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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第9部分
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return the letter； treating it henceforth as if it belonged to them。 At times； the
task of accosting them and retrieving the letter falls to me； Esther。 That’s the
kind of good woman I am。 If Esther likes you； she’ll e to your aid as well。
44
I； SHEKURE
Oh； why was I there at the window just when Black rode by on his white
steed？ Why did I open the shutters intuitively at that exact moment and stare
at him so long from behind the snowy branches of the pomegranate tree？ I
can’t tell you for sure。 I’d sent word to Esther by way of Hayriye。 I was； of
course； well aware that Black would take that route。 Meanwhile； I’d gone up
alone to the room with the built…in closet and the window facing the
pomegranate tree to inspect the sheets in the chest。 On a whim； and at just
the right moment； I pushed the shutters open with all my strength and
sunlight flooded the room： Standing at the window； I came face…to…face with
Black； who； like the sun； dazzled me。 Oh； it was quite lovely。
He’d grown and matured and； having lost his awkward youthful lankiness；
he turned out to be a ely man。 Listen Shekure； my heart did tell me； he’s
not only handsome； look into his eyes； he possesses the heart of a child； so
pure； so alone： Marry him。 I； however； sent him a letter wherein I’d given him
quite the opposite message。
Though he was twelve years my elder； when I was twelve； I was more mature
than he。 Back then； instead of standing straight and tall before me in a fashion
befitting a man and announcing that he was going to do this or that； jump
from this spot or climb onto that thing； he’d just bury his face in some book
or picture； hiding as if everything embarrassed him。 In time； he also fell in love
with me。 He made a painting declaring his love。 We’d both matured by then。
When I turned twelve； I sensed that Black could no longer look into my eyes；
as if he were afraid I’d discover he loved me。 “Hand me that ivory…handled
knife；” he’d say； for example； looking at the knife but unable to look at me。 If I
asked him； for instance； “Is the cherry sherbet to your liking？” he couldn’t
simply indicate so with a delicate smile or nod； as we do when our mouths are
full； you see。 Instead； he’d scream “Yes” at the top of his lungs； as if trying to
municate with a deaf man。 He feared looking me in the face。 I was a
maiden of striking beauty then。 Any man who caught sight of me even once；
from afar； or from between parted curtains or yawning doors； or even through
the layers of my modest head coverings； immediately became enamored of me。
I’m not being a braggart； I’m explaining this so you’ll understand my story
and be better able to share in my grief。
In the well…known tale of Hüsrev and Shirin； there’s a moment that Black
and I had discussed at length。 Hüsrev’s friend； Shapur； intends to make Hüsrev
and Shirin fall in love。 One day Shirin embarks on a countryside outing with
45
her ladies of the court； when she sees a picture of Hüsrev that Shapur has
secretly hung from the branch of one of the trees beneath which the outing
party has stopped to rest。 Beholding this picture of the handsome Hüsrev in
that beautiful garden； Shirin is stricken by love。 Many paintings depict this
moment—or “scene” as the miniaturists would have it—consisting of Shirin’s
look of adoration and bewilderment as she gazes upon the image of Hüsrev。
While Black was working with my father； he’d seen this picture many times
and had twice made exact copies by eyeing the original as he painted。 After
falling in love with me； he made a copy for himself。 But this time in place of
Hüsrev and Shirin； he portrayed himself and me； Black and Shekure。 If it
weren’t for the captions beneath the figures； only I would’ve known who the
man and maiden in the picture were； because sometimes when we were joking
around； he’d depict us in the same manner and color： I all in blue； he all in
red。 And if this weren’t indication enough； he’d also written our names
beneath the figures。 He’d left the painting where I would find it and run off。
He watched me to see what my reaction to his position would be。
I was well aware that I wouldn’t be able to love him like a Shirin； so I
feigned ignorance。 On the evening of that summer’s day when Black gave me
his painting； during which we’d tried to cool ourselves with sour…cherry
sherbets made with ice said to have been brought all the way from snow…
capped Mount Ulu； I told my father that he’d made a declaration of love。 At
that time； Black had just graduated from the religious school。 He taught in
remote neighborhoods and； more out of my father’s insistence than his own
desire； Black was attempting to obtain the patronage of the powerful and
esteemed Naim Pasha。 But according to my father； Black didn’t yet have his
wits about him。 My father； who’d taken great pains to win Black a place in
Naim Pasha’s circle； at least as a clerk to begin； plained that he wasn’t
doing much to further his own cause； in other words； Black was being an
ignoramus。 And that very night in reference to Black and me； my father
declared； “I think he’s set his sights very high； this impoverished nephew；” and
without regard for my mother’s presence； he added； “he’s smarter than we’d
supposed。”
I remember with misery what my father did in the following days； how I
kept my distance from Black and how he ceased to visit our house； but I won’t
explain all of this for fear that you’ll dislike my father and me。 I swear to you；
we had no other choice。 You know how in such situations reasonable people
