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of Herat。 And after three days and nights of continuous scrutiny； the great
master went blind。 He accepted his condition with maturity and resignation；
the way one might greet the Angels of Allah； and he never spoke or painted
again。 Mirza Muhammet Haydar Duglat； the author of the History of Rashid；
ascribed this turn of events as follows： “A miniaturist united with the vision
and landscape of Allah’s immortal time can never return to the manuscript
pages meant for ordinary mortals”； and he adds； “Wherever the blind
miniaturist’s memories reach Allah there reigns an absolute silence； a blessed
darkness and the infinity of a blank page。”
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Certainly it was less out of desire to hear my answer to Master Osman’s
question on blindness and memory than to put himself at ease that Black
asked me the question while he pored over my possessions； my room and my
pictures。 Yet again； I was pleased to see that the stories I recounted affected
him。 “Blindness is a realm of bliss from which the Devil and guilt are barred；” I
said to him。
“In Tabriz；” said Black； “under Master Mirek’s influence； some of the
miniaturists of the old style still look upon blindness as the greatest virtue of
Allah’s grace； and they’re embarrassed about growing old but not blind。 Even
today； fearing that others will consider this proof of a lack of talent and skill；
they pretend to be blind。 As a result of this moral conviction which bears the
influence of Jemalettin of Kazvin； some of them sit for weeks in the darkness
amid mirrors； in the dim light of an oil lamp； without eating or drinking and
stare at illustrated pages painted by the old masters of Herat in order to learn
how to perceive the world like a blind man despite not truly being blind。”
Somebody knocked。 I opened the door to find a handsome apprentice from
the workshop whose lovely almond eyes were opened wide。 He said that the
body of our brother； the gilder Elegant Effendi； had been discovered in an
abandoned well and that his funeral procession would mence at the
Mihrimah Mosque during the afternoon prayer。 He then ran off to deliver the
news to others。 Allah； may you protect us all。
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I AM ESTHER
Tell me then； does love make one a fool or do only fools fall in love？ I’ve been a
clothes peddler and matchmaker for years； and I don’t have the slightest clue。
How it’d thrill me to bee acquainted with men—or couples—who grew
more intelligent and became more cunning and devious as they fell deeper in
love。 I do know this much though： If a man resorts to wiles； guile and petty
deceptions； it means he’s nowhere near being in love。 As for Black Effendi； it’s
obvious that he’s already lost his posure—when he even talks about
Shekure he loses all self…control。
At the bazaar； I fed him by rote all the well…rehearsed refrains that I tell
everyone： Shekure is always thinking of him； she asked me about his response
to her letter； I’d never seen her like this and so on。 He gave me such a look that
I pitied him。 He told me to take the letter to Shekure straightaway。 Every idiot
assumes there’s a pressing circumstance about his love that necessitates
particular haste； and thereby lays bare the intensity of his love； unwittingly
putting a weapon into the hands of his beloved。 If his lover is smart； she’ll
postpone the answer。 The moral： Haste delays the fruits of love。
Had lovesick Black known that I first took a detour while carrying the letter
he’d charged me to deliver “posthaste；” he’d thank me。 In the market square； I
nearly froze to death waiting for him。 After he left； I thought I’d visit one of
my “daughters” to warm up。 I call the maidens whose letters I’ve delivered；
the ones I’ve married off through the sweat of my brow； my “daughters。” This
ugly maiden of mine was so thankful and beholden to me that at my every
visit； beyond waiting on me hand and foot； flitting about like a moth； she’d
press a few silver coins into my palm。 Now she was pregnant and in good
humor。 She put linden tea on the boil。 I savored each sip。 When she left me
alone； I counted the coins Black Effendi had given me。 Twenty silver pieces。
I set out on my way again。 I passed through side streets and through
ominous alleyways that were frozen； muddy and nearly impassable。 As I was
knocking on the door； mirth took hold of me and I began to shout。
“The clothier is here！ Clothierrr！” I said。 “e and see the best of my
ruffled muslin fit for a sultan。 e get my stunning shawls from Kashmir；
my Bursa velvet sash cloth； my superb silk…edged Egyptian shirt cloth； my
embroidered muslin tablecloths； my mattress and bedsheets； and my colorful
handkerchiefs。 Clothierrr！”
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The door opened。 I entered。 As always； the house smelled of bedding； sleep；
frying oil and humidity； that terrible smell peculiar to aging bachelors。
“Old hag；” he said。 “Why are you shouting？”
I silently removed the letter and handed it to him。 In the half…lit room； he
stealthily and quietly approached me and snatched it from my hand。 He
passed into the next room where an oil lamp always burned。 I waited at the
threshold。
“Isn’t your dear father home？”
He didn’t answer。 He’d lost himself in the letter。 I left him alone so he
could read。 He stood behind the lamp； and I couldn’t see his face。 After
finishing the letter； he read it anew。
“Yes；” I said； “and what has he written？”
Hasan read：
My Dearest Shekure； as I too have for years now sustained myself through my
dreams of one single person； I respectfully understand your waiting for your
husband without considering another。 What else could one expect from a woman
