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When I brought my hand even closer, the reddish-orange light of the candle

struck Black’s weary, unshaven face and naked shoulders. I drew near to him.

Just as Orhan did, he slept curled up like a pill bug, and he wore the expression

of a sleeping maiden.

“This is my husband,” I said to myself. He seemed so distant, so much a

stranger, that I was filled with sorrow. If I’d had a dagger with me, I would’ve

murdered him—no, I didn’t actually want to do such a thing; I was only

wondering, the way children do, how it’d be if I killed him. I didn’t believe

he’d lived for years through thoughts of me, neither in his innocent childlike

expression.

Prodding his shoulder with the edge of my bare foot, I woke him. When he

saw me, he was startled more than enchanted and excited, if only for a

moment, just as I’d hoped. Before he’d completely come to his senses, I said:

“I dreamed I saw my father. He confided something horrible to me: You

were the one who killed him…”

“Weren’t we together when your father was murdered?”

“I’m aware of this,” I said. “But you knew that my father would be at home

all alone.”

“I did not. You were the one who sent the children out with Hayriye. Only

Hayriye, and perhaps Esther, knew about it. And as for whoever else might’ve

known, you’d have a better idea than I.”

“There are times I feel an inner voice is about to tell me why everything has

gone so badly, the secret of all of our misfortune. I open my mouth so that

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voice might speak, but as in a dream, I make no sound. You’re no longer the

good and naive Black of my childhood.”

“That naive Black was driven away by you and your father.”

“If you’ve married me to take revenge on my father, you’ve accomplished

your goal. Maybe this is why the children don’t like you.”

“I know,” he said without sorrow. “Before going to bed you were

downstairs for a while. They were chanting ”Black, Black, my ass’s crack,“ loud

enough so I could hear.”

“You should’ve given them a beating,” I said, at first half-wishing he’d done

so. Then I added in a panic, “If you raise a hand against them, I’ll kill you.”

“Get into bed,” he said. “Or you’ll freeze to death.”

“Maybe I’ll never get into your bed. Maybe we’ve made a mistake by

getting married. They say our ceremony has no legitimacy before the law. Do

you know I heard Hasan’s footsteps before I fell asleep? It’s not surprising,

when I was living in the house of my late husband, I heard Hasan’s footsteps

for years. The children like him. And he’s merciless, that one. He has a red

sword, take care to guard yourself against it.”

I saw something so weary and so stern in Black’s eyes that I knew I

wouldn’t be able to scare him.

“Of the two of us, you’re the one with more hope and the one with more

sadness,” I said. “I’m just struggling not to be unhappy and to protect my

children, whereas you’re stubbornly trying to prove yourself. It’s not because

you love me.”

He went on at length about how much he loved me, how he always thought

only of me in desolate caravansaries, on barren mountains and during snowy

nights. If he hadn’t said these things, I would’ve awakened the children and

returned to my former husband’s house. Because I had the urge, I said the

following:

“Sometimes it seems that my former husband might return at any time. It’s

not that I fear being caught in the middle of the night with you or being

caught by the children, I’m afraid that as soon as we embrace he’ll come

knocking on the door.”

We heard the wailing of cats fighting for their lives just outside the

courtyard gate. This was followed by a long silence. I thought I might sob. I

could neither set my candle holder down on the end table nor turn around

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and head to my room to be with my sons. I told myself that I wouldn’t leave

this room until I was absolutely convinced that Black had nothing whatsoever

to do with my father’s death.

“You belittle us,” I said to Black. “You’ve grown haughty since you married

me. You clearly looked down on us because my husband was missing, and now

that my father’s been killed you find us even more pitiful.”

“My respected Shekure,” he said cautiously. It pleased me that he’d begun

this way. “You yourself know that none of this is true. I’d do anything for

you.”

“Then get out of bed, and wait with me on your feet.”

Why had I said that I was waiting?

