This book is the source of the bad luck that plagues us。”
“What devilry has plagued us besides the murder of Elegant Effendi？”
This question displeased her。 Appearing insincere in her attempt to be
sincere； she said：
“The followers of Nusret Hoja are spreading rumors that my father’s book
is a desecration and bears the marks of Frankish infideldom。 Have the
miniaturists who frequent our house grown jealous of each other to the
degree that they’re hatching plans？ You’ve been among them； you would
know best！”
“Your late husband’s brother；” I said； “does he have any association with
these miniaturists； your father’s book or the followers of Nusret Hoja； or does
he keep to himself？”
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“He’s not involved in any of that； but he doesn’t keep to himself at all；” she
said。
A mysterious and strange quiet passed。
“When you lived in the same house with Hasan wasn’t there any way you
could get away from him？”
“As much as possible in a two…room house。”
A few dogs； not too far away； giving themselves over pletely to whatever
they were up to； began barking excitedly。
I couldn’t bring myself to ask why Shekure’s late husband； a man who’d
emerged victorious from so many battles and had bee the proprietor of a
fief； saw fit to have his wife live together with his brother in a two…room
house。 Timidly and hesitantly； I asked my childhood beloved the following
question： “Why did you see fit to marry him？”
“I was； of course； certain to be married off to someone；” she said。 This was
true； and it succinctly and cleverly explained her marriage in a way that
avoided praising her husband and upsetting me。 “You’d left； perhaps never to
return。 Disappearing in a sulk might be a symptom of love； yet a sulking lover
is also tiresome and holds no promise of a future。” This was true as well； but it
wasn’t cause enough to marry that rogue。 It wasn’t too difficult to deduce
from her coy expression alone that a short time after I’d abandoned Istanbul；
Shekure had forgotten about me； like everyone else had。 She’d told me this
blatant lie to mend my broken heart； if only a little； and I considered it a sign
of her good intentions； which demanded my gratitude。 I began to explain how
during my travels I couldn’t get her out of my thoughts； how at night her
image haunted me like a specter。 This was the most secret； most profound
agony I’d suffered and I assumed I’d never be able to share it with another；
the agony was quite real； but as I realized with surprise at that instant； it
wasn’t the least bit sincere。
So that my feelings and desires might be rightfully understood； I must
presently lay bare the meaning of this distinction between truth and sincerity
that I’ve e to know for the first time： How expressing one’s reality in
words； as truthful as they might be； goads one to insincerity。 Perhaps； the best
example might be made of us miniaturists； who’ve grown edgy of late due to
the murderer in our midst。 Consider a perfect painting—the image of a horse；
for instance—no matter how well it represents a real horse； the horse
meticulously conceived by Allah or the horses of the great master miniaturists；
it might still fail to match the sincerity of the talented miniaturist who drew
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it。 The sincerity of the miniaturist； or of us humble servants of Allah； doesn’t
emerge in moments of talent and perfection； on the contrary； it emerges
through slips of the tongue； mistakes； fatigue and frustration。 I say this for the
sake of those young ladies who will bee disillusioned when they see that
there was no difference between the strong desire I felt for Shekure at that
moment—as she too could tell—and； say； the dizzying lust I’d felt for a
delicately featured； copper…plexioned； burgundy…mouthed Kazvin beauty
during my travels。 With her profound God…given savvy and jinnlike intuition；
Shekure understood both my being able to withstand twelve years of pure
torture for love’s sake as well as my behaving like a miserable thrall of lust
who thought of nothing but the quick satisfaction of his dark desires the first
time we were alone。 Nizami had pared the mouth of that beauty of
beauties； Shirin； to an inkwell filled with pearls。
When the eager dogs began barking with renewed fervor； a restless Shekure
said； “I ought to go now。” It was at that moment we both realized that the
house of the Jew’s ghost had indeed bee quite dark； although there was
still time before nightfall。 My body sprung up of its own volition； to hug her
once again； but like a wounded sparrow； she quickly hopped away。
“Am I still beautiful？ Answer me quickly。”
I told her。 How beautifully she listened to me； believing and agreeing with
what I said。
“And my clothes？”
I told her。
“Do I smell nice？”
