son could assume the throne； rather than sending the prince to Isfahan as
provincial governor； he imprisoned him in the most out of the way room of
his palace。 The prince grew up and lived in this makeshift cell； which looked
onto neither courtyard nor garden； for thirty…one years。 After his father’s
allotted time on Earth ran out； the prince； who’d lived alone with his books；
ascended the throne and declared： “I mand that you bring me a horse。 I’ve
always seen pictures of them in books； and am curious about them。” They
brought him the most beautiful gray steed in the palace； but when the new
king saw that the horse had nostrils like mine…shafts； a shameless ass； a coat
duller than in the illustrations and a brutish rump； he was so disenchanted
that he had all the horses in his kingdom massacred。 After this brutal
slaughter； which lasted forty days； all the kingdom’s rivers flowed a somber
red。 But Exalted Allah did not refrain from meting out His justice： The king
now had no cavalry whatsoever； and when faced with the army of his
archenemy； the Turkmen Bey of the Blacksheep clan； he was routed and； in the
end； hacked apart。 Let there be no doubt： As all the histories will reveal； the
nation of horses had taken its revenge。
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I AM CALLED BLACK
Shekure shut herself into the room with the children； and I listened at length
to the sounds within the house and to its incessant creaking。 Shekure and
Shevket began whispering to each other and she anxiously quieted them with
an abrupt “shush！” I heard a rattling ing from the stone…paved area near
the well； but it didn’t last。 Later； my attention was caught by a squawking
seagull that had alighted on the roof。 Then it； too； fell silent along with
everything else。 Afterward； I heard a low moan from the other side of the
hallway： Hayriye was crying in her sleep。 Her moans dissolved into coughing
which ended as suddenly as it had begun； giving way once again to that deep；
dreadful silence。 A while later； I imagined that an intruder was roaming
around the room where my dead Enishte lay； and I froze pletely。
During each span of silence； I examined the pictures before me；
contemplating how the passionate Olive； the beautiful Butterfly and the
deceased gilder had dabbed paint onto the page。 I had the urge to confront
each of the images by shouting “Satan！” or “Death！” as my Enishte used to do
some nights； but fear restrained me。 Besides； these illustrations had vexed me
plenty because I couldn’t write an appropriate story to acpany them
despite my Enishte’s insistence。 Since I was slowly growing certain that his
death was linked to these images； I felt fretful and impatient。 I’d already
scrutinized the illustrations endlessly while listening to Enishte’s stories； all for
a chance to be near Shekure。 Now that she was my lawfully wedded wife； why
should I preoccupy myself with them？ A merciless inner voice answered：
“Because even after her children have fallen asleep； Shekure refuses to leave her
bed and join you。” I waited for a long while gazing at the pictures by
candlelight； hoping that my black…eyed beauty would e to me。
In the morning； stirred from my sleep by Hayriye’s shrieks； I grabbed the
candle…holder and rushed into the hallway。 I thought Hasan had raided the
house with his men； and I considered hiding the illustrations； but quickly
realized that Hayriye had begun screaming upon Shekure’s mand； as a way
to announce Enishte Effendi’s death to the children and neighbors。
When I met Shekure in the hall； we embraced fondly。 The children； who’d
leapt out of bed when they’d heard Hayriye’s shouts； stood motionless。
“Your grandfather has died；” Shekure said to them。 “I don’t want you to
enter that room anymore under any circumstances。”
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She freed herself from my arms and； going to her father’s side； began to
weep。
I herded the children back into their room。 “Change out of your bedclothes；
you’ll catch cold；” I said and sat on the edge of the bed。
“Grandfather didn’t die this morning。 He died last night；” Shevket said。
A long loose strand of Shekure’s gorgeous hair had coiled into an Arabic
script “vav” on her pillow。 Her warmth hadn’t yet dissipated from beneath the
quilt。 We could hear her sobbing and wailing along with Hayriye。 Her ability to
shriek as though her father had actually died unexpectedly was so shockingly
disingenuous that I felt as if I didn’t know Shekure at all； like she’d been
possessed by a strange jinn。
“I’m frightened；” said Orhan with a glance that was also a request for
permission to cry。
“Don’t be afraid；” I said。 “Your mother is crying so the neighbors will know
of your grandfather’s death and pay their respects。”
“What difference does it make if they e？” Shevket asked。
“If they e； they’ll be sad and mourn with us over his death。 That way
we can share the burden of our pain。”
“Did you kill my grandfather？” shouted Shevket。
“If you’re going to upset your mother； don’t expect any affection from
me！” I shouted back。
We didn’t shout at each other like stepfather and stepson； but like two men
talking by the banks of a loud rushing river。 Shekure stepped out into the