“I cannot,” he said, and in embarrassment, gestured to the quilt and his

nightgown.

He was right, but it annoyed me anyway that he wasn’t heeding my

request.

“Before my father was murdered, you entered this house cowering like a cat

who’d spilled milk,” I said. “But now when you address me as ”My respected

Shekure‘ it seems empty—as though you want us to know it is.“

I was trembling, not out of anger, but because of the icy cold that seized my

legs, back and neck.

“Get into bed and be my wife,” he said.

“How will the villain who killed my father ever be found?” I said. “If it’s

going to take some time before he’s found, it’s not right for me to stay in this

house with you.”

“Thanks to you and Esther, Master Osman has focused all his attention on

the horses.”

“Master Osman was the sworn enemy of my father, may he rest in peace.

Now my poor father can see from above that you’re depending on Master

Osman to find his murderer. It must be causing him great agony.”

He abruptly leapt out of bed and came toward me. I couldn’t even move.

But contrary to what I expected, he just snuffed out my candle with his hand

and stood there. We were in pitch blackness.

“Your father can no longer see us,” he whispered. “We’re both alone. Tell

me now, Shekure: You gave me the impression, when I returned after twelve

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years, that you’d be able to love me, that you’d be able to make room in your

heart for me. Then we married. Since then you’ve been running away from

loving me.”

“I had to marry you,” I whispered.

There, in the dark, without pity, I sensed how my words were driving into

his flesh like nails—as the poet Fuzuli had once put it.

“If I could love you, I would’ve loved you when I was a child,” I whispered

again.

“Tell me then, fair beauty of the darkness,” he said. “You must’ve spied on

all those miniaturists who frequented your house and come to know them. In

your opinion, which one is the murderer?”

I was pleased that he could still keep this good humor. He was, after all, my

husband.

“I’m cold.”

Did I actually say this, I can’t remember. We began to kiss. Embracing him

in the dark, still holding the candle in one hand, I took his velvety tongue into

my mouth, and my tears, my hair, my nightgown, my trembling and even his

body were full of wonder. Warming my nose against his hot cheek was also

pleasant; but this timid Shekure restrained herself. As I was kissing him, I

didn’t let myself go or drop the candle, but thought of my father, who was

watching me, and of my former husband, and my children asleep in bed.

“There’s somebody in the house,” I shouted. I pushed Black away and went

out into the hall.

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I AM CALLED BLACK

Silent and unseen, under cover of early morning darkness, I left like a guilty

houseguest and walked tirelessly through the muddy backstreets. At Bayazid, I

performed my ablution in the courtyard, entered the mosque and prayed.

Inside, there was no one but the Imam Effendi and an old man who could

sleep as he prayed—a talent only rarely achieved after a lifetime of practice.

You know how there are moments in our sleepy dreams and sad memories

when we feel Allah has taken notice of us and we pray with the hopeful

anticipation of one who’s managed to thrust a petition into the Sultan’s

hand: Thus did I beg Allah to grant me a cheerful home filled with loving

people.

When I’d reached Master Osman’s house, I knew that within a week’s time

he’d gradually usurped my late Enishte’s place in my thoughts. He was more

contrary and more distant, but his belief in manuscript illumination was more

profound. He resembled an introspective elderly dervish more than the great

master who’d kicked up tempests of fear, awe and love among the

miniaturists for so many years.

As we traveled from the master’s house to the palace—he mounted on a

horse and hunched slightly, I on foot and likewise hunched forward—we

must’ve recalled the elderly dervish and aspiring disciple in those cheap

illustrations that accompany old fables.

At the palace, we found the Commander of the Imperial Guard and his men

even more eager and ready than we. Our Sultan was certain that once we’d

looked at the three masters’ horse drawings this morning we could, in a trice,

determine who among them was the accursed murderer; and so, He’d ordered

that the criminal be quickly put to torture without even allowing him to

answer the accusation. We were taken not to the executioners’ fountain where

everyone could see and take warning, but to that small slapdash house in the

sheltered seclusion of the Sultan’s Private Garden, which was preferred for

interrogation, torture and strangling.

