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“My tooth is loose;” said Orhan。
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At the same time; another part of my mind was concentrating on what was
transpiring between my father and Black。
The blue door of the workshop was open; and I could easily hear them:
“After beholding the portraits of the Veian masters; we realize with
horror;” said my father; “that; in painting; eyes can no longer simply be holes
in a face; always the same; but must be just like our own eyes; which reflect
light like a mirror and absorb it like a well。 Lips can no longer be a crack in the
middle of faces flat as paper; but must be nodes of expression—each a
different shade of red—fully expressing our joys; sorrows and spirits with their
slightest contraction or relaxation。 Our noses can no longer be a kind of wall
that divides our faces; but rather; living and curious instruments with a form
unique to each of us。”
Was Black as surprised as I was that my father referred to those infidel
gentlemen who had their pictures made as “we”? When I looked through the
peephole; I found Black’s face to be so pale that I was momentarily alarmed。
My dark beloved; my troubled hero; were you unable to sleep for thinking of
me the whole night? Is that why the blush has left your face?
Perhaps you aren’t aware that Black is a tall; thin and handsome man。 He
has a broad forehead; almond…shaped eyes and a strong; straight; elegant nose。
As in his childhood; his hands are long and thin and his fingers are jittery and
agile。 He’s wiry; and stands straight and tall; with shoulders on the broad side;
but not as broad as those of a water carrier。 When he was younger; his body
and his face hadn’t yet settled。 Twelve years later; when I first laid eyes on him
from this dark refuge of mine; I immediately saw that he’d attained a kind of
perfection。
Now; when I bring my eye right up to the hole; I see on his face the worry
that plagues him。 I felt at once guilty and proud that he’d suffered so on my
account。 Black listened to what my father said; gazing upon an illustration
made for the book; with a look pletely innocent and childlike。 Just then;
when I saw that he’d opened his pink mouth as a child would have; I
unexpectedly felt; yes; like putting my breast into it。 With my fingers on his
nape and tangled in his hair; Black would place his head between my breasts;
and as my own children used to do; he’d roll his eyes back into his head with
pleasure as he sucked on my nipple: After understanding that only through my
passion would he find peace; he’d bee pletely bound to me。
I perspired faintly and imagined Black marveling at the size of my breasts
with surprise and intensity—rather than studying the illustration of the Devil
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that my father was actually showing him。 Not only my breasts; but as if drunk
with the vision of me; he was gazing at my hair; my neck; at all of me。 He was
so attracted to me that he was giving voice to those sweet nothings he
couldn’t summon as a youth; from his glances; I realized how he was in awe of
my proud demeanor; my manners; my upbringing; the way I waited patiently
and bravely for my husband; and the beauty of the letter I’d written him。
I felt anger toward my father; who was setting things up so I wouldn’t be
able to marry again。 I was also fed up with those illustrations he was having
the miniaturists make in imitation of the Frankish masters; and I was sick of
his recollections of Venice。
When I closed my eyes again—Allah; it wasn’t my own desire—in my
thoughts; Black had approached me so sweetly that in the dark I could feel him
beside me。 Suddenly; I sensed that he’d e up from behind me; he was
kissing the nape of my neck; the back of my ears; and I could feel how strong
he was。 He was solid; large and hard; and I could lean on him。 I felt secure。 My
nape tingled; my nipples were stiffening。 It seemed as if there in the dark; with
my eyes closed; I could feel his enlarged member behind me; close to me。 My
head spun。 What was Black’s like? I wondered。
At times in my dreams; my husband in his agony shows his to me。 I e
to the awareness that my husband is struggling to keep his bloody body;
lanced and shot with Persian arrows; walking upright as he approaches。 But
sadly; there is a river between us。 As he calls to me from the opposite bank;
covered in blood and suffering terribly; I notice that he has bee erect。 If it’s
true what the Georgian bride said at the public bath; and if there’s truth to
what the old hags say; “Yes; it grows that large;” then my husband’s wasn’t so
big。 If Black’s is bigger; if that enormous thing I saw under Black’s belt when
he took up the empty piece of paper I’d sent by Shevket yesterday; if that was
actually it—and it surely was—I’m afraid I’ll suffer great pain; if it even fits
inside me at all。
“Mother; Shevket is mocking me。”
I left the black corner of the closet; quietly passing into the room across the
hall; where I removed the red broadcloth vest from the chest and put it on。
They’d spread out my mattress and were shouting and frolicking on it。
“Didn’t I warn you that when Black visits you aren’t to shout; did I not?”
“Mama; why did you put that red vest on?” Shevket asked。
“But Mother; Shevket was mocking me;” Orhan said。
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“Didn’t I tell you not to mock him? And what’s this foul thing doing here?”
