say he’s gone blind； others that he’s lost his senses。 I think he’s blind and
senile both。”
Despite the fact that my Enishte didn’t have the standing of a master
illustrator and that this wasn’t his field of artistic expertise at all； he did have
control over an illustrated manuscript。 This； in fact； was with the permission
and encouragement of the Sultan； a situation that； of course； strained his
relationship with the elderly Master Osman。
Thinking of my childhood； I allowed my attention to be absorbed by the
furniture and objects within the house。 From twelve years ago； I still
remembered the blue kilim from Kula covering the floor； the copper ewer； the
coffee set and tray； the copper pail and the delicate coffee cups that had e
all the way from China by way of Portugal； as my late aunt had boasted
numerous times。 These effects； like the low X…shaped reading desk inlaid with
mother…of…pearl； the stand for a turban nailed to the wall； the red velvet pillow
whose smoothness I recalled as soon as I touched it； were from the house in
Aksaray where I’d passed my childhood with Shekure； and they still carried
something of the bliss of my days of painting in that house。
Painting and happiness。 I would like my dear readers who have given close
attention to my story and my fate to bear these two things in mind； as they
are the genesis of my world。 At one time； I was contented here； among these
books； calligraphy brushes and paintings。 Then； I fell in love and was banished
from this Paradise。 In the years I endured my amorous exile； I often thought
how I was in fact deeply indebted to Shekure and my love for her； because they
had enabled me to adapt optimistically to life and the world。 Since I had； in
my childlike na？veté； no doubt that my love would be reciprocated； I grew
exceedingly assured and came to regard the world as a good place。 You see； it
was with this same earnestness that I involved myself with books and came to
love them； to love the reading my Enishte required of me back then； my
religious school lessons and my illustrating and painting。 But as much as I
owed the sunny； festive and more fertile first half of my education to the love I
felt for Shekure； I owed the dark knowledge that poisoned the latter time to
being rejected； my desire on icy nights to sputter out and vanish like the dying
flames in the iron stoves of a caravansary； repeatedly dreaming after a night of
love that I was plunging into a desolate abyss along with whichever woman lay
beside me； and the notion that I was simply worthless—all of it was furnished
by Shekure。
37
“Were you aware；” my Enishte said much later； “that after death our souls
will be able to meet with the spirits of men and women in this world who are
peacefully asleep in their beds？”
“No； I was not。”
“We take a long journey after death； so I’m not afraid of dying。 What I fear
is dying before I finish Our Sultan’s book。”
Part of me felt I was stronger； more reasonable and more reliable than my
Enishte； and part of me was dwelling on the cost of the caftan that I’d
purchased on my way here to meet with this man who’d denied me his
daughter’s hand and on the silver bridle and hand…worked saddle of the horse
which； soon after going downstairs； I’d take out of the stable and ride away。
I told him I’d apprise him of everything I learned during my visits to the
various miniaturists。 I kissed his hand and brought it to my forehead。 I walked
down the stairs； entered the courtyard； and sensing the snowy cold upon me；
accepted that I was neither a child nor an old man： I joyously felt the world
upon my skin。 As I shut the stable door； a breeze began to stir。 I led my white
horse by the bridle over the stone walkway to the earthen part of the
courtyard； and we both shuddered： I felt as if his strong； large…veined legs； his
impatience and his stubbornness were my own。 As soon as we entered the
street； I was about to swiftly mount my steed and disappear down the narrow
way like a fabled horseman； never to return again； when an enormous woman；
a Jewess dressed all in pink and carrying a bundle； appeared out of nowhere
and accosted me。 She was as large and wide as an armoire。 Yet she was
boisterous； lively and even coquettish。
“My brave man； my young hero； I see you’re truly as handsome as they say
you are；” she said。 “Might you be married？ Or might you be a bachelor？
Would you deign to buy a silk handkerchief for your secret lover from Esther；
Istanbul’s premier peddler of fine cloth？”
“Nay。”
“A red sash of Atlas silk？”
“Nay。”
“Don’t go on piping ”nay‘ at me like that！ How could a brave heart like you
not have a fiancée or a secret lover？ Who knows how many teary…eyed
maidens are burning with desire for you？“
