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“He doesn’t even know he exists.”

“Do you speak with Hasan?” she asked, opening wide her beautiful black

eyes.

“As you’ve requested.”

“Yes?”

“He’s in agony. He’s deeply in love with you. Even if your heart belongs to

another, it’ll be difficult ever to be free of him now. By accepting his letters

you’ve greatly encouraged him. Be wary of him, however. For not only does he

want to make you return there, but by establishing that his older brother has

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died, he’s preparing to marry you.” I smiled to soften the weight of these

words and so as not to be reduced to being that malcontent’s mouthpiece.

“What’s the other one say, then?” she asked, but did she herself know

whom she was inquiring after?

“The miniaturist?”

“My mind’s all ajumble,” she said suddenly, perhaps afraid of her own

thoughts. “It seems that matters will become even more confused. My father’s

growing older. What’ll become of us, of these fatherless children? I sense an

evil approaching, that the Devil is preparing some mischief for us. Esther, tell

me something that will hearten me.”

“Don’t you fret in the slightest, my dearest Shekure,” I said as emotion

welled up within me. “You’re truly intelligent, you’re very beautiful. One day

you’ll sleep in the same bed with your handsome husband, you’ll cuddle with

him, and having forgotten all your worries, you’ll be happy. I can read this in

your eyes.”

Such affection rose within me that my eyes filled with tears.

“Fine, but which one will become my husband?”

“Isn’t that wise heart of yours giving you an answer?”

“It’s because I don’t understand what my heart is saying that I’m

dispirited.”

For a moment it occurred to me that Shekure didn’t trust me at all, that

she was masterfully concealing her distrust in order to learn what I knew, that

she was trying to arouse my pity. When I saw she wouldn’t be writing a

response to the letters at present, I grabbed my sack, entered the courtyard

and slipped away—but not before saying something I told all my maids, even

those who were cross-eyed:

“Fear not, my dear, if you keep those beautiful eyes of yours peeled, no

misfortune, no misfortune at all will befall you.”

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I, SHEKURE

If truth be told, it used to be that each time Esther the clothier paid a visit, I’d

fantasize that a man stricken with love would finally be roused to write a

letter that could stir the heart of an intelligent woman like myself—beautiful,

well-bred and widowed, yet with her honor still intact—and set it pounding.

And to discover that the letter was from one of the usual suitors, would, at the

very least, fortify my resolve and forbearance to await my husband’s return.

But these days, every time Esther leaves, I become confused and feel all the

more wretched.

I listened to the sounds of my world. From the kitchen came the bubbling

sound of boiling water and the smell of lemons and onions. Hayriye was

boiling zucchini. Shevket and Orhan were frolicking and playing “swordsman”

in the courtyard beneath the pomegranate tree, I heard their shouts. My father

was sitting silently in the next room. I opened and read Hasan’s letter and was

reassured that there was no cause for alarm. Still, I grew a little more

frightened of him, and congratulated myself for withstanding his efforts to

make love to me when we shared the same house. Next, I read Black’s letter,

holding it gently as if it were some delicate and sensitive bird, and my

thoughts became muddled. I didn’t read the letters again. The sun broke

through the clouds and it occurred to me that if I’d entered Hasan’s

bedchamber one night and made love with him, no one, except Allah,

would’ve been the wiser. He did resemble my missing husband; it’d be the

same thing. Sometimes a strange thought like this entered my head. As the sun

quickly warmed me, I could feel my body: my skin, my neck, even my nipples.

Orhan slipped inside as the sunlight struck me through the open door.

“Mama, what are you reading?” he said.

All right then, remember how I said that I didn’t reread the letters Esther

had just delivered? I lied. I was in the midst of reading them again. This time, I

truly did fold them up and tuck them away in my blouse.

“Come here, you, onto my lap,” I said to Orhan. He did so. “Oh my, you’re

so heavy. May God protect you, you’ve gotten quite big,” I said and kissed

him. “You’re as cold as ice…”

“You’re so warm, Mama,” he interrupted, leaning back onto my bosom.

