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of orange jam。 My father was in his darkened room with the blue door； my
feet were freezing。 I entered my room to the right beside the stairs holding a
lamp； and when I saw that the cabi had been opened； that the cushions had
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fallen out and the room had been ransacked； I assumed it was the naughty
work of Shevket and Orhan。 There was a silence in the house； not unusual； yet
unlike the usual silence。 I donned my house clothes and sat alone in the
darkness； and as I gave myself over to momentary daydreaming； my mind
registered a noise ing from below； directly below me； not from the kitchen
but from the large room next to the stable； used in summertime as the
illustrating workshop。 Had my father gone down there； in this cold？ I didn’t
remember seeing the light of an oil lamp there； suddenly； I heard the squeak of
the front door between the stone walkway and the courtyard； and afterward；
the cursed and ominous barking of the pesky dogs roaming past the courtyard
gate—I was alarmed； to put it mildly。
“Hayriye；” I shouted。 “Shevket； Orhan…”
I felt a cold draft。 My father’s brazier must be burning； I ought to sit with
him and warm up。 As I went to be with him； holding an oil lamp aloft； my
thoughts weren’t with Black any longer； but with the children。
I crossed the wide hall diagonally； wondering if I should set water to boil on
the downstairs brazier for the gray mullet soup。 I entered the room with the
blue door。 Everything was in shambles。 Without thinking； I was about to say；
“What has my father done？”
Then I saw him on the floor。
I screamed； overe with horror。 Then I screamed again。 Gazing at my
father’s body； I fell silent。
Listen； I can tell by your tight…lipped and cold…blooded reaction that you’ve
known for some time what’s happened in this room。 If not everything； then
quite a lot。 What you’re wondering about now is my reaction to what I’ve
seen； what I feel。 As readers sometimes do when studying a picture； you’re
trying to discern the pain of the hero and thinking about the events in the
story leading up to this agonizing moment。 And then； having considered my
reaction； you’ll take pleasure in trying to imagine； not my pain； but what
you’d feel in my place； had it been your father murdered like this。 I know this
is what you’re so craftily trying to do。
Yes； I returned home in the evening to discover that someone had killed my
father。 Yes； I tore out my hair。 Yes； as I would do in my childhood； I hugged
him with all my might and smelled his skin。 Yes； I trembled and I couldn’t
breathe。 Yes； I begged Allah to raise him up and have him sit silently in his
corner among his books as he always did。 Get up； Father； get up； don’t die。 His
bloodied head was crushed。 More than the torn papers and books； more than
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the breaking and tossing about of the end tables； paint sets and inkpots； more
than the wild destruction of cushions； worktables and writing boards； and the
ransacking of everything； more even than the anger that had killed my father； I
feared the hatred that had destroyed the room and everything within it。 I was
no longer crying。 A couple passed down the street outside； laughing and
talking in the blackness； meanwhile； I could hear the infinite silence of the
world in my mind； with my hands I wiped my running nose and the tears off
my cheeks。 For a long long time I thought about the children and our lives。
I listened to the silence。 I ran； I grabbed my father by the ankles and
dragged him into the hallway。 For whatever reason； he felt heavier out there；
but without paying any mind to this； I began to pull him down the stairs。
Halfway down； my strength gave out and I sat on a step。 I was on the verge of
tears again when I heard a noise that made me assume that Hayriye and the
children had returned。 I grabbed my father by the ankles； and pressing them
into my armpits； I continued to descend； faster this time。 My dear father’s
head had been so crushed and was so soaked in blood that it made the sound
of a wrung…out mop as it struck each step。 At the base of the stairs； I turned
his body； which now seemed to have grown lighter； and with one great effort；
dragging him across the stone floor； I took him into the summer painting
room。 In order to see within the pitch…black room； I hastened back out to the
stove in the kitchen。 When I returned with a candle I saw how thoroughly the
room where I’d dragged my father had been pillaged。 I was dumbstruck。
Who is it； my God； which one of them？
My mind was churning。 Closing the door tightly； I left my father in the
demolished room。 I grabbed a bucket from the kitchen； and filled it with water
from the well。 I climbed the stairs； and by the light of an oil lamp； I quickly
wiped away the blood in the hallway； on the staircase and everywhere else。 I
went back upstairs to my room； removed my bloodied clothes and put on
clean clothes。 Carrying the bucket and rag； I was about to enter the room with
the blue door when I heard the courtyard gate swing open。 The evening call to
prayer had begun。 I mustered all my strength； and holding the oil lamp in my
hand； I waited for them at the top of the stairs。
“Mother； we’re back；” Orhan said。
“Hayriye！ Where have you been！” I said forcefully； but as if I were
whispering； not shouting。
“But Mother； we didn’t stay out past the evening call to prayer…” Shevket
had begun to say。
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“Quiet！ Your grandfather is ill； he’s sleeping。”
“Ill？” said Hayriye from below。 She could tell from my silence that I was
angry： “Shekure； we waited for Kosta。 After the gray mullet arrived； without
tarrying； we picked bay leaves； then I bought the dried figs and cherries for the
children。”
I had the urge to go down and admonish Hayriye in a whisper； but I was
afraid that as I was going downstairs； the oil lamp I carried would illuminate
the wet steps and the drops of blood I’d missed in my haste。 The children
noisily climbed the stairs and then removed their shoes。
“Ah…ah…ah；” I said。 Guiding them toward our bedroom； “Not that way； your
grandfather’s sleeping； don’t go in there。”
“I’m going into the room with the blue door； to be by the brazier；” Shevket
said； “not to Grandfather’s room。”
“Your grandfather fell asleep in that room；” I whispered。
But I noticed that they hesitated for a moment。 “Let’s be certain that the
evil jinns that’ve possessed your grandfather and made him sick don’t set
upon the both of you as well；” I said。 “Go to your room； now。” I grabbed both
of them by their hands and put them into the room where we slept together。
“Tell me then； what were you doing out on the streets till this hour？” “We saw
some black beggars；” said Shevket。 “Where？” I asked。 “Were they carrying
flags？” “As we were climbing the hill。 They gave Hayriye a lemon。 Hayriye gave
them some money。 They were covered in snow。” “What else？” “They were
practicing shooting arrows at a target in the square。” “In this snow？” I said。
“Mother； I’m cold；” said Shevket。 “I’m going into the room with the blue
door。” “You’re not to leave this room；” I said。 “Otherwise you’ll die。 I’ll bring
you the brazier。” “Why do you say we’re going to die？” said Shevket。 “I’m
going to tell you something；” I said； “but you’re not to tell anyone； are we
understood？” They swore not to tell。 “While you were out； a pletely white
man who’d died and lost his color came here from a faraway country and
spoke to your grandfather。 It turns out he was a jinn。” They asked me where
the jinn came from。 “From the other side of the river；” I said。 “Where our
father is？” asked Shevket。 