第 16 页

becomes manifest through the memory of blind miniaturists. When this

image comes to the aging miniaturist, that is, when he sees the world as Allah

sees it through the darkness of memory and blindness, the illustrator will have

spent his lifetime training his hand so it might transfer this splendid revelation

to the page. According to the historian Mirza Muhammet Haydar Duglat, who

wrote extensively about the legends of Herat miniaturists, the master Seyyit

Mirek, in his explication of the aforementioned notion of painting, used the

89

example of the illustrator who wanted to draw a horse. He reasoned that even

the most untalented painter—one whose head is empty like those of today’s

Venetian painters—who draws the picture of a horse while looking at a horse

will still make the image from memory; because, you see, it is impossible, at

one and the same time, to look at the horse and at the page upon which the

horse’s image appears. First, the illustrator looks at the horse, then he quickly

transfers whatever rests in his mind to the page. In the interim, even if only a

wink in time, what the artist represents on the page is not the horse he sees,

but the memory of the horse he has just seen. Proof that for even the most

miserable illustrator, a picture is possible only through memory. The logical

extension of this concept, which regards the active worklife of a miniaturist as

but preparation for both the resulting bliss of blindness and blind memory, is

that the masters of Herat regarded the illustrations they made for bibliophile

shahs and princes as training for the hand—as an exercise. They accepted the

work, the endless drawing and staring at pages by candlelight for days without

break, as the pleasurable labor that delivered the miniaturist to blindness.

Throughout his whole life, the master miniaturist Mirek constantly sought out

the most appropriate moment for this most glorious of approaching

eventualities, either by purposely hurrying blindness through the painstaking

depiction of trees and all their leaves on fingernails, grains of rice and even on

strands of hair, or by cautiously delaying the imminent darkness by the

effortless drawing of pleasant, sun-filled gardens. When he was seventy, in

order to reward this great master, Sultan Hüseyin Baykara allowed him to

enter the treasury containing thousands of manuscript plates that the Sultan

had collected and secured under lock and key. There, in the treasury that also

contained weapons, gold and bolt upon bolt of silk and velvet cloth, by the

candlelight of golden candelabra, Master Mirek stared at the magnificent

leaves of those books, each a legend in its own right, made by the old masters

of Herat. And after three days and nights of continuous scrutiny, the great

master went blind. He accepted his condition with maturity and resignation,

the way one might greet the Angels of Allah, and he never spoke or painted

again. Mirza Muhammet Haydar Duglat, the author of the History of Rashid,

ascribed this turn of events as follows: “A miniaturist united with the vision

and landscape of Allah’s immortal time can never return to the manuscript

pages meant for ordinary mortals”; and he adds, “Wherever the blind

miniaturist’s memories reach Allah there reigns an absolute silence, a blessed

darkness and the infinity of a blank page.”

90

Certainly it was less out of desire to hear my answer to Master Osman’s

question on blindness and memory than to put himself at ease that Black

asked me the question while he pored over my possessions, my room and my

pictures. Yet again, I was pleased to see that the stories I recounted affected

him. “Blindness is a realm of bliss from which the Devil and guilt are barred,” I

said to him.

“In Tabriz,” said Black, “under Master Mirek’s influence, some of the

miniaturists of the old style still look upon blindness as the greatest virtue of

Allah’s grace, and they’re embarrassed about growing old but not blind. Even

today, fearing that others will consider this proof of a lack of talent and skill,

they pretend to be blind. As a result of this moral conviction which bears the

influence of Jemalettin of Kazvin, some of them sit for weeks in the darkness

amid mirrors, in the dim light of an oil lamp, without eating or drinking and

stare at illustrated pages painted by the old masters of Herat in order to learn

how to perceive the world like a blind man despite not truly being blind.”

