“My tooth is loose；” said Orhan。
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At the same time； another part of my mind was concentrating on what was
transpiring between my father and Black。
The blue door of the workshop was open； and I could easily hear them：
“After beholding the portraits of the Veian masters； we realize with
horror；” said my father； “that； in painting； eyes can no longer simply be holes
in a face； always the same； but must be just like our own eyes； which reflect
light like a mirror and absorb it like a well。 Lips can no longer be a crack in the
middle of faces flat as paper； but must be nodes of expression—each a
different shade of red—fully expressing our joys； sorrows and spirits with their
slightest contraction or relaxation。 Our noses can no longer be a kind of wall
that divides our faces； but rather； living and curious instruments with a form
unique to each of us。”
Was Black as surprised as I was that my father referred to those infidel
gentlemen who had their pictures made as “we”？ When I looked through the
peephole； I found Black’s face to be so pale that I was momentarily alarmed。
My dark beloved； my troubled hero； were you unable to sleep for thinking of
me the whole night？ Is that why the blush has left your face？
Perhaps you aren’t aware that Black is a tall； thin and handsome man。 He
has a broad forehead； almond…shaped eyes and a strong； straight； elegant nose。
As in his childhood； his hands are long and thin and his fingers are jittery and
agile。 He’s wiry； and stands straight and tall； with shoulders on the broad side；
but not as broad as those of a water carrier。 When he was younger； his body
and his face hadn’t yet settled。 Twelve years later； when I first laid eyes on him
from this dark refuge of mine； I immediately saw that he’d attained a kind of
perfection。
Now； when I bring my eye right up to the hole； I see on his face the worry
that plagues him。 I felt at once guilty and proud that he’d suffered so on my
account。 Black listened to what my father said； gazing upon an illustration
made for the book； with a look pletely innocent and childlike。 Just then；
when I saw that he’d opened his pink mouth as a child would have； I
unexpectedly felt； yes； like putting my breast into it。 With my fingers on his
nape and tangled in his hair； Black would place his head between my breasts；
and as my own children used to do； he’d roll his eyes back into his head with
pleasure as he sucked on my nipple： After understanding that only through my
passion would he find peace； he’d bee pletely bound to me。
I perspired faintly and imagined Black marveling at the size of my breasts
with surprise and intensity—rather than studying the illustration of the Devil
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that my father was actually showing him。 Not only my breasts； but as if drunk
with the vision of me； he was gazing at my hair； my neck； at all of me。 He was
so attracted to me that he was giving voice to those sweet nothings he
couldn’t summon as a youth； from his glances； I realized how he was in awe of
my proud demeanor； my manners； my upbringing； the way I waited patiently
and bravely for my husband； and the beauty of the letter I’d written him。
I felt anger toward my father； who was setting things up so I wouldn’t be
able to marry again。 I was also fed up with those illustrations he was having
the miniaturists make in imitation of the Frankish masters； and I was sick of
his recollections of Venice。
When I closed my eyes again—Allah； it wasn’t my own desire—in my
thoughts； Black had approached me so sweetly that in the dark I could feel him
beside me。 Suddenly； I sensed that he’d e up from behind me； he was
kissing the nape of my neck； the back of my ears； and I could feel how strong
he was。 He was solid； large and hard； and I could lean on him。 I felt secure。 My
nape tingled； my nipples were stiffening。 It seemed as if there in the dark； with
my eyes closed； I could feel his enlarged member behind me； close to me。 My
head spun。 What was Black’s like？ I wondered。
At times in my dreams； my husband in his agony shows his to me。 I e
to the awareness that my husband is struggling to keep his bloody body；
lanced and shot with Persian arrows； walking upright as he approaches。 But
sadly； there is a river between us。 As he calls to me from the opposite bank；
covered in blood and suffering terribly； I notice that he has bee erect。 If it’s
true what the Georgian bride said at the public bath； and if there’s truth to
what the old hags say； “Yes； it grows that large；” then my husband’s wasn’t so
big。 If Black’s is bigger； if that enormous thing I saw under Black’s belt when
he took up the empty piece of paper I’d sent by Shevket yesterday； if that was
actually it—and it surely was—I’m afraid I’ll suffer great pain； if it even fits
inside me at all。
“Mother； Shevket is mocking me。”
I left the black corner of the closet； quietly passing into the room across the
hall； where I removed the red broadcloth vest from the chest and put it on。
They’d spread out my mattress and were shouting and frolicking on it。
“Didn’t I warn you that when Black visits you aren’t to shout； did I not？”
“Mama； why did you put that red vest on？” Shevket asked。
“But Mother； Shevket was mocking me；” Orhan said。