A youth, who seemed too elegant and polite to be one of the Commander’s

men, authoritatively placed three sheets of paper on a worktable.

Master Osman took out his magnifying lens and my heart began to pound.

Like an eagle gliding elegantly over a tract of land, his eye, which he

maintained at a constant distance from the lens, passed ever so slowly over the

three marvelous horse illustrations. And like that eagle catching sight of the

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baby gazelle which would be its prey, he slowed over each of the horses’ noses

and focused on it intently and calmly.

“It’s not here,” he said coldly after a time.

“What isn’t here?” asked the Commander.

I’d assumed the great master would work with deliberation, scrutinizing

every aspect of the horses from mane to hoof.

“The damned painter hasn’t left a single trace,” said Master Osman. “We

won’t be able to determine who illustrated the chestnut horse from these

pictures.”

Taking up the magnifying lens he’d put aside, I looked at the horses’

nostrils: The master was correct; there was nothing in the three horses

resembling the peculiar nostrils of the chestnut horse drawn for my Enishte’s

manuscript. Just then, my attention turned to the torturers waiting outside

with an implement whose purpose I couldn’t fathom. As I was trying to

observe them through the half-opened door, I saw somebody scuttle quickly

backward as if possessed by a jinn, seeking shelter behind one of the mulberry

trees.

At that moment, like an ethereal light that illuminated the leaden morning,

His Excellency Our Sultan, the Foundation of the World, entered the room.

Master Osman confessed to Him that he hadn’t been able to determine

anything from the illustrations. Nevertheless, he couldn’t refrain from drawing

Our Sultan’s attention to the horses in these magnificent paintings: the way

one reared, the delicate stance of the next and, in the third, a dignity and pride

matching the content of ancient books. Meanwhile, he speculated about

which artist had made each picture, and the pageboy who’d gone door to

door to the artists’ houses confirmed what Master Osman said.

“My Sovereign, don’t be surprised that I know my painters like the back of

my hand,” said the master. “What bewilders me is how one of these men,

whom I indeed know like the back of my hand, could make a completely

unfamiliar mark. For even the flaw of a master miniaturist has its origins.”

“You mean to say?” said Our Sultan.

“Your Excellency, Prosperous Sultan and Refuge of the World, in my

opinion, this concealed signature, evident here in the nostrils of this chestnut

horse, is not simply the meaningless and absurd mistake of a painter, but a

sign whose roots reach into the distant past to other pictures, other

techniques, other styles and perhaps even other horses. If we were allowed to

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examine the marvelous pages of centuries-old books that You keep under lock

and key in the cellars, iron chests, and cabinets of the Inner Treasury, we might

be able to identify as technique what we now see as mistake; then, we could

attribute it to the brush of one of the three miniaturists.”

“You wish to enter my Treasury?” said the Sultan in amazement.

“That is my wish,” said my master.

This was a request as brazen as asking to enter the harem. Just then, I

understood that in as much as the harem and the Treasury occupied the two

prettiest spots in the courtyard of the Private Paradise of Our Sultan’s Palace,

they also occupied the two dearest spots in Our Sultan’s heart.

I was trying to read what would happen from Our Sultan’s beautiful face,

which I could now look upon without fear, but He suddenly vanished. Had He

been incensed and offended? Would we, or even the miniaturists as a whole,

be punished on account of my master’s impudence?

Looking at the three horses before me, I imagined that I would be killed

before seeing Shekure again, without ever sharing her bed. Despite the

immediacy of all their beautiful attributes, these magnificent horses now

seemed to have emerged from a quite distant world.

I thoroughly realized during this horrifying silence that just as being taken

into the heart of the palace as a child, being raised here and living here meant