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Your brother, if he’s really still alive, could also call you to account for your

dishonor.”

“These are all lies, each one!” said Hasan. “These are only excuses cooked up

by Shekure so she could leave us.”

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There came a cry from within the house; it was Hayriye who’d screamed.

Next, Shevket screamed. They shouted to each other. Unwitting and afraid,

without being able to restrain myself, I shouted too and ran into the house

without knowing what I was doing.

Shevket ran down the stairs and fled out into the courtyard.

“My grandfather is as cold as ice,” he cried. “My grandfather has died.”

We hugged each other. I lifted him up. Hayriye was still shouting. Black and

Hasan heard the shouts and everything that was said.

“Mother, they’ve killed grandfather,” Shevket said this time.

Everyone heard this, too. Had Hasan heard? I squeezed Shevket tightly, and

calmly walked with him back inside. At the top of the stairs, Hayriye was

wondering how the child had awoken and sneaked out.

“You promised you wouldn’t leave us,” said Shevket, who began to cry.

My mind was preoccupied now with Black. Because he was busy with

Hasan, he didn’t think to close the gate. I kissed Shevket on either cheek and

hugged him even tighter, taking in the scent of his neck, consoling him and,

finally handing him over to Hayriye, I whispered, “You two go upstairs.”

They went upstairs. I returned and stood a few steps behind the gate. I

assumed Hasan couldn’t see me. Had he changed his position in the darkened

garden across the way, perhaps moving behind the trees that lined the street?

As it happened, however, he could see me, and as he spoke he addressed me,

too. It was unnerving to convene in the dark with somebody whose face I

couldn’t see, but it was even worse, as Hasan accused me, accused us, to realize

deep down that he was justified. With him, as with my father, I always felt

guilty, always in the wrong. And now, moreover, I knew with great sadness that

I was in love with the man who was incriminating me. My beloved Allah

please help me. Love isn’t suffering for the sake of suffering, but a means to

reach You, is it not?

Hasan claimed that I’d killed my father in league with Black. He said he’d

heard what Shevket had said, adding that everything had been laid bare and

that we’d committed an unpardonable sin deserving of the torments of Hell.

Come morning he’d go to the judge to explain it all. If I were found to be

innocent, if my hands weren’t red with my father’s blood, he swore to have

me and the children returned to his house where he’d serve as father until his

older brother came back. If, however, I were found guilty, a woman like me,

who’d mercilessly abandoned her husband—a man willing to make the

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highest sort of sacrifice—for her no punishment was too severe. We patiently

listened to his fury, then noticed that there was an abrupt silence amid the

trees.

“If you return of your own free will to the home of your true husband,

now,” said Hasan, assuming a completely different tone, “if you silently pitter-

patter back with your children without being seen by anyone, I’ll forget the

fake wedding ploy, the crimes you’ve committed, all of it, I’ll forgive it all. And,

we’ll wait together, Shekure, year after year, patiently, for my brother’s

return.”

Was he drunk? There was something so infantile in his voice and what he

was now proposing to me in front of my husband that I feared it might cost

him his life.

“Do you understand?” he called out from among the trees.

I couldn’t determine exactly where he was in the blackness. My dear God,

come to our aid, to us, Your sinning servants.

“Because you won’t be able to live under the same roof with the man who

killed your father, Shekure. This I know.”

I momentarily thought that he could’ve been the one who killed my father,

and that he was now mocking us, perhaps. This Hasan was the Devil incarnate.

But I couldn’t be certain of anything.

“Listen to me, Hasan Effendi,” Black called out to the darkness. “My father-

in-law was murdered, this much is true. The most despicable of men killed

him.”

“He’d been murdered before the wedding, isn’t that so?” said Hasan. “You

two killed him because he opposed this marriage sham, this fake divorce, the

false witnesses and all your deceits. If he’d considered Black to be appropriate,

he’d have given his daughter to him years ago.”

