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like fire against the icy skin of my side, between my belly and back.

“Ride at an amble,” said Esther the clothes peddler. “Turn right at the

corner, following the curve of the wall without breaking stride, but when you

get to the pomegranate tree turn and look at the house you’ve just left, at the

window to your right.”

She went on her way and vanished in an instant.

I mounted the horse, but like a novice doing so for the first time. My heart

was racing, my mind was overcome by excitement, my hands had forgotten

how to control the reins, but when my legs tightly gripped the horse’s body,

sound reason and skill took control of my horse and me, and as Esther had

instructed, my wise horse ambled steadily and, how lovely, we turned right

onto the sidestreet!

It was then that I felt I might in truth be handsome. As in fairy tales, from

behind every shutter and every latticed window, a coy woman was watching

me and I felt I might burn once again with that same fire that had once

consumed me. Is this what I desired? Was I succumbing anew to the illness

from which I’d suffered for so many years? The sun suddenly broke through

the clouds, startling me.

Where was the pomegranate tree? Was it this thin, melancholy tree here?

Yes! I turned slightly to the right in my saddle. I saw a window behind the tree,

but there was nobody there. I’d been duped by that wench Esther!

Just as I was thinking such thoughts, the window’s iced-over shutters

opened with a loud burst, as if they’d exploded, and after twelve years, I saw

my beloved’s stunning face among snowy branches, framed by the window

whose icy trim shone brightly in the sunlight.

Was my dark-eyed beloved looking at me or at another life beyond me? I

couldn’t tell whether she was sad or smiling or smiling sadly. Foolish horse,

heed not my heart, slow down! I calmly twisted in my saddle again, fixing my

desirous stare for as long as possible, until her gaunt, elegant and mysterious

face disappeared behind the branches.

Much later, after opening her letter and seeing the illustration within, I

thought how my visit to her at the window on horseback closely resembled

that moment, pictured a thousand times, in which Hüsrev visits Shirin

beneath her window—only in our case, there was that melancholy tree

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between us. When I recognized this similarity, oh how I burned with a love

such as they describe in those books we so cherish and adore.

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I AM ESTHER

All of you, I know, are wondering what Shekure penned in that letter I

presented to Black. As this was also a curiosity of mine, I learned everything

there was to know. If you would, then, pretend you’re flipping back through

the pages of the story and let me tell you what occurred before I delivered that

letter.

Now, it’s getting on toward evening, I’ve retired to our house in the quaint

little Jewish quarter at the mouth of the Golden Horn with my husband

Nesim, two old people huffing and puffing, trying to keep warm by feeding

logs into the stove. Pay no mind to my calling myself “old.” When I load my

wares—items cheap and precious alike, certain to lure the ladies, rings,

earrings, necklaces and baubles—into the folds of silk handkerchiefs, gloves,

sheets and the colorful shirt cloth sent over in Portuguese ships, when I

shoulder that bundle, Esther’s a ladle and Istanbul’s a kettle, and there’s nary

a street I don’t visit. There isn’t a word of gossip or letter that I haven’t carried

from one door to the next, and I’ve played matchmaker to half the maidens of

Istanbul, but I didn’t begin this recital to brag. As I was saying, we were taking

our ease in the evening, and “rap, rap” someone was at the door. I went and

opened it to discover Hayriye, that idiot slave girl, standing before me. She

held a letter in her hand. I couldn’t tell whether it was from the cold or from

excitement, but she was trembling as she explained Shekure’s wishes.

At first, I assumed this letter was to be taken to Hasan, that’s why I was so

astonished. You know about pretty Shekure’s husband, the one who never

returned from the war—if you ask me, he’s long since had his hide pierced.

Well you see, that never-to-return soldier-husband also has an eager, lovesick

brother by the name of Hasan. So imagine my surprise when I saw that

Shekure’s letter wasn’t meant for Hasan, but for someone else. What did the

letter say? Esther was mad with curiosity, and in the end, I did succeed in

reading it.

