attempt to keep secret the whereabouts of their hideout? There was a shop, which I understood to be a coffeehouse, at the end of this narrow street we were passing down. Perhaps the swordfight stopped as soon as it'd began. Crowds of men were shooting as they entered and left; I thought they were looting, but no, they were destroying the coffeehouse. They carefully took out all of the ceramic cups, brass pots, glasses and low tables under the light of the torches of the onlookers and destroyed them all as a warning. roughed up a man who tried to stop them, but he was able to get away. Originally, I thought their target was only coffee, as they themselves claimed. They were condemning its ill effects, how it harmed the sight and the stomach, how it dulled the intellect and caused men to lose their faith, how it was the poison of the Franks and how Exalted Muhammad had turned down coffee even though it was offered to him by a beautiful woman—Satan in disguise. It was as if this were the theatrics for a night of instruction in mora l etiquette, and if I finally made it home, I thought I might even scold Nesim, warning him not to drink too much of that poison. Since there were quite a few rooming houses and cheap inns nearby, a curious crowd formed in no time, made up of idle wanderers, homeless men and no-good mongrels who'd snuck illegally into the city, and they emboldened these enemies of coffee . It was then I understood that these men were the henchmen of Preacher Nusret Hoja of Erzurum. They intended to clean up all the dens of wine, prostitution and coffee in Istanbul and punish severely those who veered from the path of Exalted Muhammad; , for example, used dervish ceremonies as an excuse for belly-dancing to music. They railed against the enemies of religion, men who collaborated with the Devil, pagans, unbelievers and illustrators. I suddenly recalled this was the coffeehouse on whose walls drawings were hung, where religion and the hoja from Erzurum were aligned and where disrespect knew no bounds. A coffee maker's apprentice, his face spattered with blood, emerged from inside, and I thought he might collapse, but he wiped the blood from his forehead and cheeks with the cuff of his shirt, melded in with our group and began to watch the raid. The crowd pulled back a little out of fear. I noticed Black recognize somebody and hesitate. By the way the Erzurumis began to collect together, I knew that the Janissaries or some other band armed with clubs was on its way. The torches were extinguished and the crowd became a confused mob. Black grabbed me by the arm and had the theology student take me away. “Go by way of the backstreets,” he said. “He'll see you to your house.” The student wanted to slip away as soon as possible and we were almost running as we departed. My thoughts were with Black, but if Esther's taken out of the scene, she can't possibly continue with the story, can she now?