Her body lengthened like the slender form of an acrobat and she leaned
toward me with an elegant gesture。 At the same time； with the skill of a
38
magician who plucks objects out of thin air； she caused a letter to appear in
her hand。 I stealthily grabbed it； and as if I’d been training for this moment for
years； I hastily and artfully placed it into my sash。 It was a thick letter and felt
like fire against the icy skin of my side； between my belly and back。
“Ride at an amble；” said Esther the clothes peddler。 “Turn right at the
corner； following the curve of the wall without breaking stride； but when you
get to the pomegranate tree turn and look at the house you’ve just left； at the
window to your right。”
She went on her way and vanished in an instant。
I mounted the horse； but like a novice doing so for the first time。 My heart
was racing； my mind was overe by excitement； my hands had forgotten
how to control the reins； but when my legs tightly gripped the horse’s body；
sound reason and skill took control of my horse and me； and as Esther had
instructed； my wise horse ambled steadily and； how lovely； we turned right
onto the sidestreet！
It was then that I felt I might in truth be handsome。 As in fairy tales； from
behind every shutter and every latticed window； a coy woman was watching
me and I felt I might burn once again with that same fire that had once
consumed me。 Is this what I desired？ Was I succumbing anew to the illness
from which I’d suffered for so many years？ The sun suddenly broke through
the clouds； startling me。
Where was the pomegranate tree？ Was it this thin； melancholy tree here？
Yes！ I turned slightly to the right in my saddle。 I saw a window behind the tree；
but there was nobody there。 I’d been duped by that wench Esther！
Just as I was thinking such thoughts； the window’s iced…over shutters
opened with a loud burst； as if they’d exploded； and after twelve years； I saw
my beloved’s stunning face among snowy branches； framed by the window
whose icy trim shone brightly in the sunlight。
Was my dark…eyed beloved looking at me or at another life beyond me？ I
couldn’t tell whether she was sad or smiling or smiling sadly。 Foolish horse；
heed not my heart； slow down！ I calmly twisted in my saddle again； fixing my
desirous stare for as long as possible； until her gaunt； elegant and mysterious
face disappeared behind the branches。
Much later； after opening her letter and seeing the illustration within； I
thought how my visit to her at the window on horseback closely resembled
that moment； pictured a thousand times； in which Hüsrev visits Shirin
beneath her window—only in our case； there was that melancholy tree
39
between us。 When I recognized this similarity； oh how I burned with a love
such as they describe in those books we so cherish and adore。
40
I AM ESTHER
All of you； I know； are wondering what Shekure penned in that letter I
presented to Black。 As this was also a curiosity of mine； I learned everything
there was to know。 If you would； then； pretend you’re flipping back through
the pages of the story and let me tell you what occurred before I delivered that
letter。
Now； it’s getting on toward evening； I’ve retired to our house in the quaint
little Jeouth of the Golden Horn with my husband
Nesim； two old people huffing and puffing； trying to keep warm by feeding
logs into the stove。 Pay no mind to my calling myself “old。” When I load my
wares—items cheap and precious alike； certain to lure the ladies； rings；
earrings； necklaces and baubles—into the folds of silk handkerchiefs； gloves；
sheets and the colorful shirt cloth sent over in Portuguese ships； when I
shoulder that bundle； Esther’s a ladle and Istanbul’s a kettle； and there’s nary
a street I don’t visit。 There isn’t a word of gossip or letter that I haven’t carried
from one door to the next； and I’ve played matchmaker to half the maidens of
Istanbul； but I didn’t begin this recital to brag。 As I was saying； we were taking
our ease in the evening； and “rap； rap” someone was at the door。 I went and
opened it to discover Hayriye； that idiot slave girl； standing before me。 She
held a letter in her hand。 I couldn’t tell whether it was from the cold or from
excitement； but she was trembling as she explained Shekure’s wishes。
At first； I assumed this letter was to be taken to Hasan； that’s why I was so
astonished。 You know about pretty Shekure’s husband； the one who never
returned from the war—if you ask me； he’s long since had his hide pierced。
Well you see； that never…to…return soldier…husband also has an eager； lovesick
brother by the name of Hasan。 So imagine my surprise when I saw that
Shekure’s letter wasn’t meant for Hasan； but for someone else。 What did the
lette