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tonight?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Hayriye will be preparing his bed.”

“Mother, you’re still going to sleep with us, aren’t you?” said Shevket.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’ll sleep together with you two as

before.”

“Always?”

Hayriye left carrying the chamber pot. From the cabinet where I’d hidden

them, I removed the remaining nine illustrations left behind by the

unspeakable murderer and sat on the bed. By the light of a candle, I stared at

them for a long time trying to fathom their secret. These illustrations were

beautiful enough that you might mistake them for your own forgotten

memories; and as with writing, as you looked at them, they spoke.

I’d lost myself in the pictures. I understood from the scent of Orhan’s

beautiful head, upon which I’d rested my nose, that he, too, was looking at

that odd and suspicious Red. As occasionally happened, I had the urge to take

out my breast and nurse him. Later, when Orhan was frightened by the

terrifying picture of Death, gently and sweetly breathing through his reddish

lips, I suddenly wanted to eat him.

“I’ll eat you up, do you understand me?”

“Mama, tickle me,” he said and threw himself down.

“Get off there, get up you beast,” I screamed and slapped him. He’d lain

across the pictures. I checked the illustrations; apparently no harm had come

to them. The image of the horse in the topmost picture was faintly, yet

unnoticeably, crumpled.

Hayriye entered with the empty chamber pot. I gathered the pictures and

was about to leave the room when Shevket began to cry:

“Mother? Where are you going?”

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“I’ll be right back.”

I crossed the freezing hallway. Black was seated across from my father’s

empty cushion, in the same position that he’d spent four days discussing

painting and perspective with him. I laid out the illustrations on the folding

bookstand, the cushion and on the floor before him. Color abruptly suffused

the candlelit room with a warmth and an astonishing liveliness, as if

everything had been set in motion.

Utterly still, we looked at the pictures at length, silently and respectfully.

When we made even the slightest movement, the still air, which bore the scent

of death from the room across the wide hall, would make the candle flame

flicker and my father’s mysterious illustrations seemed to move too. Had the

paintings taken on such significance for me because they were the cause of my

father’s death? Was I mesmerized by the peculiarity of the horse or the

uniqueness of Red, by the misery of the tree or the sadness of the two

wandering dervishes, or was it because I feared the murderer who’d killed my

father and perhaps others on account of these illustrations? After a while,

Black and I fully understood that the silence between us, as much as it

might’ve been caused by the paintings, was also due to our being alone in the

same room on our wedding night. Both of us wanted to speak.

“When we wake tomorrow morning, we should tell everybody that my

hapless father has passed away in his sleep,” I said. Although what I’d said was

correct, it appeared as if I were being insincere.

“Everything will be fine in the morning,” said Black in the same peculiar

manner, unable to believe in the truth of what he’d spoken.

When he made a nearly imperceptible gesture to draw closer to me, I had

the urge to embrace him and, as I did with the children, to take his head into

my hands.

Just at that moment, I heard the door to my father’s room open and,

springing up in terror, I ran over, opened our door and looked out: By the light

that filtered into the hallway, I was shocked to see my father’s door half open.

I stepped into the icy hallway. My father’s room, heated by the still-lit brazier,

reeked of decay. Had Shevket or somebody else come here? His body, dressed

in his nightgown, rested peacefully, bathed in the faint light of the brazier. I

thought about the way, on some nights, I’d say, “Have a good night, dear

Father,” while he read the Book of the Soul by candlelight before going to sleep.

Raising himself slightly, he’d take the glass I’d brought him out of my hand

and say, “May the water bearer never want for anything,” before kissing me on

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the cheek and looking into my eyes as he used to do when I was a girl. I stared

down at my father’s horrid face and, in short, I was afraid. I wanted to avoid

looking at him, while at the same time, goaded by the Devil, I wanted to see

how gruesome he’d become.

I timidly returned to the room with the blue door whereupon Black made

an advance on me. I pushed him away, more unthinkingly than out of anger.