Somebody knocked. I opened the door to find a handsome apprentice from

the workshop whose lovely almond eyes were opened wide. He said that the

body of our brother, the gilder Elegant Effendi, had been discovered in an

abandoned well and that his funeral procession would commence at the

Mihrimah Mosque during the afternoon prayer. He then ran off to deliver the

news to others. Allah, may you protect us all.

91

I AM ESTHER

Tell me then, does love make one a fool or do only fools fall in love? I’ve been a

clothes peddler and matchmaker for years, and I don’t have the slightest clue.

How it’d thrill me to become acquainted with men—or couples—who grew

more intelligent and became more cunning and devious as they fell deeper in

love. I do know this much though: If a man resorts to wiles, guile and petty

deceptions, it means he’s nowhere near being in love. As for Black Effendi, it’s

obvious that he’s already lost his composure—when he even talks about

Shekure he loses all self-control.

At the bazaar, I fed him by rote all the well-rehearsed refrains that I tell

everyone: Shekure is always thinking of him, she asked me about his response

to her letter, I’d never seen her like this and so on. He gave me such a look that

I pitied him. He told me to take the letter to Shekure straightaway. Every idiot

assumes there’s a pressing circumstance about his love that necessitates

particular haste, and thereby lays bare the intensity of his love, unwittingly

putting a weapon into the hands of his beloved. If his lover is smart, she’ll

postpone the answer. The moral: Haste delays the fruits of love.

Had lovesick Black known that I first took a detour while carrying the letter

he’d charged me to deliver “posthaste,” he’d thank me. In the market square, I

nearly froze to death waiting for him. After he left, I thought I’d visit one of

my “daughters” to warm up. I call the maidens whose letters I’ve delivered,

the ones I’ve married off through the sweat of my brow, my “daughters.” This

ugly maiden of mine was so thankful and beholden to me that at my every

visit, beyond waiting on me hand and foot, flitting about like a moth, she’d

press a few silver coins into my palm. Now she was pregnant and in good

humor. She put linden tea on the boil. I savored each sip. When she left me

alone, I counted the coins Black Effendi had given me. Twenty silver pieces.

I set out on my way again. I passed through side streets and through

ominous alleyways that were frozen, muddy and nearly impassable. As I was

knocking on the door, mirth took hold of me and I began to shout.

“The clothier is here! Clothierrr!” I said. “Come and see the best of my

ruffled muslin fit for a sultan. Come get my stunning shawls from Kashmir,

my Bursa velvet sash cloth, my superb silk-edged Egyptian shirt cloth, my

embroidered muslin tablecloths, my mattress and bedsheets, and my colorful

handkerchiefs. Clothierrr!”

92

The door opened. I entered. As always, the house smelled of bedding, sleep,

frying oil and humidity, that terrible smell peculiar to aging bachelors.

“Old hag,” he said. “Why are you shouting?”

I silently removed the letter and handed it to him. In the half-lit room, he

stealthily and quietly approached me and snatched it from my hand. He

passed into the next room where an oil lamp always burned. I waited at the

threshold.

“Isn’t your dear father home?”

He didn’t answer. He’d lost himself in the letter. I left him alone so he

could read. He stood behind the lamp, and I couldn’t see his face. After

finishing the letter, he read it anew.

“Yes,” I said, “and what has he written?”

Hasan read:

My Dearest Shekure, as I too have for years now sustained myself through my

dreams of one single person, I respectfully understand your waiting for your

husband without considering another. What else could one expect from a woman

of your stature besides honesty and virtue? [Hasan cackled!] My coming to visit

your father for the sake of painting, however, does not amount to harassing you.