Of course； Shekure also knew that what Nizami referred to as “love chess”
did not consist of such rhetorical games； but of the hidden emotional
maneuvers between lovers。
“What kind of living do you expect to earn？” she asked。 “Will you be able
to care for my fatherless children？”
As I talked about my more than twelve years of governmental and
secretarial experience； the vast knowledge I’d acquired in battle and witnessing
death and my luminous prospects； I embraced her。
“How beautifully we embraced each other just now；” she said。 “And already
everything has lost its primal mystery。”
To prove how sincere I was； I hugged her even tighter。 I asked her why； after
having kept it for twelve years； she’d had Esther return the painting I’d made
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for her。 In her eyes I read surprise at my weariness and an affection that welled
up within her。 We kissed。 This time I didn’t find myself immobilized by a
staggering yoke of lust； both of us were stunned by the fluttering—like a flock
of sparrows—of a powerful love that had entered our hearts； chests and
stomachs。 Isn’t lovemaking the best antidote to love？
As I palmed her large breasts； Shekure pushed me away in an even more
determined and sweeter way than before。 She implied that I wasn’t a mature…
enough man to maintain a trustworthy marriage with a woman that I’d
sullied beforehand。 I was careless enough to forget that the Devil would get
involved in any hasty deeds and too inexperienced to know how much
patience and quiet suffering underlie happy marriages。 She’d escaped my arms
and was walking toward the door； her linen veil having fallen around her neck。
I caught sight of the snow falling onto the streets； which always succumbed to
the darkness first； and forgetting that we’d been whispering here； perhaps to
avoid disturbing the spirit of the Hanged Jew； I cried out：
“What are we to do now？”
“I don’t know；” she said； minding the rules of “love chess。” Walking
through the old garden； she left delicate footprints in the snow—certain to be
erased by the whiteness—and disappeared quietly。
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I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
Doubtless； you too have experienced what I’m about to describe： At times；
while walking through the infinite and winding streets of Istanbul； while
spooning a bite of vegetable stew into my mouth at a public kitchen or
squinting with fixed attention on the curved design of a reed…style border
illumination； I feel I’m living the present as if it were the past。 That is； when
I’m walking down a street whitewashed with snow； I’ll have the urge to say
that I was walking down it。
The extraordinary events I will relate occurred at once in the present and in
the past。 It was evening； the twilight gave way to blackness and a very faint
snow fell as I walked down the street where Enishte Effendi lived。
Unlike other evenings； I’d e here knowing precisely what I wanted。 On
other evenings； my legs would take me here as I absentmindedly thought
about other things： how I’d told my mother I earned seven hundred silver
pieces for a single book； about the covers of Herat volumes with ungilded
ornamental rosettes dating from the time of Tamerlane； about the continued
shock of learning that others still painted under my name or about my
tomfoolery and transgressions。 This time； however； I’d e here with
forethought and intent。
The large courtyard gate—that I feared no one would open for me—opened
on its own when I went to knock； reassuring me that Allah was with me。 The
shiny stone…paved portion of the courtyard that I walked through on those
nights when I came to add new illustrations to Enishte Effendi’s magnificent
book was empty。 To the right beside the well rested the bucket； and perched on
it a sparrow apparently oblivious to the cold； a bit farther on sat the open…air
stone stove； which for some reason wasn’t lit even at this late hour； and to the
left； the stable for visitors’ horses which made up part of the house’s ground
floor。 Everything was as I expected it to be。 I entered through the unlocked
door beside the stable； and as an uninvited guest might do to avoid happening
upon an inappropriate scene； I stamped my feet and coughed as I climbed the
wooden staircase to the living quarters。
My coughing elicited no response。 Nor did the noise of stamping my
muddy shoes； which I removed and left next to those lined up at the entrance
of the wide hall which was also used as an anteroom。 As had bee my
custom whenever I visited； I searched for what I assumed to be Shekure’s
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elegant green pair among the others； but for naught； and the possibility that
no one was home crossed my mind。
I walked to the