We struggled in the flickering light of the candle, though it wasn’t really a

struggle but rather the imitation of a struggle. We were enjoying bumping

into each other, touching one another’s arms, legs and chests. The confusion I

felt resembled the emotional state that Nizami had described with regard to

Hüsrev and Shirin: Could Black, who’d read Nizami so thoroughly, sense that,

like Shirin, I also meant “Continue” when I said, “Don’t bruise my lips by

kissing them so hard”?

“I refuse to sleep in the same bed with you until that devil-of-a-man is

found, until my father’s murderer is caught,” I said.

As I fled the room, I was seized by embarrassment. I’d spoken in such a

shrill voice it must’ve seemed I wanted the children and Hayriye to hear what

I’d said—perhaps even my poor father and my late husband, whose body had

long decayed and turned to dust on who knows what barren patch of earth.

As soon as I was back with the children, Orhan said, “Mama, Shevket went

out into the hallway.”

“Did you go out?” I said, and made as if to slap him.

“Hayriye,” said Shevket and hugged her.

“He didn’t go out,” said Hayriye. “He was in the room the entire time.”

I shuddered and couldn’t look her in the eyes. I realized that after my

father’s death was announced, the children would thenceforth seek refuge in

Hayriye, tell her all our secrets, and that this lowly servant, taking advantage of

this opportunity, would try to control me. She wouldn’t stop there either, but

would try to place the onus of my father’s murder onto me, then she’d have

the guardianship of the children passed on to Hasan! Yes, indeed she would!

All this shameless scheming because she’d slept with my father, may he rest in

divine light. Why should I hide all this from you any longer? She was, in fact,

doing this, of course. I smiled sweetly at her. Then, I lifted Shevket onto my lap

and kissed him.

“I’m telling you, Shevket went out into the hallway,” Orhan said.

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“Get into bed, you two. Let me get between you so I can tell you the story

of the tailless jackal and the black jinn.”

“But you told Hayriye not to tell us a story about jinns,” said Shevket.

“Why can’t Hayriye tell us the story tonight?”

“Will they visit the City of the Forsaken?” asked Orhan.

“Yes they will!” I said. “None of the children in that city have a mother or a

father. Hayriye, go downstairs and check the doors again. We’ll probably be

asleep by the middle of the story.”

“I won’t fall asleep,” said Orhan.

“Where is Black going to sleep tonight?” said Shevket.

“In the workshop,” I said. “Snuggle up tight to your mother so we can

warm up nicely under the quilt. Whose icy little feet are these?”

“Mine,” said Shevket. “Where will Hayriye sleep?”

I’d begun telling the story, and as always, Orhan fell asleep first, after

which I lowered my voice.

“After I fall asleep, you’re not going to leave the bed, right, Mama?” said

Shevket.

“No, I won’t leave.”

I really didn’t intend to leave. After Shevket fell asleep, I was musing about

how pleasurable it was to fall asleep cuddled up with my sons on the night of

my second wedding—with my handsome, intelligent and desirous husband in

the next room. I’d dozed off with such thoughts, but my sleep was fitful. Later,

this is what I remembered about that strange restless realm between dreaming

and wakefulness: First I settled accounts with my deceased father’s angry

spirit, then I fled the specter of that disgraceful murderer who wanted to send

me off to be with my father. As he pursued me, the unyielding murderer, even

more terrifying than my father’s spirit, began making a clattering ruckus. In

my dream, he tossed stones at our house. They struck the windows and landed

on the roof. Later, he tossed a rock at the door, at one point even trying to

force it open. Next, when this evil spirit began to wail like some ungodly

animal, my heart began to pound.

I awoke covered in sweat. Had I heard those sounds in my dream or had I

been awakened by sounds from somewhere in the house? I couldn’t decide,

and so snuggled up with the children, and without moving, I waited. I’d nearly

assured myself that the noises were only in my sleep when I heard the same

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wail. Just then, something large landed in the courtyard with a bang. Was this

also a rock, perhaps?

