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nonsense with such conviction, I imagined my death at his hands.

I was not, however, afraid of him; on the contrary, I tried to frighten him.

For I believed that fear was appropriate to the writing I’d requested of him.

“As in those pictures,” I said, “one ought to be able to situate oneself at the

center of the world. One of my illustrators brilliantly depicted Death for me.

Behold.”

Thus I began to show him the paintings I’d secretly commissioned from the

master miniaturists over the last year. At first, he was a tad shy, even

frightened. When he understood that the depiction of Death was inspired by

familiar scenes that could be found in many Book of Kings volumes—from the

scene of Afrasiyab’s decapitation of Siyavush, for example, or Rüstem’s murder

of Suhrab without realizing this was his son—he quickly became interested in

the subject. Among the pictures that depicted the funeral of the late Sultan

Süleyman was one I’d made with bold but sad colors, combining a

compositional sensibility inspired by the Franks with my own attempt at

shading—which I’d added later. I pointed out the diabolic depth evoked by

the interplay of cloud and horizon. I reminded him that Death was unique,

just like the portraits of infidels I had seen hanging in Venetian palazzos; all of

them desperately yearned to be rendered distinctly. “They want to be so

distinct and different, and they want this with such passion that,” I said,

“look, look into the eyes of Death. See how men do not fear Death, but rather

the violence implicit in the desire to be one-of-a-kind, unique and exceptional.

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Look at this illustration and write an account of it. Give voice to Death. Here’s

paper and pen. I shall give what you write to the calligrapher straightaway.”

He stared at the picture in silence. “Who painted this?” he asked later.

“Butterfly. He’s the most talented of the lot. Master Osman had been in

love with and awed by him for years.”

“I’ve seen rougher versions of this depiction of a dog at the coffeehouse

where the storyteller performs,” Black said.

“My illustrators, most of whom are spiritually bound to Master Osman

and the workshop, take a dim view of the labors performed for my book.

When they leave here at night I imagine they have their vulgar fun over these

illustrations which they draw for money and ridicule me at the coffeehouse.

And who among them will ever forget the time Our Sultan had the young

Venetian artist, whom He’d invited from the embassy at my behest, paint His

portrait. Thereafter, He had Master Osman make a copy of that oil painting.

Forced to imitate the Venetian painter, Master Osman held me responsible for

this unseemly coercion and the shameful portrait that came of it. He was

justified.”

All day long, I showed him every picture—except the final illustration that I

cannot, for whatever reason, finish. I prodded him to write. I discussed the

temperaments of the miniaturists, and I enumerated the sums of money I

meted out to them. We discussed “perspective” and whether the diminutive

objects in the background of Venetian pictures were sacrilegious, and equally,

we talked about the possibility that unfortunate Elegant Effendi had been

murdered for excessive ambition and out of jealousy over his wealth.

As Black returned home that night, I was confident he’d come again the

next morning as promised and that he’d once again listen to me recount the

stories that would constitute my book. I listened to his footsteps fading

beyond the open gate; there was something to the cold night that seemed to

make my sleepless and troubled murderer stronger and more devilish than me

and my book.

I closed the courtyard gate tightly behind him. I placed the old ceramic

water basin that I used as a basil planter behind the gate as I did each night.

Before I reduced the stove to smoldering ashes and went to bed, I glanced up

to see Shekure in a white gown looking like a ghost in the blackness.

“Are you absolutely certain that you want to marry him?” I asked.

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“No, dear Father. I’ve long since forgotten about marriage. Besides, I am

married.”

“If you still want to marry him, I’m willing to give you my blessing now.”

“I wish not to be wed to him.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s against your will. In all sincerity, I desire nobody that you do

not want.”

I noticed, momentarily, the coals in the stove reflected in her eyes. Her eyes

had aged, not out of unhappiness, but anger; yet there was no trace of offense

in her voice.

“Black is in love with you,” I said as if divulging a secret.

“I know.”

“He listened to all I had to say today not out of his love of painting, but out

of his love for you.”

“He will complete your book, this is what matters.”

“Your husband might return one day,” I said.

“I’m not certain why, perhaps it’s the silence, but tonight I’ve realized once

and for all that my husband will never return. What I’ve dreamt seems to be

the truth: They must’ve killed him. He’s long since turned to dust.” She

whispered the last statement lest the sleeping children hear. And she said it

with a peculiar tinge of anger.

“If they happen to kill me,” I said, “I want you to finish this book to which

I’ve dedicated everything. Swear that you will.”

“I give my word. Who will be the one to complete your book?”

“Black! You can ensure that he does so.”

“You are already ensuring that he does so, dear Father,” she said. “You have

no need for me.”

“Agreed, but he’s giving in to me because of you. If they kill me, he might

be afraid to continue on.”

“In that case, he won’t be able to marry me,” said my clever daughter,

smiling.

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Where did I come up with the detail about her smiling? During the entire

conversation, I noticed nothing except an occasional glimmer in her eyes. We

were standing tensely facing one another in the middle of the room.

“Do you communicate with each other, exchange signals?” I asked, unable

to contain myself.

“How could you even think such a thing?”

A long agonizing silence passed. A dog barked in the distance. I was slightly

cold and shuddered. The room was so black now that we could no longer see

each other; we could each only sense the other’s presence. We abruptly

embraced with all our might. She began to cry, and said that she missed her

mother. I kissed and stroked her head, which indeed smelled like her mother’s

hair. I walked her to her bedchamber and put her to bed next to the children

who were sleeping side by side. And as I reflected back over the last two days, I

was certain that Shekure had corresponded with Black.

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I AM CALLED BLACK

When I returned home that night, ably evading my landlady—who was

beginning to act like my mother—I sequestered myself in my room and lay on

my mattress, giving myself over to visions of Shekure.

