insolent toward my Enishte as he continued his endless recital—I’d stand up。
Affecting all the while the demeanor of an attentive disciple； quite enthralled
and quite lost in thought； in order to demonstrate how intent I was upon my
Enishte’s story； I’d begin pacing in the room with a preoccupied air； before
approaching that suspicious black spot on the wall。
When I failed to find Shekure’s eye nesting in what I had taken to be a
peephole； I’d be overe by disappointment； and then by a strange feeling of
loneliness； by the impatience of a man uncertain where to turn next。
Now and then； I’d experience such an abrupt and intense feeling that
Shekure was watching me； I’d be so absolutely convinced I was within her
gaze； that I’d start posing like a man trying to show he was wiser； stronger and
more capable than he really was so as to impress the woman he loved。 Later；
I’d fantasize that Shekure and her boys were paring me with her
husband—the boys’ missing father—before my mind would focus again upon
whichever variety of famous Veian illustrator about whose painting
techniques my Enishte was waxing philosophic at the moment。 I longed to be
like these newly famed painters solely because Shekure had heard so much
about them from her father； illustrators who had earned their renown—not
through suffering martyrdom in cells like saints； or through severing the heads
of enemy soldiers with a mighty arm and a sharp scimitar； as that absent
husband had done—but on account of a manuscript they’d transcribed or a
page they’d illuminated。 I tried very hard to imagine the magnificent pictures
created by these celebrated illustrators； who were； as my Enishte explained；
inspired by the power of the world’s mystery and its visible blackness。 I tried
so hard to visualize them—those masterpieces my Enishte had seen and was
now attempting to describe to one who had never laid eyes on them—that；
finally； when my imagination failed me； I felt only more dejected and
demeaned。
I looked up to discover that Shevket was before me again。 He approached
me decisively； and I assumed—as was customary for the oldest male child
among certain Arab tribes in Transoxiana and among Circassian tribes in the
Caucasus mountains—that he would not only kiss a guest’s hand at the
beginning of a visit； but also when that guest left。 Caught off guard； I
presented my hand for him to kiss。 At that moment； from somewhere not too
far away； I heard her laughter。 Was she laughing at me？ I became flustered and
to remedy the situation； I grabbed Shevket and kissed him on both cheeks as
though this were what was really expected of me。 Then I smiled at my Enishte
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as though to apologize for interrupting him and to assure him that I meant no
disrespect； while carefully drawing the child near to check whether he bore his
mother’s scent。 By the time I understood that the boy had placed a crumpled
scrap of paper into my hand； he’d long since turned his back and walked some
distance toward the door。
I clutched the scrap of paper in my fist like a jewel。 And when I understood
that this was a note from Shekure； out of elation I could scarcely keep from
grinning stupidly at my Enishte。 Wasn’t this proof enough that Shekure
passionately desired me？ Suddenly； I imagined us engaged in a mad frenzy of
lovemaking。 So profoundly convinced was I that this incredible event I’d
conjured was imminent that my manhood inappropriately began to rise—
there in the presence of my Enishte。 Had Shekure witnessed this？ I focused
intently on what my Enishte was explaining in order to redirect my
concentration。
Much later； while my Enishte came near to show me another illustrated
plate from his book； I discreetly unfolded the note； which smelled of
honeysuckle； only to discover that she’d left it pletely blank。 I couldn’t
believe my eyes and senselessly turned the paper over and over； examining it。
“A window；” said my Enishte。 “Using perspectival techniques is like
regarding the world from a window—what is that you are holding？”
“It’s nothing； Enishte Effendi；” I said。 When he looked away； I brought the
crumpled paper to my nose and deeply inhaled its scent。
After an afternoon meal； as I did not want to use my Enishte’s chamber
pot； I excused myself and went to the outhouse in the yard。 It was bitter cold。 I
had quickly seen to my concern without freezing my buttocks too much when
I saw that Shevket had slyly and silently appeared before me； blocking my way
like a brigand。 In his hands he held his grandfather’s full and steaming
chamber pot。 He entered the outhouse after me and emptied the pot。 He
exited and fixed his pretty eyes on mine as he puffed out his plump cheeks；
still holding the empty pot。
“Have you ever seen a dead cat？” he asked。 His nose was exactly like his
mother’s。 Was she watching us？ I looked around。 The shutters were closed on
the enchanted second…floor window in which I’d first seen Shekure after so
many years。
“Nay。”
“Shall I show you the dead cat in the house of the Hanged Jew？”
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He went out to the street without waiting for my response。 I followed him。
