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circulate； changing and spreading until it found its way back to me； I’d be the
first to believe the good news。
When the main support of the household vanished； we fell upon hard
times。 We were living in a rented house in Charsh？kap？ with my husband’s
gentlemanly Abkhazian father； who’d never lived an easy life； and his brother；
who had green eyes as well。 My father…in…law； who left his mirror…making
business after his oldest son made his fortune soldiering； returned to take up
his trade at a late age。 Hasan； my husband’s bachelor brother； worked in
customs； and as he prospered he made plans to assume the role of “man of
the house。” One winter； fearing they wouldn’t be able to pay rent； they hastily
took the slave who saw to the household chores to the slave market and sold
her； after which they wanted me to do the kitchen work； wash the clothes and
even go out to the bazaars to do the shopping in her stead。 I didn’t protest by
saying； “Am I the type of woman to take on such drudgery？” I swallowed my
pride and went to work。 But when that brother…in…law of mine Hasan； now
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without his slave girl to take into his room at night； began forcing my door； I
didn’t know what to do。
Of course； I could’ve immediately e back here to the home of my
father； but according to the kadi judge my husband was legally alive； and were
I to anger my in…laws； they might not stop at forcing my children and me back
to my husband’s home； but humiliate us further by having me and my father；
who had “detained” me； punished。 To tell the truth； I could’ve loved Hasan；
whom I found to be more humane and reasonable than my husband； and who
was obviously very much in love with me。 But if I were to do this without
careful thought； I might find myself； God forbid； his slave instead of his wife。
In any event； because they were afraid that I would demand my portion of the
inheritance and then abandon them and return to my father with the
children； they； too； weren’t eager for a judge’s decision proclaiming my
husband’s death。 If； in the eyes of the judge； my husband wasn’t dead； I
naturally couldn’t wed Hasan； nor could I marry anyone else。 Because this
dilemma bound me to that house and that marriage； my in…laws preferred my
having a “missing” husband； and the continuation of this vague situation。 For
lest you forget； I saw to all their household chores； I did everything from their
cooking to their laundry； and furthermore； one of them was madly in love
with me。
When my father…in…law and Hasan grew dissatisfied with this arrangement
and decided it was time for me to marry Hasan； it was necessary first to
arrange for the witnesses to convince the judge of my husband’s death。 Thus；
if my missing husband’s closest kin； his father and brother； accepted his death；
if there was no longer anyone who objected to declaring my husband dead；
and if； for the price of a few silver coins； witnesses would testify that they’d
seen the man’s corpse in the field of battle； the judge would also oblige。 It
would be most difficult to convince Hasan once I was declared a widow that I
wouldn’t leave the household； demand my inheritance rights or ask for money
to marry him； and moreover； that I’d marry him of my own free will。
Naturally； I knew that to gain his trust in this regard； I’d have to sleep with
him in a very convincing manner so he’d be pletely assured I was giving
myself to him； not to get his permission to divorce my husband； but because I
was sincerely in love with him。
With some effort； I could’ve fallen in love with Hasan。 He was eight years
younger than my missing husband； and when my husband was at home；
Hasan was like my little brother； and this sentiment endeared him to me。 I
liked his humble and passionate demeanor； his pleasure in playing with my
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children and even the way he desirously looked at me as though he were dying
of thirst and I were a glass of cold sour…cherry sherbet。 On the other hand； I
also knew I’d really have to force myself to fall in love with a man who made
me wash clothes and didn’t mind my having to wander through markets and
bazaars like a mon slave。 During those days when I’d go to my father’s
house and cry endlessly as I stared at the pots； pans； bowls and cups； during
those nights when the children and I would sleep cuddled up together in
solidarity； Hasan never gave me cause for a change of heart。 He had no faith
that I could love him or that this essential and mandatory precondition for
our marriage would manifest itself； and because he had no confidence in
himself； he acted inappropriately。 He tried to corner me； kiss me and fondle
me。 He declared that my husband would never return； that he would kill me。
He threatened me； cried like a baby and in his haste and fluster； never allowed
time for a true and noble love to be born。 I knew I could never wed him。
One night； when he tried to force the door of the room where I slept with
the children； I rose immediately； and without a thought that I might frighten
them； screamed at the top of my lungs that evil jinns had entered the house。
This fit of jinn…panic and screaming awakened my father…in…law and thereby
exposed Hasan； whose excited violence was still visible； to his father。 Amid my
ridiculous howls and inane rantings about jinns； the staid old man to his
embarrassment acknowledged the awful truth： His son was besotted and had
inappropriately approached his brother’s wife； a mother of two。 My father…in…
law made no reply when I said I wouldn’t sleep a wink till morning； keeping
watch at the door to protect my children against “the jinns。” The following
day； I announced that I’d be returning to my father’s home with my children
for an extended stay to care for him in his time of illness； thus did Hasan
accept his defeat。 I returned to my father’s house； taking with me as
mementos of my married life the clock with bells plundered from Hungarian
lands by my husband （who’d never succumbed to the temptation to sell it）；
the whip made from the sinews of the most explosive of Arab steeds； the
Tabriz…made ivory chess set whose pieces the children used to play war and the
silver candlesticks （booty from the Battle of Nahjivan）； which I’d fought so
desperately to keep when money was short。
As I expected； quitting my absent husband’s house turned Hasan’s
obsessive and disrespectful love into a hopeless inferno。 Knowing full well that
his father wouldn’t stand behind him； instead of threatening me； he sought
my pity by sending me love letters in whose corners he drew forlorn birds；
teary…eyed lions and sad gazelles。 I won’t hide from you the fact that I’ve
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recently begun to read them anew； those letters that reveal Hasan’s rich
imagination； of which I wasn’t aware when we lived together under the same
roof—assuming he didn’t enlist one of his more artistic or poetic friends to
write and embellish them。 In his last letter； Hasan pledged that I would no
longer be a slave to housework； and that he’d made a lot of money。 This
disclosure in his sweet； respectful and humorous tone； pounded by the
endless fights and demands of the children； and my father’s plaints；
turned my head into a veritable kettledrum。 Indeed； it was in order to heave a
sigh of relief to the world that I’d opened the shutters of that window。
Before Hayriye set the dinner table； I prepared a draught of bitters from the
best Arabian date palm flower； I mixed in a spoonful of honey and a little
lemon juice； then quietly entered my father’s pany as he was reading the
Book of the Soul； and like