第 27 页

All right then, before the evening prayer is called, I’ll meet you at the house of

the Hanged Jew. Finish my father’s book as soon as possible.

I did not reply to Hasan. Even if he was actually going to the judge today, I

didn’t believe that the men he and his father were assembling would raid our

house immediately. If he were indeed ready to take such action he’d have done

so without writing a letter or awaiting my reply. He’s surely awaiting my

response, and, when it doesn’t arrive, it’ll drive him mad. Only then will he

begin assembling people and prepare to abduct me. Don’t think I’m not afraid

of him at all. But, I’m counting on Black to protect me. Anyway, let me tell you

what’s going on in my heart just now: I believe I’m not so afraid of Hasan

because I love him as well.

If you object and think to yourselves, “Now what is this love about?” I’d

find you justified. It’s not that I failed to notice during the years we waited

under the same roof for my husband’s return, how pitiful, weak and selfish

this man was. But now that Esther tells me he earns a lot of money—and I can

always tell when she’s being truthful from her raised eyebrows—since he has

money, and with it self-confidence, the overbearing Hasan has surely

disappeared, exposing the dark, jinnlike peculiarity that attracts me to him. I

discovered this side of him through the letters he stubbornly sent to me.

Both Black and Hasan have suffered for their love of me. Black disappeared,

traveling for twelve years. The other, Hasan, sent me letters every day, in the

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corners of which he’d illustrated birds and gazelles. At first I was frightened of

him, but later, I loved to read his letters again and again.

As I well knew that Hasan was thoroughly curious about everything having

to do with me, I wasn’t surprised that he knew I’d seen my husband’s corpse

in a dream. What I suspected was that Esther was letting Hasan read the

letters I’d sent to Black. That’s why I sent no response to Black by way of

Esther. You know better than I whether my suspicions are justified.

“Where were you?” I said to the children when they returned.

They quickly understood that I wasn’t really angry. Discreetly, I pulled

Shevket aside, to the edge of the darkened closet. I lifted him onto my lap. I

kissed his head and the nape of his neck.

“You’re cold, my dear,” I said. “Give me those pretty hands of yours so

Mother can warm them up…”

His hands had a foul smell, but I didn’t comment. Pressing his head to my

bosom, I gave him a long hug. In a short time he warmed up, relaxing like a

kitten, sweetly mewling with pleasure.

“So then, you love your mother quite a lot, don’t you?”

“Ummmhmmm.”

“Is that a ”yes‘?“

“Yes.”

“More than anybody else?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going to tell you something,” I said as if divulging a secret. “But

you won’t tell anyone, all right?” I whispered in his ear: “I love you more than

anyone, you know that?”

“More than Orhan, even?”

“More than Orhan, even. Orhan’s young, like a small bird, he doesn’t

understand anything. You’re smarter, you’re able to understand.” I kissed and

smelled his hair. “So, I’m going to ask you a favor. Remember how you secretly

brought Black a blank piece of paper yesterday? You’ll do the same today, all

right?”

“He’s the one who killed Father.”

“What?”

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“He killed my father. He himself said so yesterday in the house of the

Hanged Jew.”

“What did he say?”

“”I killed your father,“ he said. ”I’ve killed plenty of men,“ he said.”

Suddenly something happened. Shevket slid down my lap and began to cry.

Why was this child crying now? All right then, I confess, I must’ve been unable

to control myself just then, and I slapped him. I wouldn’t want anyone to

think I was hard-hearted. But how could he say such nonsense about a man

I’d been making arrangements to marry—and that, with the well-being of

these boys in mind.

My poor little fatherless boy was still crying, and all at once, this upset me

greatly. I, too, was on the verge of tears. We hugged each other. He hiccuped

occasionally. Did this slap merit so much crying? I stroked his hair.

This is how it all began: The previous day, as you know, I’d told my father in

passing that I’d dreamed my husband had died. Actually, as happened quite

frequently over these four years during which my husband never returned

from battling the Persians, I dreamed of him fleetingly, and there was also a

corpse, but was he the corpse? This was a mystery to me.