of your stature besides honesty and virtue？ ＇Hasan cackled！＇ My ing to visit
your father for the sake of painting； however； does not amount to harassing you。
This would never even cross my mind。 I make no claim at having received a sign
from you or any other encouragement。 When your face appeared to me at the
window like divine light； I considered it nothing but an act of God’s grace。 The
pleasure of seeing your face is all I need。 ＇“He took that from Nizami；” Hasan
interrupted； annoyed。＇ But you ask me to keep my distance； tell me then； are you
an angel that approaching you should be so terrifying？ Listen to what I have to
say； listen： I used to try to sleep watching the moonlight fall onto the naked
mountains from remote and godforsaken caravansaries where nobody but a
desperate han keeper and a few thugs fleeing the gallows lodged； and there； in the
middle of the night； listening to the howling of wolves even lonelier and more
unfortunate than myself； I used to think that one day you would suddenly appear
to me； just as you did at the window。 Read closely： Now that I’ve returned to your
father for the sake of the book； you’ve sent back the picture I made in my
childhood。 I know this is not a sign of your death but a sign that I’ve found you
again。 I saw one of your children； Orhan。 That poor fatherless boy。 One day I will
bee his father！
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“God protect him； he’s written well；” I said； “this one has bee quite the
poet。”
“”Are you an angel that approaching you should be so terrifying？“” he
repeated。 “He stole that line from Ibn Zerhani。 I could do better。” He took his
own letter out of his pocket。 “Take this and deliver it to Shekure。”
For the first time； accepting money along with the letters disturbed me。 I
felt something like disgust toward this man and his mad obsession； his
unrequited love。 Hasan； as if to confirm my hunch； for the first time in a long
while set aside his good etiquette and said quite rudely：
“Tell her that if we so desire； we’ll force her back here under pressure of the
judge。”
“You really want me to say that？”
Silence。 “Nay；” he said。 The light from the oil lamp illuminated his face；
allowing me to see him lower his head like a guilty child。 It’s because I know
this side of Hasan’s character as well that I have some respect for his feelings
and deliver his letters。 It’s not only for the money； as you might think。
I was leaving the house； and he stopped me at the door。
“Do you let Shekure know how much I love her？” he asked me excitedly and
foolishly。
“Don’t you tell her so in your letters？”
“Tell me how I might convince her and her father？ How might I persuade
them？”
“By being a good person；” I said and walked to the door。
“At this age； it’s too late…” he said with sincere anguish。
“You’ve begun to earn a lot of money； Customs Officer Hasan。 This makes
one a good person…” I said and fled。
The house was so dark and melancholy that the air outside seemed warmer。
The sunlight hit my face。 I wished for Shekure’s happiness。 But I also felt
something for that poor man in that damp； chilly and dark house。 On a whim；
I turned into the Spice Market in Laleli thinking the smells of cinnamon；
saffron and pepper would restore my spirits。 I was mistaken。
At Shekure’s house； after she took up the letters； she immediately asked
after Black。 I told her that the fire of love had mercilessly engulfed his entire
being。 This news pleased her。
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“Even lonely spinsters busy with their knitting are discussing why Elegant
Effendi might’ve been killed；” I said later； changing the subject。
“Hayriye； make some halva as a present of condolence and take it over to
Kalbiye； poor Elegant Effendi’s widow；” said Shekure。
“All the Erzurumis and quite a crowd of others will be attending his funeral
service；” I said。 “His relatives swear they’ll avenge his spilt blood。”
Shekure had already begun to read Black’s letter。 I looked into her face
intently and angrily。 This woman was probably such a fox that she could
control how her passions were reflected in her face。 As she read I sensed that
my silence pleased her； that she regarded it as my approval of the special
import she gave to Black’s letter。 Shekure finished the letter and smiled at me；
to meet with her satisfaction； I felt forced to ask； “What has he written？”
“Just as in his childhood…He’s in love with me。”
“What are your thoughts？”
“I’m a married woman。 I’m waiting for my husband。”
Contrary to your expectations； the fact that she’d lie to me after asking me
to get involved in her affairs didn’t anger me。 Actually； this ment relieved
me。 If more of the young maidens and women I’ve carried letters for and
advised in the ways of the world attended to details the way Shekure did； they
would’ve lessened the work for us both by half。 More importantly； they
would’ve ended up in better marriages。
“What does the other one write？” I asked anyway。
“I don’t intend to read Hasan’s letter right now；” she answered。 “Does
Hasan know that Black’s returned to Istanbul？”
“He doesn’t even know he exists。”
“Do you speak with Hasan？” she asked； opening wide her beautiful black
eyes。
“As you’ve requested。”
“Yes？”
“He’s in agony。 He’s deeply in love with you。 Even if your heart belongs to
another； it’ll be difficult ever to be free of him now。 By accepting his letters
you’ve greatly encouraged him。 Be wary of him； however。 For not only does he
want to make you return there； but by establishing that his older brother has
95
died； he’s preparing to marry you。” I smiled to soften the weight of these
words and so as not to be reduced to being that malcontent’s mouthpiece。
“What’s the other one say； then？” she asked； but