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perspectives of the Frankish virtuosos. It disturbed his soul because he felt he

was being disrespectful and, he sensed for the first time, oddly dishonorable

toward the old masters.

3. It must’ve even dawned on him, as it does now on some of the imbeciles

who have tired of me and are smiling: Death is no laughing matter.

The master miniaturist who made me now roams the streets endlessly each

night in fits of regret; like certain Chinese masters, he believes he’s become

what he has drawn.

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I AM ESTHER

Ladies from the neighborhoods of Redminaret and Blackcat had ordered

purple and red quilting from the town of Bilejik; so, early in the morning, I

loaded up my makeshift satchel—the large cloth that I’d fill up and tie into a

bundle. I removed the green Chinese silk that had recently arrived by way of

the Portuguese trader but wasn’t selling, substituting the more alluring blue.

And given the persistent snows of this endless winter, I carefully folded plenty

of colorful socks, thick sashes and heavy vests, all of wool, arranging them in

the center of the bundle: When I spread open my blanket a bouquet of color

would bloom to make even the most indifferent woman’s heart leap. Next, I

packed some lightweight, but expensive, silk handkerchiefs, money purses and

embroidered washcloths especially for those ladies who called for me not to

make a purchase but to gossip. I lifted the tote. My goodness, this is much too

heavy, it’ll break my back. I put it down and opened it. As I stared at it, trying

to determine what to leave out, I heard knocking at the door. Nesim opened it

and called to me.

It was that concubine Hayriye, all flushed and blushing. She held a letter in

her hand.

“Shekure sent it,” she hissed. This slave was so flustered that you’d think

she was the one who’d fallen in love and wanted to get married.

With dead seriousness, I grabbed the letter. I warned the idiot to return

home without being seen by anyone and she left. Nesim cast a questioning eye

at me. I took up the larger, yet lighter decoy satchel I carried whenever I was

out delivering my letters.

“Shekure, the daughter of Master Enishte, is burning with love,” I said.

“She’s gone clear out of her mind, the poor girl.”

I cackled and stepped outside, but then was gripped by pangs of

embarrassment. If truth be told, I longed to shed a tear for Shekure’s sorrows

instead of making light of her dalliances. How beautiful she is, that dark-eyed

melancholy girl of mine!

I ever so quickly strode past the run-down homes of our Jewish

neighborhood, which looked even more deserted and pitiful in the morning

cold. Much later, when I caught sight of that blind beggar who always took up

his spot on the corner of Hasan’s street, I shouted as loud as I could,

“Clothierrr!”

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“Fat witch,” he said. “Even if you hadn’t shouted I would’ve recognized you

by your footsteps.”

“You good-for-nothing blind man,” I said. “You ill-fated Tatar! Blind men

like you are scourges forsaken by Allah. May He give you the punishment you

deserve.”

In the past, such exchanges wouldn’t have angered me. I wouldn’t have

taken them seriously. Hasan’s father opened the door. He was an Abkhazian, a

noble gentleman and polite.

“Let’s have a look, then, what have you brought with you this time?” he

said.

“Is that slothful son of yours still asleep?”

“How could he be sleeping? He’s waiting, expecting news from you.”

This house is so dark that each time I visit, I feel as if I’ve entered a tomb.

Shekure never asks what they’re up to, but I always make a point of carping

about the place so she won’t even consider returning to this crypt. It’s hard to

imagine that lovely Shekure was once mistress of this house and that she lived

here with her rascally boys. Within, it smelled of sleep and death. I entered the

next room, moving farther into the blackness.

You couldn’t see your hand before your face. I didn’t even have the chance

to present the letter to Hasan. He appeared out of the darkness and snatched it

from my hand. As I always did, I left him alone to read the letter and satisfy his

curiosity. He soon raised his head from the page.

“Isn’t there anything else?” he said. He knew there was nothing else. “This

is a brief note,” he said and read

Black Effendi, you pay visits to our home, and spend your days here. Yet I’ve

heard that you haven’t written even a single line of my father’s book. Don’t get

your hopes up without first completing that manuscript.