Off to the side there was a piece of animal hide。
“It’s a carcass;” Orhan said。 “Shevket found it on the street。”
“Quick; take it and throw it back where you found it; now。”
“Let Shevket do it。”
“I said now!”
As I would do before I slapped them; I bit my lower lip angrily; and seeing
how serious I really was; they fled in fright。 I hope they return soon so they
don’t catch cold。
Of all the miniaturists; I liked Black the best。 He liked me more than the
others did and I understood his soul。 I took out pen and paper; and in one
sitting; without having to think; I wrote the following:
All right then; before the evening prayer is called; I’ll meet you at the house of
the Hanged Jew。 Finish my father’s book as soon as possible。
I did not reply to Hasan。 Even if he was actually going to the judge today; I
didn’t believe that the men he and his father were assembling would raid our
house immediately。 If he were indeed ready to take such action he’d have done
so without writing a letter or awaiting my reply。 He’s surely awaiting my
response; and; when it doesn’t arrive; it’ll drive him mad。 Only then will he
begin assembling people and prepare to abduct me。 Don’t think I’m not afraid
of him at all。 But; I’m counting on Black to protect me。 Anyway; let me tell you
what’s going on in my heart just now: I believe I’m not so afraid of Hasan
because I love him as well。
If you object and think to yourselves; “Now what is this love about?” I’d
find you justified。 It’s not that I failed to notice during the years we waited
under the same roof for my husband’s return; how pitiful; weak and selfish
this man was。 But now that Esther tells me he earns a lot of money—and I can
always tell when she’s being truthful from her raised eyebrows—since he has
money; and with it self…confidence; the overbearing Hasan has surely
disappeared; exposing the dark; jinnlike peculiarity that attracts me to him。 I
discovered this side of him through the letters he stubbornly sent to me。
Both Black and Hasan have suffered for their love of me。 Black disappeared;
traveling for twelve years。 The other; Hasan; sent me letters every day; in the
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corners of which he’d illustrated birds and gazelles。 At first I was frightened of
him; but later; I loved to read his letters again and again。
As I well knew that Hasan was thoroughly curious about everything having
to do with me; I wasn’t surprised that he knew I’d seen my husband’s corpse
in a dream。 What I suspected was that Esther was letting Hasan read the
letters I’d sent to Black。 That’s why I sent no response to Black by way of
Esther。 You know better than I whether my suspicions are justified。
“Where were you?” I said to the children when they returned。
They quickly understood that I wasn’t really angry。 Discreetly; I pulled
Shevket aside; to the edge of the darkened closet。 I lifted him onto my lap。 I
kissed his head and the nape of his neck。
“You’re cold; my dear;” I said。 “Give me those pretty hands of yours so
Mother can warm them up…”
His hands had a foul smell; but I didn’t ment。 Pressing his head to my
bosom; I gave him a long hug。 In a short time he warmed up; relaxing like a
kitten; sweetly mewling with pleasure。
“So then; you love your mother quite a lot; don’t you?”
“Ummmhmmm。”
“Is that a ”yes‘?“
“Yes。”
“More than anybody else?”
“Yes。”
“Then I’m going to tell you something;” I said as if divulging a secret。 “But
you won’t tell anyone; all right?” I whispered in his ear: “I love you more than
anyone; you know that?”
“More than Orhan; even?”
“More than Orhan; even。 Orhan’s young; like a small bird; he doesn’t
understand anything。 You’re smarter; you’re able to understand。” I kissed and
smelled his hair。 “So; I’m going to ask you a favor。 Remember how you secretly
brought Black a blank piece of paper yesterday? You’ll do the same today; all
right?”
“He’s the one who killed Father。”
“What?”
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“He killed my father。 He himself said so yesterday in the house of the
Hanged Jew。”
“What did he say?”
“”I killed your father;“ he said。 ”I’ve killed plenty of men;“ he said。”
Suddenly something happened。 Shevket slid down my lap and began to cry。
Why was this child crying now? All right then; I confess; I must’ve been unable
to control myself just then; and I slapped him。 I wouldn’t want anyone to
think I was hard…hearted。 But how could he say such nonsense about a man
I’d been making arrangements to marry—and that; with the well…being of
these boys in mind。
My poor little fatherless boy was still crying; and all at once; this upset me
greatly。 I; too; was on the verge of tears。 We hugged each other。 He hiccuped
occasionally。 Did this slap merit so much crying? I stroked his hair。
This is how it all began: The previous day; as you know; I’d told my father in
passing that I’d dreamed my husband had died。 Actually; as happened quite
frequently over these four years during which my husband never returned
from battling the Persians; I dreamed of him fleetingly; and there was also a
corpse; but was he the corpse? This was a mystery to me。
Dreams are always used as a means to other ends。 In Portugal; from where
Esther’s grandmother had emigrated; it seems dream