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deserve。”
In the past； such exchanges wouldn’t have angered me。 I wouldn’t have
taken them seriously。 Hasan’s father opened the door。 He was an Abkhazian； a
noble gentleman and polite。
“Let’s have a look； then； what have you brought with you this time？” he
said。
“Is that slothful son of yours still asleep？”
“How could he be sleeping？ He’s waiting； expecting news from you。”
This house is so dark that each time I visit； I feel as if I’ve entered a tomb。
Shekure never asks what they’re up to； but I always make a point of carping
about the place so she won’t even consider returning to this crypt。 It’s hard to
imagine that lovely Shekure was once mistress of this house and that she lived
here with her rascally boys。 Within； it smelled of sleep and death。 I entered the
next room； moving farther into the blackness。
You couldn’t see your hand before your face。 I didn’t even have the chance
to present the letter to Hasan。 He appeared out of the darkness and snatched it
from my hand。 As I always did； I left him alone to read the letter and satisfy his
curiosity。 He soon raised his head from the page。
“Isn’t there anything else？” he said。 He knew there was nothing else。 “This
is a brief note；” he said and read
Black Effendi； you pay visits to our home； and spend your days here。 Yet I’ve
heard that you haven’t written even a single line of my father’s book。 Don’t get
your hopes up without first pleting that manuscript。
Letter in hand； he glared accusingly into my eyes； as if all this was my fault。
I’m not fond of these silences in this house。
“There’s no longer any word of her being married； of her husband
returning from the front；” he said。 “Why？”
“How should I know why？” I said。 “I’m not the one who writes the letters。”
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“Sometimes I wonder even about that；” he said； handing back the letter
along with fifteen silver。
“Some men grow stingier the more they earn。 You’re not that way；” I said。
There was such an enchanting； intelligent side to this man that despite all
his dark and evil traits； one could see why Shekure would still accept his letters。
“What is this book of Shekure’s father？”
“You know！ Our Sultan is funding the whole project they say。”
“Miniaturists are murdering each other over the pictures in that book；” he
said。 “Is it for the money or—God forbid—because the book desecrates our
religion？ They say one glance at its pages is enough to bring on blindness。”
He said all this； smiling in such a way that I knew I shouldn’t take any of it
seriously。 Even if it were a matter to take to heart； at the very least； there was
nothing for him to take seriously about me taking the matter seriously。 Like
many of the men who depended on my services as a letter courier and
mediator； Hasan lashed out at me when his pride was hurt。 I； as part of my
job； pretended to be upset to hearten him。 Maidens； on the contrary； hugged
me and cried when their feelings were hurt。
“You’re an intelligent woman；” said Hasan in order to soothe my pride；
which he believed he’d injured。 “Deliver this posthaste。 I’m curious about that
fool’s response。”
For a moment； I felt like saying； “Black is not so foolish。” In such situations；
making rival suitors jealous of each other will earn Esther the matchmaker
more money。 But I was afraid he’d have a sudden tantrum。
“You know the Tatar beggar at the end of the street？” I said。 “He’s very
vulgar； that one。”
To avoid getting into it with the blind man； I walked down the other end of
the street and thus happened to pass through the Chicken Market early in the
morning。 Why don’t Muslims eat the heads and feet of chickens？ Because
they’re so strange！ My grandmother； may she rest in peace； would tell me how
chicken feet were so inexpensive when her family arrived here from Portugal
that she’d boil them for food。
At Kemeraral？k； I saw a woman on horseback with her slaves； sitting bolt
upright like a man。 She was proud as proud could be； maybe the wife of a
pasha or his rich daughter。 I sighed。 If Shekure’s father hadn’t been so
absentmindedly devoted to books； if her husband had returned from the
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Safavid war with his plunder； Shekure might’ve lived like this haughty woman。
More than anyone； she deserved it。
When I turned onto Black’s street； my heart quickened。 Did I want Shekure
to marry this man？ I’ve succeeded both in keeping Shekure involved with
Hasan and； at the same time； in keeping them apart。 But what about this
Black？ He seems to have both feet on the ground in all respects except with
regard to his love for Shekure。
“Clothierrrrr！”
There’s nothing I’d trade for the pleasure of delivering letters to lovers
addled by loneliness or the lack of wife or husband。 Even if they’re certain of
receiving the worst news； when they’re about to read the letter； a shudder of
hope overes them。
By not mentioning anything about her husband’s return； by tying her
warning “Don’t get your hopes up” to one condition alone； Shekure had； of
course； given Black more than just cause to be hopeful。 With great pleasure； I
watched him read the letter。 He was so happy he was distraught； afraid even。
When he withdrew to write his response； I； being a sensible clothes peddler；
spread open my decoy “delivery” satchel and withdrew from it a dark money
purse； which I attempted to sell to Black’s nosy landlady。
“This is made of the best Persian velvet；” I said。
“My son died at war in Persia；” she said。 “Whose letters do you deliver to
Black？”
I could read from her face that she was making plans to set up her own
wiry daughter； or who knows whose daughter； with lionhearted Black。 “No
one’s；” I said。 “A poor relative of his who’s on his deathbed in the
Bayrampasha sickhouse and needs money。”
“Oh my；” she said； unconvinced； “who is the unfortunate man？”
“How did your son die in the war？” I asked stubbornly。
We began to glare at each other with hostility。 She was a widow and all
alone。 Her life must’ve been quite difficult。 If you ever happen to bee a
clothier…cum…messenger like Esther； you’ll soon learn that only wealth； might
and legendary romances stir people’s curiosity。 Everything else is but worry；
separation； jealousy； loneliness； enmity； tears； gossip and never…ending poverty。
Such things never change； just like the objects that furnish a home： a faded old
kilim； a ladle and small copper pan resting on an empty baking sheet； tongs
and an ash box resting beside the stove； two worn chests—one small； one
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large—a turban stand maintained to conceal the widow’s solitary life and an
old sword to scare thieves off。
Black hastily returned with his money purse。 “Clothier woman；” he said；
making himself heard to the meddling landlady rather than myself。 “Take this
and bring it to our suffering patient。 If he has any response for me； I’ll be
waiting。 You can find me at Master Enishte’s house； where I’ll spend the rest
of the day。”
There’s no need for all of these games。 No cause for a young brave…heart like
Black to hide his amatory maneuvers； the signals he receives； the handkerchiefs
and letters he sends in pursuit of a maiden。 Or does he truly have his eye on
his landlady’s daughter？ At times； I didn’t trust Black at all and was afraid that
he was deceiving Shekure terribly。 How is it that； despite spending his entire
day with Shekure in the same house； he’s incapable of giving her a sign？
Once I was outside； I opened the purse。 It contained twelve silver coins and
a letter。 I was so curious about the letter that I nearly ran to Hasan。 Vegetable…
sellers had spread out cabbage； carrots and the rest in front of their