Dreams are always used as a means to other ends. In Portugal, from where

Esther’s grandmother had emigrated, it seems dreams were used as an excuse

to prove heretics met with the Devil and made love. For example, even if

Esther’s forebears denied their Jewishness by declaring, “We’ve become

Catholics like you,” the Jesuit torturers of the Portuguese Church,

unconvinced, would torture them, forcing them to describe the jinns and

demons of their dreams, as well as burdening them with dreams they never

had. Then they’d force the Jews to confess these dreams so in the end they

could burn them at the stake. In this way, dreams could be manipulated over

there, to show that people were having sex with the Devil and to accuse and

condemn Jews.

Dreams are good for three things:

ALIF:

You want something but you just can’t ask for it. So you’ll say that

you’ve dreamed about it. In this manner, you can ask for what you want

without actually asking for it.

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The dreams we recount are never the ones we actually see in our sleep.

When people say they’ve “seen it,” they simply describe the dream that is

“dreamed” during the day, and there’s always an underlying purpose. Only an

idiot would describe his actual nighttime dreams exactly as he’s had them. If

you do, everyone will make fun of you or, as always, interpret the dream as a

bad omen. No one takes real dreams seriously, including those who dream

them. Or, pray tell, do you?

Through a dream that I half-heartedly recounted, I hinted that my husband

might truly be dead. Though my father at first wouldn’t accept this as an

indication of the truth, after returning from the funeral, he was suddenly

persuaded by the evidence of the dream, and concluded that my husband was

indeed dead. Thus, everyone not only believed that my husband, who was

virtually immortal these past four years, had died in a dream, they couldn’t

have been more certain of his death had it been officially announced. It was

only then that the boys truly realized that they’d been left fatherless. It was

then that they truly began to grieve.

“Do you ever have dreams?” I asked Shevket.

“Yes,” he said smiling. “My father doesn’t return home, and I end up

marrying you.”

His narrow nose, dark eyes and broad shoulders resemble me more than his

father. Occasionally, I feel guilty that I wasn’t able to pass on to my children

their father’s high, broad forehead.

“Go on then, play ”swordsman‘ with your brother.“

BA:

You want to harm someone. For example, you want to slander a

woman. So, you’ll say that such-and-such woman is committing

adultery or that such-and-such pasha is pilfering wine by the jug. I

dreamed it, you’ll say. In this fashion, even if they don’t believe you, the

mere mention of the sinful deed is almost never forgotten.

DJIM:

You want something, but you don’t even know what it is. So, you’ll

describe a confusing dream. Your friends or family will immediately

interpret the dream and tell you what you need or what they can do for

you. For example, they’ll say: You need a husband, a child, a house…

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“Can we use father’s old sword?”

“Yes.”

For some time, I gazed at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the boys’

swords striking each other, as I struggled to quell the fear and anxiety that was

brewing within me. I went down to the kitchen and said to Hayriye: “My

father’s been asking for fish soup for quite some time now. Maybe I ought to

send you to Galleon Harbor. Why don’t you take a few strips of that dried

fruit pulp that Shevket likes out of its hiding place and let the kids have some.”

While Shevket was eating in the kitchen, Orhan and I went upstairs. I lifted

him onto my lap and kissed his neck.

“You’re covered in sweat,” I said. “What happened here?”

“Shevket hit me with our uncle’s red sword.”

“It’s bruised,” I said and touched the spot. “Does it hurt? How thoughtless

our Shevket is. Listen to what I have to say. You’re very smart and sensitive. I

have a request to make of you. If you do what I say, I’ll tell you a secret that I

won’t tell Shevket or anyone else.”

“What is it?”

“Do you see this piece of paper? You’re to go to your grandfather, and

without letting him see, you’re to place this in Black Effendi’s hand. Do you

understand?”

“I understand.”

“Will you do it?”

“What’s the secret?”