I was paralyzed with terror. But the situation immediately got worse: I

heard noises from within the house. Where was Hayriye? In which room had

Black fallen asleep? In what state was my father’s pitiful corpse? My God, I

prayed, protect us. The children were deep asleep.

Had this happened before I was married, I’d have risen from bed, and

taking charge of the situation like the man of the house, I’d have suppressed

my fears and scared away the jinns and spirits. In my present condition,

however, I cowered and hugged the children. It was as if there were no one else

in the world. Nobody was going to come to the aid of the children and me.

Expecting something awful to happen, I prayed to Allah for deliverance. As in

my dreams, I was alone. I heard the courtyard gate open. It was the courtyard

gate, wasn’t it? Yes, absolutely.

I rose abruptly, grabbed my robe and quitted the room without even

knowing myself what I was doing.

“Black!” I hissed from the top of the stairs.

After hastily donning shoes, I descended the stairs. The candle I’d lit at the

brazier blew out as soon as I stepped out onto the courtyard’s stone walkway.

A strong wind had begun to blow, though the sky was clear. As soon as my

eyes adjusted, I saw that the half-moon was flooding the courtyard with

moonlight. My dearest Allah! The courtyard gate was open. I stood stunned,

atremble in the cold.

Why hadn’t I brought a knife with me? Neither did I have a candlestick or

even a piece of wood. For a moment, in the blackness, I saw the gate move of

its own accord. Later, after it appeared to have stilled, I heard it squeal. I

remember thinking, This seems like a dream.

When I heard a noise from within the house, as if from just beneath the

roof, I understood that my father’s soul was struggling to leave his body.

Knowing my father’s soul was in such torment both put me at ease and

plunged me into agony. If Father is the cause of these noises, I thought, then

no evil will befall me. On the other hand, his tormented soul, frantically

fluttering about, trying to escape and ascend, so troubled me that I prayed to

Allah to comfort him. But when it occurred to me that his soul would protect

me and the children, a feeling of great relief washed over me. If there were

truly some demon contemplating evil just beyond the gate, let him fear my

father’s restless soul.

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Just then, I worried that perhaps it was Black that was upsetting my father

so much. Would my father bring evil upon Black? Where was he? Just then,

outside the courtyard gate, on the street, I noticed him and froze. He was

speaking with somebody.

A man was talking to Black from the trees in the empty yard on the far side

of the street. I was able to infer that the howling I’d heard as I lay in bed had

come from this man whom I straightaway knew to be Hasan. There was a

plaintive strain, a weeping in his voice, but also a threatening overtone. I

listened to them from a distance. Within the silent night they’d given

themselves over to settling accounts.

I understood that I was all alone in the world with my children. I was

thinking that I loved Black, but to tell the truth, what I wanted was to love

only Black—for Hasan’s melancholy voice singed my heart.

“Tomorrow, I’ll return with the judge, Janissaries and witnesses who’ll

swear that my older brother is alive and still fighting in the mountains of

Persia,” he said. “Your marriage is illegitimate. You’re committing adultery in

there.”

“Shekure wasn’t your wife, she was your late brother’s wife,” Black said.

“My older brother’s still alive,” Hasan said with conviction. “There are

witnesses who have seen him.”

“This morning, based on the fact that he hasn’t returned after four years

campaigning, the üsküdar judge granted Shekure a divorce. If he is alive, have

your witnesses tell him that he’s now a divorced man.”

“Shekure is restricted from remarrying for a month,” said Hasan.

“Otherwise it’s a sacrilege contrary to the Koran. How could Shekure’s father

consent to such disgraceful nonsense?”

“Enishte Effendi,” Black said, “is very sick. He’s on his death bed…and the

judge sanctified our marriage.”

“Did you work together to poison your Enishte?” said Hasan. “Did you plan

this out with Hayriye?”

“My father-in-law is deeply distressed by what you’ve done to Shekure.