Having lived for years with my late husband, with us, Hasan knew our past

as well as we ourselves did. And with the passion of a spurned lover, he

remembered every last detail of everything I’d discussed with my husband at

home, but had subsequently forgotten, or now wanted to forget. Over the

years, we’d shared so many memories—he, his brother and I—that I worried

how strange, new and distant Black would seem to me if Hasan were to begin

recounting the past.

“We suspect that you were the one who killed him,” Black said.

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“On the contrary, you were the ones who killed him so you could marry.

This is evident. As for me, I have no motive.”

“You killed him so we wouldn’t get married,” said Black. “When you

learned that he’d permitted Shekure’s divorce and our marriage, you lost your

mind. Besides, you were furious with Enishte Effendi because he’d encouraged

Shekure to return home to live with him. You wanted revenge. As long as he

remained alive, you knew you’d never get your hands on Shekure.”

“Be done with your stalling,” Hasan said decisively. “I refuse to listen to this

prattle. It’s very cold here. I froze out here trying to get your attention with

the rocks—didn’t you hear them?”

“Black had lost himself in my father’s illustrations,” I said.

Had I done wrong in saying this?

Hasan spoke in precisely the same false tone that I sometimes resorted to

with Black: “Shekure, as you are my brother’s wife, your best course of action

is to return now with your children to the house of the hero spahi cavalryman

to whom you’re still wed according to the Koran.”

“I refuse,” I said, as if hissing into the heart of the night. “I refuse, Hasan.

No.”

“Then, my responsibility and devotion to my brother forces me to alert the

judge first thing tomorrow morning of what I’ve heard here. Otherwise,

they’ll call me to account.”

“They’re going to call you to account anyway,” said Black. “The moment

you go to the judge, I’ll reveal that you’re the one who murdered Our Sultan’s

cherished servant, Enishte Effendi. This very morning.”

“Very well,” said Hasan calmly. “Make that revelation.”

I shrieked. “They’ll torture the both of you!” I shouted. “Don’t go to the

judge. Wait. Everything will become clear.”

“I have no fear of torture,” Hasan said. “I’ve been tortured twice before,

and both times I understood it was the only way the guilty could be culled

from the innocent. Let the slanderers fear torture. I’m going to tell the judge,

the captain of the Janissaries, the Sheikhulislam, everybody about poor Enishte

Effendi’s book and its illustrations. Everybody is talking about those

illustrations. What is it about them? What’s in those pictures?”

“There’s nothing in them,” Black said.

“Which means you examined them at the first opportunity.”

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“Enishte Effendi wants me to finish the book.”

“Very well. I hope, God willing, that they’ll torture the both of us.”

The two of them fell silent. Next, Black and I heard footsteps in the empty

yard. Were they leaving or approaching us? We could neither see Hasan nor

tell what he was doing. It would’ve been senseless for him to push through the

thorns, shrubs and brambles lining the far end of the garden in the pitch-

blackness. He could’ve easily left without being seen, had he passed through

the trees and wound his way before us, but we didn’t hear any footsteps

nearing us. I boldly shouted, “Hasan!” There was no response.

“Hush,” said Black.

We were both trembling from the cold. Without hesitating too long, we

closed the gate and the doors tightly behind us. Before entering my bed

warmed by the children, I checked on my father again. Meanwhile, Black once

again seated himself before the pictures.

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I AM A HORSE

Ignore the fact that I’m standing here placid and still; if truth be told, I’ve

been galloping for centuries; I’ve passed over plains, fought in battles, carried

off the melancholy daughters of shahs to be wed; I’ve galloped tirelessly page

by page from story to history, from history to legend and from book to book;

I’ve appeared in countless stories, fables, books and battles; I’ve accompanied

invincible heroes, legendary lovers and fantastic armies; I’ve galloped from

campaign to campaign with our victorious sultans, and as a result, I’ve

appeared in countless illustrations.