immediately sense that love without hope is simply hopeless； and
understanding the limits of the illogical realm of the heart； make a quick end
46
of it by politely declaring； “They didn’t find us suitably matched。 That’s just
the way it is。” But； I’ll have you know that my mother said several times； “At
least don’t break the boy’s heart。” Black； whom my mother referred to as a
“boy；” was twenty…four； and I was half his age。 Because my father considered
Black’s declaration of love an act of insolence； he wouldn’t humor my
mother’s wishes。
Though we hadn’t forgotten him altogether by the time we received news
that he’d left Istanbul； we’d let him slip pletely out of our affections。
Because we hadn’t received news about him from any city for years； I deemed
it appropriate to save the picture he’d made and shown me； as a token of our
childhood memories and friendship。 To prevent my father； and later my
soldier…husband； from discovering the picture and getting upset or jealous； I
expertly concealed the names “Shekure” and “Black” beneath the figures by
making it appear as if someone had dribbled my father’s Hasan Pasha ink onto
them； in an accident later to be disguised as flowers。 Since I’ve returned that
picture to him today； maybe those among you inclined to take a dim view of
how I revealed myself to him at the window will feel ashamed and reconsider
your prejudices somewhat。
Having exposed my face to him； I remained for a while there at the window；
showered in the crimson hue of the evening sun； and gazed in awe at the
garden bathed in reddish…orange light； until I felt the chill of the evening air。
There was no breeze。 I didn’t care what someone passing in the street would’ve
said upon seeing me at the open window。 One of Ziver Pasha’s daughters；
Mesrure； who always laughed and enjoyed herself saying the most surprising
things at the most inopportune times when we went merrily and playfully to
the public baths each week； once told me that a person never knows exactly
what she herself is thinking。 This is what I know： Sometimes I’ll say something
and realize upon uttering it that it is of my own thinking； but no sooner do I
arrive at that realization than I’m convinced the very opposite is true。
I was sorry when poor Elegant Effendi； one of the miniaturists my father
often invited to the house—and I won’t pretend I haven’t spied on each of
them—went missing； much like my unfortunate husband。 “Elegant” was the
ugliest among them and the most impoverished of spirit。
I closed the shutters； left the room and went down to the kitchen。
“Mother； Shevket didn’t listen to you；” Orhan said。 “While Black was
taking his horse out of the stable； Shevket left the kitchen and spied on him
from the peephole。”
47
“What of it！” Shevket said； waving his hand in the air。 “Mother spied on
him from the hole in the closet。”
“Hayriye；” I said。 “Fry some bread in a little butter and serve it to them
with marzipan and sugar。”
Orhan jumped up and down with joy though Shevket was silent。 But as I
walked back upstairs； they both caught up to me； screaming； pushing and
shoving by me excitedly。 “Be slow； slow down；” I said with a laugh。 “You
rascals。” I patted them on their delicate backs。
How wonderful it is to be home with children as evening approaches！ My
father had quietly given himself over to a book。
“Your guest has departed；” I said。 “I hope he didn’t trouble you much？”
“On the contrary；” he said。 “He entertained me。 He’s as respectful as ever
of his Enishte。”
“Good。”
“But now he’s also measured and calculating。”
He’d said that less to observe my reaction than to close the subject in a
manner that made light of Black。 On any other occasion； I would’ve answered
him with a sharp tongue； as I am wont to do。 This time； though； I just thought
of Black making ground on his white horse； and I shuddered。
I’m not sure how it happened； but later in the room with the closet； Orhan
and I found ourselves hugging each other。 Shevket joined us； there was a brief
skirmish between them。 As they tussled we all rolled over onto the floor。 I
kissed them on the backs of their necks and their hair； I pressed them to my
bosom and felt their weight on my breasts。
“Ahhh；” I said。 “Your hair stinks。 I’m going to send you to the baths
tomorrow with Hayriye。”
“I don’t want to go to the baths with Hayriye anymore；” Shevket said。
“Why？ Are you too grown…up？” I said。
“Mother； why did you wear your fine purple blouse？” Shevket said。
I went into the other room and removed my purple blouse。 I pulled on the
faded green one that I usually wear。 As I was changing； I felt cold and shivered；
but I could sense that my skin was aflame； my body vibrant and alive。 I’d
rubbed a bit of rouge onto my cheeks； which probably smudged while I was
rolling around with the children； but I evened it out by licking my palm and
rubbing my cheeks。 Are you aware that my relatives； the women whom I meet
48
at the baths and everyone who sees me； swear that I look more like a sixteen…
year…old maiden than a twenty…four…year…old mother of two past her prime？
Believe them； truly believe them； or I shan’t tell you any more。
Don’t be surprised that I’m talking to you。 For years I’ve bed through
the pictures in my father’s books looking for images of women and great
beauties。 They do exist； if few and far between； and always look shy；
embarrassed； gazing only at one another； as if apologetically。 Never do they
raise their heads； stand straight and face the people of the world as soldiers
and sultans would。 Only in cheap； hastily illustrated books by careless artists
are the eyes of some women trained not on the ground or on some thing in
the illustration�
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