We were leaning tight against each other, enjoying sitting that way in

silence. I smelled the nape of his neck and kissed him. I hugged him even more

tightly. We were still.

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“I’m feeling ticklish,” he said later.

“Tell me then,” I said in my serious voice. “If the Sultan of the Jinns came

and said he’d grant you a wish, what would you want most of all?”

“I’d want Shevket to go away.”

“What besides? Would you want to have a father?”

“No, when I grow up I’m going to marry you myself.”

It wasn’t aging, losing one’s beauty or even being bereft of husband and

money that was the worst of all calamities, what was truly horrible was not

having anyone to be jealous of you. I lowered Orhan’s warming body from my

lap. Thinking that a wicked woman like myself ought to wed someone with a

good soul, I went up to see my father.

“His Excellency Our Sultan will reward you after seeing for Himself that His

book has been completed,” I said. “You’ll go to Venice again.”

“I cannot be certain,” said my father. “This murder has distressed me. Our

enemies are apparently quite powerful.”

“I know, as well, that my own situation has emboldened them, giving rise

to misunderstandings and unfounded hopes.”

“How do you mean?”

“I ought to be wed as soon as possible.”

“What?” said my father. “To whom? But you are married. Where did this

notion come from?” he asked. “Who’s asked for your hand? Even if we were to

find a reasonable and appealing prospect,” said my reasonable father, “I doubt

we’d be able to take him, not like that, you understand.” He summed up my

unfortunate situation as follows: “You’re aware that there are weighty and

complicated matters we must settle before you can marry again.” After a

protracted silence, he added, “Is it that you want to leave me, my dear

daughter?”

“Last night I dreamed that my husband had died,” I said. I didn’t cry the

way a woman who’d actually seen such a dream would have.

“Like those who know how to read a picture, one should know how to read

a dream.”

“Would you consider it appropriate for me to describe my dream?”

There was a pause: We smiled at each other, quickly inferring—as intelligent

people do—all possible conclusions from the matter at hand.

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“By interpreting your dream, I might be convinced of his death, yet your

father-in-law, your brother-in-law and the judge, who is obligated to listen to

them, will demand more proof.”

“Two years have passed since I returned here with the children and my in-

laws haven’t been able to force me back…”

“Because they very well realize that they have their own misdeeds to answer

for,” said my father. “This doesn’t mean that they’ll be willing to let you

petition for a divorce.”

“If we were followers of the Maliki or the Hanbeli sects,” I said, “the judge,

acknowledging that four years have passed, would grant me a divorce in

addition to securing a support allowance for me. But since we are, many

thanks to Allah, Hanefis, this option is not open to us.”

“Don’t mention the üsküdar judge’s Shafüte stand-in to me. That’s not a

sound venture.”

“All the women of Istanbul whose husbands are missing at the front go to

him with their witnesses to get divorced. Since he’s a Shafüte, he simply asks,

”Is your husband missing?“ ”How long has he been missing?“ ”Are you having

trouble making ends meet?“ ”Are these your witnesses?“ and immediately

grants the divorce.”

“My dear Shekure, who’s planted such schemes in your head?” he said.

“Who’s stripped you of your reason?”

“After I’m divorced once and for all, if there is a man who can truly strip

me of my reason, you will, of course, tell me who that might be and I shall

never question your decision about my husband.”

My shrewd father, realizing that his daughter was as shrewd as he, began to

blink. My father would blink rapidly like this for three reasons: 1. because he

was in a tight spot and his mind was racing to find a clever way out; 2. because

he was on the verge of tears of hopelessness and sorrow; 3. because he was in a

tight spot, cunningly combining reasons 1 and 2 to give the impression that he

might soon cry out of sorrow.

“Are you taking the children and abandoning your old father? Do you

realize that on account of our book”—yes, he said “our book”—“I was afraid

of being murdered, but now that you want to take the children and leave, I

welcome death.”