hallway and was forcing the wooden slats of the window trying to throw open
the shutters so her shouts could be better heard throughout the
neighborhood。
I left the room to join her。 We both tried to force the window。 With a final
bined effort； the shutters came loose and fell into the courtyard。 Sunlight
and cold struck our faces and we were stunned momentarily。 Shekure
screamed； crying her heart out。
Enishte Effendi’s death； once announced by her cries； turned into a much
more tragic and agonizing pain。 Whether sincere or feigned； my wife’s crying
tormented me。 Unexpectedly； I began to weep。 I didn’t even know if I was
crying sincerely out of grief or was merely pretending for fear of being held
responsible for my Enishte’s death。
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“He’s gone； gone； gone； my dear father’s gone！” cried Shekure。
My sobs and laments mimicked hers； though I didn’t exactly know what I
was saying。 I was worried about how I looked to the neighbors staring at us
from their houses； from behind cracked doors and between shutter slats； and
wondered how fitting my behavior was。 As I cried； I felt purged of doubts
about whether my agony was genuine； of apprehensions about being accused
of murder and of the fear of Hasan and his men。
Shekure was mine and it was as if I were celebrating with shouts and tears。 I
drew my sobbing wife close to me； and without paying any heed to the tearful
children approaching us； I lovingly kissed her cheek and inhaled the scent of
the almond trees of our youth。
Together with the children； we walked back to where the body lay。 I said；
“La ilahe illallah； there is no God but Allah” as though addressing not a reeking
two…day…old corpse but a dying man whom I wanted to reaffirm the words of
witness； I wanted my Enishte to go to Heaven with these words on his lips。 We
pretended that he’d repeated them； and smiled for a moment as we gazed at
his nearly destroyed face and battered head。 I opened my palms to Heaven and
recited from the “Ya Sin” chapter while the others listened quietly。 With a
clean piece of gauze that Shekure brought into the room； we carefully bound
my Enishte’s mouth shut； tenderly closed his ravaged eyes and gently rolled
him over onto his right side； arranging his head so it faced Mecca。 Shekure
spread a clean white sheet over her father。
I was pleased that the children were watching everything so intensely and
by the quiet that followed the wailing。 I felt like somebody with a real wife and
children； with a hearth and home。
One by one； I collected the pictures into a portfolio； donned my heavy
caftan and hastily fled the house。 I headed directly for the neighborhood
mosque； pretending not to see one of the neighbors—an elderly woman with
a snot…nosed grandchild who was clearly jubilant about all the sudden activity：
They’d heard our cries and had eagerly e to enjoy our pain。
The tiny hole in the wall that the preacher called his “house” was
embarrassingly small next to the ostentatious structure with its enormous
domes and expansive courtyard； typical of the mosques that were being
constructed lately。 The preacher； in what I’d observed as a custom of
increasing frequency； was extending the boundaries of his cold； little rat hole
of a “home；” and had usurped the entire mosque； without the least concern
over the faded and dingy wash his wife had hung between two chestnut trees
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at the edge of the courtyard。 We avoided the attacks of two brutish dogs that
had claimed the courtyard； just like the Imam Effendi and his family； and after
the preacher’s sons chased the beasts away with sticks and excused themselves；
the preacher and I retired to a private corner。
After yesterday’s divorce proceedings； and in light of the fact that we hadn’t
asked him to perform the wedding ceremony； which I was certain had upset
him； I could read a “For goodness sake； what brings you here now？” upon his
face。
“Enishte Effendi passed away this morning。”
“May God have mercy upon him。 May he find a home in Heaven！” he said
benevolently。 Why had I senselessly implicated myself by tacking the words
“this morning” onto my statement？ I dropped another gold piece into his
hand； identical to the ones I’d given him yesterday。 I requested that he recite
the death prayer before the azan and appoint his brother as crier to go around
announcing the death to the entire neighborhood。
“My brother has a dear friend who is half blind； together； we are expert at
carrying out the final ablutions of the deceased；” he said。
What could be more suitable than having a blind man and a half…wit wash
Enishte Effendi’s body？ I explained to him that the ritual funeral prayer would
be performed in the afternoon and that notables and crowds from the palace；
the guilds and theological schools would be attending。 I didn’t attempt to
explain the state of Enishte Effendi’s face and battered head； having long
decided that the matter needed to be addressed at a higher level。
Since Our Sultan had entrusted the balance of the funds for the book that
He’d missioned from my Enishte to the Head Treasurer； I had to report
the death to him before anyone else。 To this end； I sought out an upholsterer； a
relative on my late father’s