Letter in hand, he glared accusingly into my eyes, as if all this was my fault.

I’m not fond of these silences in this house.

“There’s no longer any word of her being married, of her husband

returning from the front,” he said. “Why?”

“How should I know why?” I said. “I’m not the one who writes the letters.”

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“Sometimes I wonder even about that,” he said, handing back the letter

along with fifteen silver.

“Some men grow stingier the more they earn. You’re not that way,” I said.

There was such an enchanting, intelligent side to this man that despite all

his dark and evil traits, one could see why Shekure would still accept his letters.

“What is this book of Shekure’s father?”

“You know! Our Sultan is funding the whole project they say.”

“Miniaturists are murdering each other over the pictures in that book,” he

said. “Is it for the money or—God forbid—because the book desecrates our

religion? They say one glance at its pages is enough to bring on blindness.”

He said all this, smiling in such a way that I knew I shouldn’t take any of it

seriously. Even if it were a matter to take to heart, at the very least, there was

nothing for him to take seriously about me taking the matter seriously. Like

many of the men who depended on my services as a letter courier and

mediator, Hasan lashed out at me when his pride was hurt. I, as part of my

job, pretended to be upset to hearten him. Maidens, on the contrary, hugged

me and cried when their feelings were hurt.

“You’re an intelligent woman,” said Hasan in order to soothe my pride,

which he believed he’d injured. “Deliver this posthaste. I’m curious about that

fool’s response.”

For a moment, I felt like saying, “Black is not so foolish.” In such situations,

making rival suitors jealous of each other will earn Esther the matchmaker

more money. But I was afraid he’d have a sudden tantrum.

“You know the Tatar beggar at the end of the street?” I said. “He’s very

vulgar, that one.”

To avoid getting into it with the blind man, I walked down the other end of

the street and thus happened to pass through the Chicken Market early in the

morning. Why don’t Muslims eat the heads and feet of chickens? Because

they’re so strange! My grandmother, may she rest in peace, would tell me how

chicken feet were so inexpensive when her family arrived here from Portugal

that she’d boil them for food.

At Kemeraral?k, I saw a woman on horseback with her slaves, sitting bolt

upright like a man. She was proud as proud could be, maybe the wife of a

pasha or his rich daughter. I sighed. If Shekure’s father hadn’t been so

absentmindedly devoted to books, if her husband had returned from the

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Safavid war with his plunder, Shekure might’ve lived like this haughty woman.

More than anyone, she deserved it.

When I turned onto Black’s street, my heart quickened. Did I want Shekure

to marry this man? I’ve succeeded both in keeping Shekure involved with

Hasan and, at the same time, in keeping them apart. But what about this

Black? He seems to have both feet on the ground in all respects except with

regard to his love for Shekure.

“Clothierrrrr!”

There’s nothing I’d trade for the pleasure of delivering letters to lovers

addled by loneliness or the lack of wife or husband. Even if they’re certain of

receiving the worst news, when they’re about to read the letter, a shudder of

hope overcomes them.

By not mentioning anything about her husband’s return, by tying her

warning “Don’t get your hopes up” to one condition alone, Shekure had, of

course, given Black more than just cause to be hopeful. With great pleasure, I

watched him read the letter. He was so happy he was distraught, afraid even.

When he withdrew to write his response, I, being a sensible clothes peddler,

spread open my decoy “delivery” satchel and withdrew from it a dark money

purse, which I attempted to sell to Black’s nosy landlady.

“This is made of the best Persian velvet,” I said.

“My son died at war in Persia,” she said. “Whose letters do you deliver to

Black?”

I could read from her face that she was making plans to set up her own

wiry daughter, or who knows whose daughter, with lionhearted Black. “No

one’s,” I said. “A poor relative of his who’s on his deathbed in the

Bayrampasha sickhouse and needs money.”

“Oh my,” she said, unconvinced, “who is the unfortunate man?”

“How did your son die in the war?” I asked stubbornly.

