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to dream of the splendid life I would live in Hindustan off the splendid works
my talent would create！
I left the road； ran through two muddy gardens and took shelter beneath
an old stone house surrounded by greenery。 This was the house where I came
each Tuesday as an apprentice to get Master Osman and followed two paces
435
behind him carrying his bag； portfolio； pen box and writing board on our way
to the workshop。 Nothing had changed here； except the plane trees in the yard
and along the street had grown so large that an aura of grandeur； power and
wealth hearkening back to the time of Sultan Süleyman had settled over the
house and street。
Since the road leading to the harbor was near； I succumbed to the Devil’s
temptation； and was overe by the excitement of seeing the arches of the
workshop building where I’d spent a quarter century。 This was how I ended
up tracing the path that I’d take as an apprentice following Master Osman：
down Archer’s Street which smelled dizzyingly of linden blossoms in the
spring； past the bakery where my master would buy round meat pasties； up
the hill lined with beggars and quince and chestnut trees； past the closed
shutters of the new market and the barber whom my master greeted each
morning； alongside the empty field where acrobats would set up their tents in
summer and perform； in front of the foul…smelling rooming houses for
bachelors； beneath moldy…smelling Byzantine arches； before Ibrahim Pasha’s
palace and the column made up of three coiling snakes； which I’d drawn
hundreds of times； past the plane tree； which we depicted a different way each
time； emerging into the Hippodrome and under the chestnut and mulberry
trees wherein sparrows and magpies alighted and chirped madly in the
mornings。
The heavy door of the workshop was closed。 There was nobody at the
entrance or under the arched portico above。 I was able to look up only
momentarily at the shuttered small windows from which； as apprentices
stifled by boredom； we used to stare at the trees； before I was accosted。
He had a shrill voice that clawed at one’s ears。 He said that the bloody
ruby…handled dagger in my hand belonged to him and that his nephew；
Shevket； and Shekure had conspired to steal it from his house。 This was
apparently proof enough that I was one of Black’s men who raided his house
at night to abduct Shekure。 This arrogant； shrill…voiced； irate man also knew
Black’s artist friends and that they would return to the workshop。 He
brandished a long sword that shimmered brightly with a strange red and
indicated that he had a number of accounts that； for whatever reason； he
meant to settle with me。 I considered telling him that there was some
misunderstanding； but I saw the incredible anger on his face。 I could read in
his expression that he was about to launch a sudden murderous assault on me。
How I would’ve liked to say； “I beg of you； stop。”
But he’d already acted。
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I wasn’t even able to raise my dagger； I simply lifted the hand in which I
held my satchel。
The satchel dropped。 In one smooth motion； without losing speed； the
sword cut first through my hand and then clear through my neck； lopping off
my head。
I knew I’d been beheaded from the two odd steps taken by my poor body
which had left me behind in its confusion； from the stupid manner in which
my hand waved the dagger and from the way my lonely body collapsed； blood
spraying from the neck like a fountain。 My poor feet； which continued to
move as though still walking； kicked uselessly like the legs of a dying horse。
From the muddy ground upon which my head had fallen； I could neither
see my murderer nor my satchel full of gold pieces and pictures； which I still
wanted to cling to tightly。 These things were behind me； in the direction of the
hill leading down to the sea and Galleon Harbor which I would never reach。
My head would never again turn and see them； or the rest of the world。 I
forgot about them and let my thoughts take me away。
This is what occurred to me the moment before I was beheaded： The ship
shall depart from the harbor； this was joined in my mind with a mand to
hurry； it was the way my mother would say “hurry” when I was a child。
Mother； my neck aches and all is still。
This is what they call death。
But I knew that I wasn’t dead yet。 My punctured pupils were motionless；
but I could still see quite well through my open eyes。
What I saw from ground level filled my thoughts： The road inclining slightly
upward； the wall； the arch； the roof of the workshop； the sky…this is how the
picture receded。
It seemed as if this moment of observation went on and on and I realized
seeing had bee a variety of memory。 I was reminded of what I thought
when staring for hours at a beautiful picture： If you stare long enough your
mind enters the time of the painting。
All time had now bee this time。
It seemed as if no one would see me； as my thoughts faded away； my mud…
covered head would go on staring at this melancholy incline； the stone wall
and the nearby yet unattainable mulberry and chestnut trees for years。
This endless waiting suddenly assumed such bitter and tedious proportions；
I wanted nothing more than to quit this time。
437
I； SHEKURE
Black had hidden us away in the house of a distant relative； where I spent a
sleepless night。 In the bed where I curled up with Hayriye and the children； I
was occasionally able to nod off amid the sounds of snoring and coughing； but
in my restless dreams； I saw strange creatures and women whose arms and legs
had been severed and randomly reattached； they wouldn’t stop chasing me
and continually woke me。 Toward morning； the cold roused me and I covered
Shevket and Orhan； embracing them； kissing their heads and begging Allah for
pleasant dreams； such as I’d enjoyed during the blissful days when I slept in
peace under my late father’s roof。
I couldn’t sleep； however。 After the morning prayers； looking out on the
street through the shutters of the window in the small； dark room； I saw what
I’d always seen in my happy dreams： A ghostly man； exhausted from warring
and the wounds he’d received； brandishing a stick as if it were a sword；
longingly approach me with familiar steps。 In my dream； whenever I was on
the verge of embracing this man； I’d awake in tears。 When I saw the man in
the street was Black； the scream that would never leave my throat in dreams
sounded。
I ran and opened the door。
His face was swollen and bruised purple from fighting。 His nose was
mangled and covered in blood。 He had a large gash from his shoulder to his
neck。 His shirt had turned bright red from the blood。 Like the husband of my
dreams； Black smiled at me faintly because he had； in the end； successfully
returned。
“Get inside；” I said。
“Call for the children；” he said。 “We’re going home。”
“You’re in no condition to return home。”
“There’s no reason to fear him anymore；” he said。 “The murderer is Velijan
Effendi； the Persian。”
“Olive…” I said。 “Did you kill that miserable rogue？”
“He’s fled to India on the ship that departed from Galleon Harbor；” he said
and avoided my eyes； knowing that he hadn’t properly acplished his task。
“Will you be able to walk back to our house？” I said。 “Shall we have them
bring a horse for you？”
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I sensed that he would die upon arriving home and I pitied him。 Not
because he would die alone； but because he’d never known any true
happiness。 I could see from the sorrow and determination in his eyes that he
wished not to be in this strange house； and that he actually wanted to
disappear without being seen by anybody