But alas, we don’t know each other that well, do we? To be honest, I was

overcome with embarrassment and worry. How I read the letter you’ll never

know. Maybe you’ll shame and belittle me for my meddling—as if you

yourselves aren’t as nosy as barbers. I’ll just relate to you what I learned from

reading the letter. This is what sweet Shekure had written:

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Black Effendi, you’re a visitor to my house thanks to your close relations with

my father. But don’t expect a nod from me. Much has happened since you left. I

was wed, and have two strong and spirited sons. One of them is Orhan, he’s the

one whom you saw just now come to the workshop. While I’ve been awating the

return of my husband these four years, little else has entered my thoughts. I might

feel lonely, hopeless and weak living with my two children and an elderly father. I

miss the strength and protection of a man, but let no one assume he might take

advantage of my situation. Therefore, it would please me if you ceased calling on

us. You did embarrass me once before, and afterward, I had to endure much

suffering to regain my honor in my father’s eyes! Along with this letter, I’m also

returning the picture you painted and sent to me when you were an impulsive

youth with his wits not yet about him. I do this so you won’t harbor any false

hopes or misread any signs. It’s a mistake to believe that one could fall in love

gazing at a picture. It’d be best if you stopped coming to our house completely.

My poor Shekure, you’re neither a nobleman nor a pasha with a fancy seal

to stamp your letter! At the bottom of the page, she signed the first letter of

her name, which looked like a small, frightened bird. Nothing more.

I said “seal.” You’re probably wondering how I open and close these wax-

sealed letters. But in fact the letters aren’t sealed at all. “That Esther is an

illiterate Jew,” my dear Shekure had assumed. “She’ll never understand my

writing.” True, I can’t read what’s written, but I can always have someone else

read it. And as for what’s not written, I can quite readily “read” that myself.

Confused, are you?

Let me put it this way, so even the most thick-headed of you will

understand:

A letter doesn’t communicate by words alone. A letter, just like a book, can

be read by smelling it, touching it and fondling it. Thereby, intelligent folk will

say, “Go on then, read what the letter tells you!” whereas the dull-witted will

say, “Go on then, read what he’s written!” Listen, now, to what else Shekure

said:

1. Though I’ve sent this letter in secret, by relying on Esther, who’s made

letter-delivery a matter of commerce and custom, I’m signifying that I don’t

intend to conceal that much at all.

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2. That I’ve folded it up like a French pastry implies secrecy and mystery,

true. But the letter isn’t sealed and there’s a huge picture enclosed. The

apparent implication is, “Pray, keep our secret at all costs,” which more befits

an invitation to love than a letter of rebuke.

3. Furthermore, the smell of the letter confirms this interpretation. The

fragrance was faint enough to be ambiguous—did she intentionally perfume

the letter?—yet alluring enough to fire readers’ curiosity—is this the aroma of

attar or the smell of her hand? And a fragrance, which was enough to

enrapture the poor man who read the letter to me, will surely have the same

effect on Black.

4. I am Esther, who knows neither how to read nor write, but this I do

know: Although the flow of the script and the handwriting seems to say “Alas,

I am rushed, I am writing carelessly and without paying serious attention,”

these letters that twitter elegantly as if caught in a gentle breeze convey the

exact opposite message. Even her phrase “just now come” when referring to

Orhan, implying that the letter was written at that very moment, betrays a

ploy no less obvious than care taken in each line.

5. The picture sent along with the letter depicts pretty Shirin gazing at

handsome Hüsrev’s image and falling in love, as told in the story that even I,

Esther the Jewess, know well. All the lovelorn ladies of Istanbul adore this

story, but never have I known someone to send an illustration relating to it.