“My dear father, wasn’t it you who always said that only a divorce could

save me from that good-for-nothing brother-in-law?”

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“I don’t want you to abandon me. One day your husband might return.

Even if he doesn’t, there’s no harm in your being married—so long as you live

in this house with your father.”

“I want nothing more than to live in this house with you.”

“Darling, weren’t you just now saying that you wanted to get married as

soon as possible?”

This is the dead end you reach by arguing with your father: In due course,

you too will be convinced that you’re in the wrong.

“I was,” I said, gazing at the ground in front of me. Then, holding back my

tears and encouraged by the truth of what came to mind, I said:

“All right then, shall I never be married again?”

“There’s a special place in my heart for the son-in-law who won’t take you

far from me. Who is your suitor, would he be willing to live here with us in

this house?”

I fell silent. We both knew, of course, that my father would never respect a

son-in-law willing to live here together with us, and would gradually demean

and stifle him. And as Father’s underhanded and expert belittling of the man

who’d moved in with his bride’s family proceeded I would soon want to be

that wife no more.

“Without a father’s approval, in your situation, you know that getting

married is practically impossible, don’t you? I don’t want you to get married,

and I refuse to grant you permission to do so—”

“I don’t want to get married, I want a divorce.”

“—because some thoughtless beast of a man who cares about nothing but

his own concerns might hurt you. You know how much I love you, don’t you,

my dear Shekure? Besides, we must finish this book.”

I said nothing. For if I were to speak—prompted by the Devil, who was

aware of my anger—I would tell my father right to his face that I knew he

slept with Hayriye at night. But would it befit a woman like me to admit that

she knew that her elderly father slept with a slave girl?

“Who is it that wants to marry you?”

I gazed at the ground before me and was quiet, not out of embarrassment,

but out of anger. And recognizing the extent of my anger, but not being able to

respond in some manner made me even more furious. At that juncture, I

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imagined my father and Hayriye in bed in that ridiculous and disgusting

position. I was on the verge of tears when I said:

“There’s zucchini on the stove, I don’t want it to burn.”

I crossed to the room beside the staircase, the one with the always-closed

window that looked out onto the well. In the dark, quickly locating the roll-up

mattress with my hands, I spread it open and lay down: Ah, what a wonderful

feeling, to lie down and fall asleep in a fit of tears like a child who’s been

wrongly chastised! And what agony it is to know that I’m the only person in

the world who likes me. As I cry in my solitude, only you, who hear my sobs

and moans, can come to my aid.

A while later, I found that Orhan had stretched out upon my bed. He placed

his head between my breasts. I saw that he was sighing, and crying too. Pulling

him close to me, I held him.

“Don’t cry, Mother,” he said later. “Father will return from the war.”

“How do you know?”

He didn’t answer. I loved him so, and pressed him to my bosom so that I

forgot my own worries entirely. Before I cuddle up with my fine-boned,

delicate Orhan and fall asleep, let me confess my only pressing concern: I

regret having just now told you, out of spite, about the matter between my

father and Hayriye. No, I wasn’t lying, but I’m still so embarrassed that it

would be best if you forgot about it. Pretend I never mentioned anything, as if

my father and Hayriye weren’t thus involved, please?

101

I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE

Alas, it’s difficult having a daughter, difficult. As she wept in the next room, I

could hear her sobs, but I could do nothing but look at the pages of the book I

held in my hands. On a page of the volume I was trying to read, the Book of the

Apocalypse, it was written that three days after death, one’s soul, receiving

permission from Allah, visited the body it formerly inhabited. Upon beholding

the piteous state of its body, bloodied, decomposing and oozing, as it rested in

the grave, the soul would sorrowfully, tearfully and mournfully grieve, “Lo, my

miserable mortal coil, my dear wretched old body.” At once, I thought of

Elegant Effendi’s bitter end at the bottom of the well, and how upset his soul

naturally must have been upon visiting, and finding his body not at his grave,