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Hasan’s letter。 He was on the verge of madness：
Shekure； I’m burning with desire； yet I know you’re not in the least concerned。
In my dreams； I see myself chasing you over deserted hilltops。 Every time you leave
one of my letters—that I know you read—unanswered； a three…feathered arrow
pierces my heart。 I’m writing in hopes that you’ll respond this time。 The word is
out； everyone’s spreading the news； even your children are saying it： You’ve
dreamed that your husband has died； and now you claim that you’re free。 I cannot
say whether or not it’s true。 What I do know is that you’re still married to my
older brother and bound to this household。 Now that my father finds me justified；
we’re both going to the judge to have you returned here。 We’ll be ing with a
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group of men we’ve assembled； so let your father be forewarned。 Collect your
things； you’re to e back to this house。 Send your response with Esther
immediately。
After reading the letter a second time； I pulled myself together and gazed at
Esther with questioning eyes； but she told me nothing new about Hasan or
Black。
I pulled out the reed pen that I kept hidden in a corner of the pantry；
placed a sheet of paper on the breadboard and was about to begin writing a
letter to Black when I froze。
Something came to mind。 I turned toward Esther： She’d fallen upon the
rosewater sherbet with the joy of a chubby child and so it seemed ridiculous
to me that she could be aware of what was going through my mind。
“See how sweetly you’re smiling； my dear；” she said。 “Don’t worry； in the
end everything will be all right。 Istanbul is rife with rich gentlemen and pashas
who’d give their souls to be wed to a stunning beauty； possessed of so many
talents like yourself。”
You understand what I’m talking about： Sometimes you’ll say something
you’re convinced of； but no sooner do the words leave your mouth than you
ask yourself； “Why did I say this so halfheartedly； even though I believe it
through and through？” That was what happened when I said the following：
“But Esther； who’d want to marry a widow with two kids； for Heaven’s
sake？”
“A widow like you？ Plenty； a slew of men；” she said； conveying them all
with a hand gesture。
I looked into her eyes。 I was thinking I did not like her。 I fell so silent that
she knew I wasn’t going to give her a letter and even that it would be better if
she left。 After Esther had gone； I withdrew to my own corner of the house as
though I could feel my silence—how should I put it—in my soul。
Leaning on the wall； for a long while I stood still in the blackness。 I thought
of myself； of what I should do； of the fear that was growing within me。 All the
while I could hear Shevket and Orhan chattering upstairs。
“And you’re as timid as a girl；” said Shevket。 “You only attack from behind。”
“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