It happens all the time to you fortunate literate people: A maiden who

can’t read begs you to read a love letter she’s received. The letter is so

surprising, exciting and disturbing that its owner, though embarrassed at your

becoming privy to her most intimate affairs, ashamed and distraught, asks you

all the same to read it once more. You read it again. In the end, you’ve read the

letter so many times that both of you have memorized it. Before long, she’ll

take the letter in her hands and ask, “Did he make that statement there?” and

“Did he say that here?” As you point to the appropriate places, she’ll pore over

those passages, still unable to make sense of the words there. As she stares at

the curvy letters of the words, sometimes I am so moved I forget that I myself

can’t read or write and feel the urge to embrace those illiterate maidens whose

tears fall to the page.

Then there are those truly accursed letter-readers; pray, don’t you turn out

to be like one of them: When the maiden takes the letter in her own hands to

touch it again, desiring to look at it without understanding which words were

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spoken where, these beasts will say to her, “What are you trying to do? You

can’t read, what more do you want to look at?” Some of them won’t even

return the letter, treating it henceforth as if it belonged to them. At times, the

task of accosting them and retrieving the letter falls to me, Esther. That’s the

kind of good woman I am. If Esther likes you, she’ll come to your aid as well.

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I, SHEKURE

Oh, why was I there at the window just when Black rode by on his white

steed? Why did I open the shutters intuitively at that exact moment and stare

at him so long from behind the snowy branches of the pomegranate tree? I

can’t tell you for sure. I’d sent word to Esther by way of Hayriye. I was, of

course, well aware that Black would take that route. Meanwhile, I’d gone up

alone to the room with the built-in closet and the window facing the

pomegranate tree to inspect the sheets in the chest. On a whim, and at just

the right moment, I pushed the shutters open with all my strength and

sunlight flooded the room: Standing at the window, I came face-to-face with

Black, who, like the sun, dazzled me. Oh, it was quite lovely.

He’d grown and matured and, having lost his awkward youthful lankiness,

he turned out to be a comely man. Listen Shekure, my heart did tell me, he’s

not only handsome, look into his eyes, he possesses the heart of a child, so

pure, so alone: Marry him. I, however, sent him a letter wherein I’d given him

quite the opposite message.

Though he was twelve years my elder, when I was twelve, I was more mature

than he. Back then, instead of standing straight and tall before me in a fashion

befitting a man and announcing that he was going to do this or that, jump

from this spot or climb onto that thing, he’d just bury his face in some book

or picture, hiding as if everything embarrassed him. In time, he also fell in love

with me. He made a painting declaring his love. We’d both matured by then.

When I turned twelve, I sensed that Black could no longer look into my eyes,

as if he were afraid I’d discover he loved me. “Hand me that ivory-handled

knife,” he’d say, for example, looking at the knife but unable to look at me. If I

asked him, for instance, “Is the cherry sherbet to your liking?” he couldn’t

simply indicate so with a delicate smile or nod, as we do when our mouths are

full, you see. Instead, he’d scream “Yes” at the top of his lungs, as if trying to

communicate with a deaf man. He feared looking me in the face. I was a

maiden of striking beauty then. Any man who caught sight of me even once,

from afar, or from between parted curtains or yawning doors, or even through

the layers of my modest head coverings, immediately became enamored of me.

I’m not being a braggart, I’m explaining this so you’ll understand my story

and be better able to share in my grief.

In the well-known tale of Hüsrev and Shirin, there’s a moment that Black

and I had discussed at length. Hüsrev’s friend, Shapur, intends to make Hüsrev

and Shirin fall in love. One day Shirin embarks on a countryside outing with

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her ladies of the court, when she sees a picture of Hüsrev that Shapur has

secretly hung from the branch of one of the trees beneath which the outing

party has stopped to rest. Beholding this picture of the handsome Hüsrev in

that beautiful garden, Shirin is stricken by love. Many paintings depict this

moment—or “scene” as the miniaturists would have it—consisting of Shirin’s

look of adoration and bewilderment as she gazes upon the image of Hüsrev.