“Just take him the paper,” I said. I once again kissed his neck, which smelled

fragrantly. And while we’re on the subject of fragrance, it’s been so very long

since Hayriye has taken these boys to the public bath. They haven’t gone since

Shevket’s thing began to rise in front of the women there. “I’ll tell you the

secret later.” I kissed him. “You’re very bright and very pretty. Shevket’s a

nuisance. He’d even have the audacity to lift a hand against his mother.”

“I’m not going to deliver this,” he said. “I’m afraid of Black Effendi. He’s

the one who killed my father.”

“Shevket told you this, didn’t he?” I said. “Quick, go downstairs and tell

him to come here.”

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Orhan could see the rage in my face. Terrified, he slid off my lap and ran

out of the room. Maybe he was even slightly pleased that Shevket was in

trouble. A while later, both of them returned flushed and blushing. Shevket

was holding a strip of dried fruit in one hand and a sword in the other.

“You’ve told your brother that Black was the one who killed your father,” I

said. “I don’t ever want you to say such a thing in this house again. You should

both show respect and affection to Black. Do we understand each other? I

won’t allow you to live your entire lives without a father.”

“I don’t want him. I’d rather return to our house, where Uncle Hasan lives,

and wait for my father,” Shevket said brazenly.

This made me so irate that I slapped him. He hadn’t put the sword down; it

fell from his hand.

“I want my father,” he said through his tears.

But I was crying more than he was.

“You have no father anymore, he won’t be coming back,” I said tearfully.

“You’re fatherless, don’t you understand, you bastards.” I was crying so much

that I was afraid they’d heard me from within.

“We aren’t bastards,” said Shevket, crying.

We all cried long and hard. Weeping softened my heart and I sensed that I

was crying because it made me a better person. In our communal fit of tears,

we embraced each other and lay upon the roll-up mattress. Shevket had

snuggled his head down between my breasts as if to nap. Sometimes, he’d

cuddle up with me like this, as if we were stuck together, but I could sense that

he wasn’t sleeping. I might’ve dozed off with them, except that my mind was

preoccupied with what was going on downstairs. I could smell the sweet

aroma of boiling oranges. I abruptly sat up in bed and made such a sound that

the boys awoke.

“Go downstairs, have Hayriye fill your stomachs.”

I was alone in the room. Snow had begun to fall outside. I begged for

Allah’s help. Then I opened the Koran, and after once again reading the section

in the “Family of Imran” chapter which stated that those who were killed in

battle, who were killed on the path of Allah, would join Him, I put myself at

ease with regard to my deceased husband. Had my father shown Black Our

Sultan’s as yet unfinished portrait? My father claimed that this portrait would

be so lifelike that whoever beheld it would avert his eyes out of fear, as

happened to those who tried to look directly into Our Glorious Sultan’s eyes.

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I called for Orhan, and without lifting him onto my lap, kissed him at

length on the forehead, crown and cheeks. “Now then, without being scared,

and without letting your grandfather see, you’re to give this paper to Black. Do

you understand?”

“My tooth is loose.”

“When you get back, if you want, I’ll pull it out,” I said. “You’re to sidle up

to him. He’ll be at a loss for what to do and he’ll hug you. Then you’ll secretly

place the paper into his hand. Am I understood?”

“I’m afraid.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. If it weren’t for Black, do you know who

wants to become your father in his stead? Uncle Hasan! Do you want Uncle

Hasan to become your father?”

“No.”

“All right then, let’s see you go, my pretty and smart Orhan,” I said. “If not,

watch out, I’ll be really angry…And if you cry, I’ll get even angrier.”

I folded my letter several times, then stuck it into his small hand now

stretched out in hopelessness and resignation. Allah, come to my aid so that

these fatherless children aren’t left to fend for themselves. I escorted him to

the door, holding his hand. At the threshold he looked at me fearfully one last

time.

I watched him through the peephole as he took his uncertain steps toward

the sofa, approached my father and Black, stopped, and momentarily

hesitated—unsure what to do. He glanced back at the peephole looking for