We walked forty or fifty paces along the muddy and icy path before entering
an unkempt garden。 Here； it smelled of wet and rotting leaves； and faintly of
mold。 With the confidence of a child who knew the place well； taking firm；
rhythmic steps； he entered through the door of a yellow house； which stood
before us almost hidden behind somber fig and almond trees。
The house was pletely empty； but it was dry and warm； as if somebody
were living there。
“Whose house is this？” I asked。
“The Jews‘。 When the man died； his wife and kids went to the Jewish
quarter over by the fruit…sellers’ quay。 They’re having Esther the clothier sell
the house。” He went into a corner of the room and returned。 “The cat’s gone；
it’s disappeared；” he said。
“Where would a dead cat go？”
“My grandfather says the dead wander。”
“Not the dead themselves；” I said。 “Their spirits wander。”
“How do you know？” he said。 He was holding the chamber pot tightly
against his lap in all seriousness。
“I just know。 Do you always e here？”
“My mother es here with Esther。 The living dead； risen from the grave；
e here at night； but I’m not afraid of this place。 Have you ever killed a
man？”
“Yes。”
“How many？”
“Not many。 Two。”
“With a sword？”
“With a sword。”
“Do their souls wander？”
“I don’t know。 According to what’s written in books； they must wander。”
“Uncle Hasan has a red sword。 It’s so sharp it’ll cut you if you just touch it。
And he has a dagger with a ruby…studded handle。 Are you the one who killed
my father？”
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I nodded indicating neither “yes” nor “no。” “How do you know that your
father is dead？”
“My mother said so yesterday。 He won’t be returning。 She saw him in her
dream。”
If presented with the opportunity； we would choose to do in the name of a
greater goal whatever awful thing we’ve already prepared to do for the sake of
our own miserable gains； for the lust that burns within us or for the love that
breaks our hearts； and so； I resolved once more to bee the father of these
forsaken children； and； when I returned to the house； I listened more intently
to Shevket’s grandfather as he described the book whose text and illustrations
I had to plete。
Let me begin with the illustrations that my Enishte had shown me； the
horse for example。 On this page there were no human figures and the area
around the horse was empty； even so； I couldn’t say it was simply and
exclusively the painting of a horse。 Yes； the horse was there； yet it was apparent
that the rider had stepped off to the side； or who knows； perhaps he was on
the verge of emerging from behind the bush drawn in the Kazvin style。 This
was immediately apparent from the saddle upon the horse； which bore the
marks and embellishments of nobility： Maybe； a man with his sword at the
ready was about to appear beside the steed。
It was obvious that Enishte missioned this horse from a master
illustrator whom he’d secretly summoned from the workshop。 Because the
illustrator； arriving at night； could draw a horse—ingrained in his mind like a
stencil—only if it were the extension of a story； that’s exactly how he’d begin：
by rote。 As he was drawing the horse； which he’d seen thousands of times in
scenes of love and war； my Enishte； inspired by the methods of the Veian
masters； had probably instructed the illustrator； for example； he might have
said； “Forget about the rider； draw a tree there。 But draw it in the background；
on a smaller scale。”
The illustrator； who came at night； would sit before his work desk together
with my Enishte； eagerly drawing by candlelight an odd； unconventional
picture that didn’t resemble any of the usual scenes to which he was
accustomed and had memorized。 Of course； my Enishte paid him handsomely
for each drawing； but frankly； this peculiar method of drawing also had its
charms。 However； as with my Enishte； after a while； the illustrator could no
longer determine which story the illustration was intended to enhance and
plete。 What my Enishte expected of me was that I examine these
illustrations made in half…Veian； half…Persian mode and write a story
132
suitable to acpany them on the opposite page。 If I hoped to get Shekure； I
absolutely had to write these stories； but all that came to mind were the
stories the storyteller told at the coffeehouse。
133
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
Ticking away； my windup clock told me it was evening。 The prayers had yet to
be called； but long before； I’d lit the candle resting beside my folding
pleted drawing an opium addict from memory；
having dipped my reed pen into black Hasan Pasha ink and skated it over well…
burnished and beautifully sized paper； when I heard that voice calling me out
to the street as it did every night。 I resisted。 I was so determined not to go； but
to stay at home and work； I even tried nailing my door shut for a time。
This book I was hastily pleting was missioned by an Armenian
who’d e all the way from Galata； knocking on my door this morning
before anyone had risen。 The man； an interpreter and guide； though he
stuttered； hunted me down whenever a Frank or Veian traveler wanted a
“book of costumes” and engaged me in a bout of vicious bargaining。 Having
agreed that mor