Allow me the amusement of describing the sounds I’d heard in Enishte’s

house. On my second visit after twelve years, she didn’t show herself. She did

succeed, however, in so magically endowing me with her presence that I was

certain of being, somehow, continually under her watch, while she sized me

up as a future husband, amusing herself all the while as if playing a game of

logic. Knowing this, I also imagined I was continually able to see her. Thus was

I better able to understand Ibn Arabi’s notion that love is the ability to make

the invisible visible and the desire always to feel the invisible in one’s midst.

I could infer that Shekure was continually watching me because I’d been

listening to the sounds coming from within the house and to the creaking of

its wood boards. At one point, I was absolutely certain she was with her

children in the next room, which opened onto the wide hallway-cum-

anteroom; I could hear the children pushing, shoving and sparring with each

other while their mother, perhaps, tried to quiet them with gestures,

threatening glances and knit brows. Once in a while I heard them whispering

quite unnaturally, not as one would whisper to avoid disturbing someone’s

ritual prayers, but affectedly, as one would before erupting in a fit of laughter.

Another time, as their grandfather was explaining to me the wonders of

light and shadow, Shevket and Orhan entered the room, and with careful

gestures obviously rehearsed beforehand, proffered a tray and served us coffee.

This ceremony, which should’ve been Hayriye’s concern, was arranged by

Shekure so they could observe the man who might soon become their father.

And so, I paid a compliment to Shevket: “What nice eyes you have.” Then, I

immediately turned to his younger brother, Orhan—sensing that he might

grow jealous—and added, “Yours are as well.” Next, I placed a faded red

carnation petal, which I’d fast produced from the folds of my robe, onto the

tray and kissed each boy on the cheeks. Later still, I heard laughter and giggling

from within.

Frequently, I grew curious to know from which hole in the walls, the closed

doors, or perhaps, the ceiling, and from which angle, her eye was peering at

me. Staring at a crack, knot or what I took to be a hole, I’d imagine Shekure

situated just behind it. Suddenly, suspecting another black spot, and to

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determine whether I was justified in my suspicion—even at the risk of being

insolent toward my Enishte as he continued his endless recital—I’d stand up.

Affecting all the while the demeanor of an attentive disciple, quite enthralled

and quite lost in thought, in order to demonstrate how intent I was upon my

Enishte’s story, I’d begin pacing in the room with a preoccupied air, before

approaching that suspicious black spot on the wall.

When I failed to find Shekure’s eye nesting in what I had taken to be a

peephole, I’d be overcome by disappointment, and then by a strange feeling of

loneliness, by the impatience of a man uncertain where to turn next.

Now and then, I’d experience such an abrupt and intense feeling that

Shekure was watching me, I’d be so absolutely convinced I was within her

gaze, that I’d start posing like a man trying to show he was wiser, stronger and

more capable than he really was so as to impress the woman he loved. Later,

I’d fantasize that Shekure and her boys were comparing me with her

husband—the boys’ missing father—before my mind would focus again upon

whichever variety of famous Venetian illustrator about whose painting

techniques my Enishte was waxing philosophic at the moment. I longed to be

like these newly famed painters solely because Shekure had heard so much

about them from her father; illustrators who had earned their renown—not

through suffering martyrdom in cells like saints, or through severing the heads

of enemy soldiers with a mighty arm and a sharp scimitar, as that absent

husband had done—but on account of a manuscript they’d transcribed or a

page they’d illuminated. I tried very hard to imagine the magnificent pictures

created by these celebrated illustrators, who were, as my Enishte explained,

inspired by the power of the world’s mystery and its visible blackness. I tried

so hard to visualize them—those masterpieces my Enishte had seen and was

now attempting to describe to one who had never laid eyes on them—that,

finally, when my imagination failed me, I felt only more dejected and

demeaned.

I looked up to discover that Shevket was before me again. He approached

me decisively, and I assumed—as was customary for the oldest male child

among certain Arab tribes in Transoxiana and among Circassian tribes in the

Caucasus mountains—that he would not only kiss a guest’s hand at the

beginning of a visit, but also when that guest left. Caught off guard, I

presented my hand for him to kiss. At that moment, from somewhere not too

far away, I heard her laughter. Was she laughing at me? I became flustered and

to remedy the situation, I grabbed Shevket and kissed him on both cheeks as

though this were what was really expected of me. Then I smiled at my Enishte

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as though to apologize for interrupting him and to assure him that I meant no

disrespect, while carefully drawing the child near to check whether he bore his

mother’s scent. By the time I understood that the boy had placed a crumpled

scrap of paper into my hand, he’d long since turned his back and walked some

distance toward the door.

I clutched the scrap of paper in my fist like a jewel. And when I understood

that this was a note from Shekure, out of elation I could scarcely keep from

grinning stupidly at my Enishte. Wasn’t this proof enough that Shekure

passionately desired me? Suddenly, I imagined us engaged in a mad frenzy of

lovemaking. So profoundly convinced was I that this incredible event I’d

conjured was imminent that my manhood inappropriately began to rise—

there in the presence of my Enishte. Had Shekure witnessed this? I focused

intently on what my Enishte was explaining in order to redirect my

concentration.

Much later, while my Enishte came near to show me another illustrated

plate from his book, I discreetly unfolded the note, which smelled of

honeysuckle, only to discover that she’d left it completely blank. I couldn’t

believe my eyes and senselessly turned the paper over and over, examining it.

“A window,” said my Enishte. “Using perspectival techniques is like

regarding the world from a window—what is that you are holding?”

“It’s nothing, Enishte Effendi,” I said. When he looked away, I brought the