How does it feel, you ask, to be painted so often?

Of course, I’m proud of myself. Yet, I also question whether, indeed, it is I

being depicted in all cases. It is evident from these pictures that I’m perceived

differently by everyone. Still, I have the strong sense that there’s a

commonality, a unity to the illustrations.

My miniaturist friends were recounting a story recently, and from it, I

learned the following: The king of the Frankish infidels was considering

marriage to the daughter of the Venetian Doge. He was considering it, but

then he was plagued with the thought, “What if this Venetian is poor and his

daughter ugly?” To reassure himself, he ordered his best artist to paint the

Venetian Doge’s daughter, possessions, property and belongings. The Venetians

could care less about gross indecency: They’ll expose not only their daughters

to the prying eyes of the artist, but their horses and palazzos, as well. The

gifted infidel artist could depict a maiden or a horse in such a way that you’d

be able to pick either out of a crowd. Back in his courtyard, as the Frankish

king examined the pictures from Venice, pondering whether he should take

the maiden as his wife, his stallion, suddenly aroused, attempted to mount the

attractive mare in the painting, and the horse grooms were hard pressed to

bring the ferocious animal under control before he destroyed the picture and

its frame with his huge member.

They say that it wasn’t the beauty of the Venetian mare that had aroused

the Frankish stallion—though she was indeed striking—but the act of taking a

particular mare and painting a picture in her exact likeness. Now, the question

arises: Is it sinful to be depicted as that mare had been, that is, like a real

mare? In my case, as you can see, there is very little difference between my

image and other pictures of horses.

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Actually, those of you who pay particular attention to the grace of my

midsection, the length of my legs and the pride of my bearing will understand

that I am indeed unique. But these excellent features point to the uniqueness

of the miniaturist who illustrated me, not to my uniqueness as a horse.

Everyone knows that there’s no horse exactly like me. I’m simply the

rendering of a horse that exists in a miniaturist’s imagination.

Looking at me, observers frequently say, “Good God, what a gorgeous

horse!” But they’re actually praising the artist, not me. All horses are in fact

distinct, and the miniaturist, above all, ought to know this.

Take a close look, even a given stallion’s organ doesn’t resemble another’s.

Don’t be afraid, you can examine it up close, and even take it in your hands:

My God-given marvel has a shape and curve all its own.

Now then, all miniaturists illustrate all horses from memory in the same

way, even though we’ve each been uniquely created by Allah, Greatest of all

Creators. Why do they take pride in simply rendering thousands and tens of

thousands of horses in the same way without ever truly looking at us? I’ll tell

you why: Because they’re attempting to depict the world that God perceives,

not the world that they see. Doesn’t that amount to challenging God’s unity,

that is—Allah forbid—isn’t it saying that I could do the work of God? Artists

who are discontent with what they see with their own eyes, artists who draw

the same horse a thousand times asserting that what rests in their imagination

is God’s horse, artists who claim that the best horse is what blind miniaturists

draw from memory, aren’t they all committing the sin of competing with

Allah?

The new styles of the Frankish masters aren’t blasphemous, quite the

opposite, they’re the most in keeping with our faith. I pray that my Erzurumi

brethren don’t misunderstand me. It displeases me that Frankish infidels

parade their women around half naked, indifferent to pious modesties, that

they don’t understand the pleasures of coffee and handsome boys, and that

they roam about with clean-shaven faces, yet with hair as long as women’s,

claiming that Jesus is also the Lord God—Allah protect us. I become so

aggravated by these Franks that if I ever came across one, I’d give him a good

mule kick.

Still, I’m sick of being incorrectly depicted by miniaturists who sit around

the house like ladies and never go off to war. They’ll depict me at a gallop with

both of my forelegs extended at the same time. There isn’t a horse in this

world that runs like a rabbit. If one of my forelegs is forward, the other is aft.

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Contrary to what’s depicted in battle illustrations, there isn’t a horse in this