We began to glare at each other with hostility. She was a widow and all

alone. Her life must’ve been quite difficult. If you ever happen to become a

clothier-cum-messenger like Esther, you’ll soon learn that only wealth, might

and legendary romances stir people’s curiosity. Everything else is but worry,

separation, jealousy, loneliness, enmity, tears, gossip and never-ending poverty.

Such things never change, just like the objects that furnish a home: a faded old

kilim, a ladle and small copper pan resting on an empty baking sheet, tongs

and an ash box resting beside the stove, two worn chests—one small, one

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large—a turban stand maintained to conceal the widow’s solitary life and an

old sword to scare thieves off.

Black hastily returned with his money purse. “Clothier woman,” he said,

making himself heard to the meddling landlady rather than myself. “Take this

and bring it to our suffering patient. If he has any response for me, I’ll be

waiting. You can find me at Master Enishte’s house, where I’ll spend the rest

of the day.”

There’s no need for all of these games. No cause for a young brave-heart like

Black to hide his amatory maneuvers, the signals he receives, the handkerchiefs

and letters he sends in pursuit of a maiden. Or does he truly have his eye on

his landlady’s daughter? At times, I didn’t trust Black at all and was afraid that

he was deceiving Shekure terribly. How is it that, despite spending his entire

day with Shekure in the same house, he’s incapable of giving her a sign?

Once I was outside, I opened the purse. It contained twelve silver coins and

a letter. I was so curious about the letter that I nearly ran to Hasan. Vegetable-

sellers had spread out cabbage, carrots and the rest in front of their shops. But

I didn’t even have it in me to touch the plump leeks that were crying out to

me to fondle them.

I turned onto the side street, and saw that the blind Tatar was there waiting

to heckle me again. “Tuh,” I spat in his direction; that was all. Why doesn’t this

biting cold freeze these vagrants to death?

As Hasan silently read the letter, I could barely maintain my patience.

Finally, unable to restrain myself, I suddenly said “Yes?” and he began reading

aloud:

My Dearest Shekure, you’ve requested that I complete your father’s book. You

can be certain that I have no other goal. I visit your house for this reason; not to

pester you, as you’d earlier indicated. I’m quite aware that my love for you is my

own concern. Yet, due to this love, I’m unable properly to take up my pen and

write what your father—my dear Uncle—has requested for his book. Whenever I

sense your presence in the house, I seize up and am of no service to your father. I’ve

mulled this over extensively and there can be but one cause: After twelve years, I’ve

seen your face only once, when you showed yourself at the window. Now, I quite

fear losing that vision. If I could once more see you close-up, I’d have no fear of

losing you, and I could easily finish your father’s book. Yesterday, Shevket brought

me to the abandoned house of the Hanged Jew. No one will see us there. Today, at

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whatever time you see fit, I’ll go there and wait for you. Yesterday, Shevket

mentioned that you dreamt your husband had died.

Hasan read the letter mockingly, in places raising his already high-pitched

voice even higher like a woman’s, and in places, emulating the trembling

supplication of a lover who’d lost all reason. He made light of Black’s having

written his wish “to see you just once” in Persian. He added, “As soon as Black

saw that Shekure had given him some hope, he quickly began to negotiate.

Such haggling isn’t something a genuine lover would resort to.”

“He’s genuinely in love with Shekure,” I said naively.

“This comment proves that you’ve taken Black’s side,” he said. “If Shekure

has written that she dreamt my older brother was dead, it means she accepts

her husband’s death.”

“That was just a dream,” I said like an idiot.

“I know how smart and cunning Shevket is. We lived together for many

years! Without his mother’s permission and prodding, he’d never have taken

Black to the house of the Hanged Jew. If Shekure thinks she’s through with my

older brother—with us—she’s terribly mistaken! My older brother is still alive

and he’ll return from the war.”

Before he had a chance to conclude, he went into the next room where he

intended to light a candle, but succeeded only in burning his hand. He let out

a howl. All the while licking the burn, he finally lit the candle and placed it