This would never even cross my mind. I make no claim at having received a sign

from you or any other encouragement. When your face appeared to me at the

window like divine light, I considered it nothing but an act of God’s grace. The

pleasure of seeing your face is all I need. [“He took that from Nizami,” Hasan

interrupted, annoyed.] But you ask me to keep my distance; tell me then, are you

an angel that approaching you should be so terrifying? Listen to what I have to

say, listen: I used to try to sleep watching the moonlight fall onto the naked

mountains from remote and godforsaken caravansaries where nobody but a

desperate han keeper and a few thugs fleeing the gallows lodged, and there, in the

middle of the night, listening to the howling of wolves even lonelier and more

unfortunate than myself, I used to think that one day you would suddenly appear

to me, just as you did at the window. Read closely: Now that I’ve returned to your

father for the sake of the book, you’ve sent back the picture I made in my

childhood. I know this is not a sign of your death but a sign that I’ve found you

again. I saw one of your children, Orhan. That poor fatherless boy. One day I will

become his father!

93

“God protect him, he’s written well,” I said, “this one has become quite the

poet.”

“”Are you an angel that approaching you should be so terrifying?“” he

repeated. “He stole that line from Ibn Zerhani. I could do better.” He took his

own letter out of his pocket. “Take this and deliver it to Shekure.”

For the first time, accepting money along with the letters disturbed me. I

felt something like disgust toward this man and his mad obsession, his

unrequited love. Hasan, as if to confirm my hunch, for the first time in a long

while set aside his good etiquette and said quite rudely:

“Tell her that if we so desire, we’ll force her back here under pressure of the

judge.”

“You really want me to say that?”

Silence. “Nay,” he said. The light from the oil lamp illuminated his face,

allowing me to see him lower his head like a guilty child. It’s because I know

this side of Hasan’s character as well that I have some respect for his feelings

and deliver his letters. It’s not only for the money, as you might think.

I was leaving the house, and he stopped me at the door.

“Do you let Shekure know how much I love her?” he asked me excitedly and

foolishly.

“Don’t you tell her so in your letters?”

“Tell me how I might convince her and her father? How might I persuade

them?”

“By being a good person,” I said and walked to the door.

“At this age, it’s too late…” he said with sincere anguish.

“You’ve begun to earn a lot of money, Customs Officer Hasan. This makes

one a good person…” I said and fled.

The house was so dark and melancholy that the air outside seemed warmer.

The sunlight hit my face. I wished for Shekure’s happiness. But I also felt

something for that poor man in that damp, chilly and dark house. On a whim,

I turned into the Spice Market in Laleli thinking the smells of cinnamon,

saffron and pepper would restore my spirits. I was mistaken.

At Shekure’s house, after she took up the letters, she immediately asked

after Black. I told her that the fire of love had mercilessly engulfed his entire

being. This news pleased her.

94

“Even lonely spinsters busy with their knitting are discussing why Elegant

Effendi might’ve been killed,” I said later, changing the subject.

“Hayriye, make some halva as a present of condolence and take it over to

Kalbiye, poor Elegant Effendi’s widow,” said Shekure.

“All the Erzurumis and quite a crowd of others will be attending his funeral

service,” I said. “His relatives swear they’ll avenge his spilt blood.”

Shekure had already begun to read Black’s letter. I looked into her face

intently and angrily. This woman was probably such a fox that she could

control how her passions were reflected in her face. As she read I sensed that

my silence pleased her, that she regarded it as my approval of the special

import she gave to Black’s letter. Shekure finished the letter and smiled at me;

to meet with her satisfaction, I felt forced to ask, “What has he written?”

“Just as in his childhood…He’s in love with me.”

“What are your thoughts?”

“I’m a married woman. I’m waiting for my husband.”

Contrary to your expectations, the fact that she’d lie to me after asking me

to get involved in her affairs didn’t anger me. Actually, this comment relieved

me. If more of the young maidens and women I’ve carried letters for and

advised in the ways of the world attended to details the way Shekure did, they

would’ve lessened the work for us both by half. More importantly, they

would’ve ended up in better marriages.

“What does the other one write?” I asked anyway.

“I don’t intend to read Hasan’s letter right now,” she answered. “Does

Hasan know that Black’s returned to Istanbul?”