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“Didn’t I tell you not to mock him？ And what’s this foul thing doing here？”
Off to the side there was a piece of animal hide。
“It’s a carcass；” Orhan said。 “Shevket found it on the street。”
“Quick； take it and throw it back where you found it； now。”
“Let Shevket do it。”
“I said now！”
As I would do before I slapped them； I bit my lower lip angrily； and seeing
how serious I really was； they fled in fright。 I hope they return soon so they
don’t catch cold。
Of all the miniaturists； I liked Black the best。 He liked me more than the
others did and I understood his soul。 I took out pen and paper； and in one
sitting； without having to think； I wrote the following：
All right then； before the evening prayer is called； I’ll meet you at the house of
the Hanged Jew。 Finish my father’s book as soon as possible。
I did not reply to Hasan。 Even if he was actually going to the judge today； I
didn’t believe that the men he and his father were assembling would raid our
house immediately。 If he were indeed ready to take such action he’d have done
so without writing a letter or awaiting my reply。 He’s surely awaiting my
response； and； when it doesn’t arrive； it’ll drive him mad。 Only then will he
begin assembling people and prepare to abduct me。 Don’t think I’m not afraid
of him at all。 But； I’m counting on Black to protect me。 Anyway； let me tell you
what’s going on in my heart just now： I believe I’m not so afraid of Hasan
because I love him as well。
If you object and think to yourselves； “Now what is this love about？” I’d
find you justified。 It’s not that I failed to notice during the years we waited
under the same roof for my husband’s return； how pitiful； weak and selfish
this man was。 But now that Esther tells me he earns a lot of money—and I can
always tell when she’s being truthful from her raised eyebrows—since he has
money； and with it self…confidence； the overbearing Hasan has surely
disappeared； exposing the dark； jinnlike peculiarity that attracts me to him。 I
discovered this side of him through the letters he stubbornly sent to me。
Both Black and Hasan have suffered for their love of me。 Black disappeared；
traveling for twelve years。 The other； Hasan； sent me letters every day； in the
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corners of which he’d illustrated birds and gazelles。 At first I was frightened of
him； but later； I loved to read his letters again and again。
As I well knew that Hasan was thoroughly curious about everything having
to do with me； I wasn’t surprised that he knew I’d seen my husband’s corpse
in a dream。 What I suspected was that Esther was letting Hasan read the
letters I’d sent to Black。 That’s why I sent no response to Black by way of
Esther。 You know better than I whether my suspicions are justified。
“Where were you？” I said to the children when they returned。
They quickly understood that I wasn’t really angry。 Discreetly； I pulled
Shevket aside； to the edge of the darkened closet。 I lifted him onto my lap。 I
kissed his head and the nape of his neck。
“You’re cold； my dear；” I said。 “Give me those pretty hands of yours so
Mother can warm them up…”
His hands had a foul smell； but I didn’t ment。 Pressing his head to my
bosom； I gave him a long hug。 In a short time he warmed up； relaxing like a
kitten； sweetly mewling with pleasure。
“So then； you love your mother quite a lot； don’t you？”
“Ummmhmmm。”
“Is that a ”yes‘？“
“Yes。”
“More than anybody else？”
“Yes。”
“Then I’m going to tell you something；” I said as if divulging a secret。 “But
you won’t tell anyone； all right？” I whispered in his ear： “I love you more than
anyone； you know that？”
“More than Orhan； even？”
“More than Orhan； even。 Orhan’s young； like a small bird； he doesn’t
understand anything。 You’re smarter； you’re able to understand。” I kissed and
smelled his hair。 “So； I’m going to ask you a favor。 Remember how you secretly
brought Black a blank piece of paper yesterday？ You’ll do the same today； all
right？”
“He’s the one who killed Father。”
“What？”
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“He killed my father。 He himself said so yesterday in the house of the
Hanged Jew。”
“What did he say？”
“”I killed your father；“ he said。 ”I’ve killed plenty of men；“ he said。”
Suddenly something happened。 Shevket slid down my lap and began to cry。
Why was this child crying now？ All right then； I confess； I must’ve been unable
to control myself just then； and I slapped him。 I wouldn’t want anyone to
think I was hard…hearted。 But how could he say such nonsense about a man
I’d been making arrangements to marry—and that； with the well…being of
these boys in mind。
My poor little fatherless boy was still crying； and all at once； this upset me
greatly。 I； too； was on the verge of tears。 We hugged each other。 He hiccuped
occasionally。 Did this slap merit so much crying？ I stroked his hair。
This is how it all began： The previous day； as you know； I’d told my father in
passing that I’d dreamed my husband had died。 Actually； as happened quite
frequently over these four years during which my husband never returned
from battling the Persians； I dreamed of him fleetingly； and there was also a
corpse； but was he the corpse？ This was a mystery to me。
Dreams are always used as a means to other ends。 In Portugal； from where
Esther’s grandmother had emigrated； it seems dream