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They wouldn’t resort to flaying during the interrogation； because that
inevitably leads to death。 They wouldn’t impale anyone； either； as they do with
rebels； because that’s used as a deterrent。 Cracking and splintering the fingers；
arms or legs of these miniaturists was also out of the question。 Of course； the
removal of an eye—which I gathered was a measure of increasing frequency
these days； to judge by the growing numbers of one…eyed people on the streets
of Istanbul—would be inappropriate for master artists。 So； as I imagined my
dear miniaturists in a secluded corner of the Royal Private Garden； there in the
ice…cold pool among the water lilies； shivering violently and glaring hatefully at
one another； I had the passing urge to laugh。 Nevertheless； it caused me agony
to imagine how Olive would shriek when his hindquarters were branded with
a hot iron and how dear Butterfly’s skin would pale when he was shackled。 I
couldn’t bear to conjure the scene of dear Butterfly—whose skill and love for
illumination brought tears to my eyes—as he was given the bastinado like a
mon thieving apprentice。 I just stood there dumbfounded and hollow。
My elderly mind was mute under the spell of its own internal silence。 There
was a time when we’d paint together with a passion that made us forget
everything。
“These men are the most expert miniaturists serving Our Sultan；” I said。
“Make certain no harm befalls them。”
Pleased； the Head Treasurer rose； grabbed a number of pages from the
worktable at the other end of the room and arranged them in front of me。
Next； as if the room were dark； he placed beside me two large candle holders
whose portly tapers burned with bobbing and twittering flames so I could
study the paintings in question。
How might I explain what I saw as I moved the magnifying lens over them？
I felt like laughing—and not because they were humorous。 I was incensed—it
seemed that Enishte Effendi had instructed my masters as follows： “Don’t
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paint like yourselves； paint as if you were someone else。” He’d forced them to
recall nonexistent memories； to conjure and paint a future； which they’d never
want to live。 What was even more incredible was that they were killing each
other over this nonsense。
“By looking at these illustrations； can you tell me which miniaturist worked
on which picture？” asked the Head Treasurer。
“Yes；” I said angrily。 “Where did you find these paintings？”
“Black brought them of his own accord and left them with me；” said the
Head Treasurer。 “He’s bent on proving that he and his late Enishte are
innocent。”
“During the interrogation； torture him；” I said。 “That way we’ll learn what
other secrets our late Enishte was harboring。”
“We’ve sent for him；” said the mander of the Imperial Guard。
“Afterward； we’ll thoroughly search the house of that newlywed。”
Both their faces were strangely illuminated； a flicker of fear and awe
overcame them； and they snapped to their feet。
Without having to turn around I knew we were in the presence of His
Excellency； Our Sultan； the Refuge of the World。
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I AM ESTHER
Oh； how wonderful it is to cry along with the rest of them！ While the men
were at the funeral of my dear Shekure’s father； the women； kith and kin；
spouses and friends； gathered in the house and shed their tears； and I； too；
beat my chest in mourning and wept with them。 Now wailing in unison with
the pretty maiden beside me； leaning on her and swaying back and forth； now
crying in a pletely different frame of mind； I was deeply touched by my
own woes and pitiful life。 If I could cry like this just once a week； I thought； I
might forget how I had to roam the streets all day just to make ends meet；
forget being mocked for my weight and my Jewishness and be reborn an even
more chattermouth Esther。
I like social gatherings because I can eat to my heart’s content； and； at the
same time； forget that I’m the black sheep of the crowd。 I love the baklava；
mint candy； marzipan bread and fruit leather of holidays； the pilaf with meat
and the tea…cup pastries of circumcision ceremonies； drinking sour…cherry
sherbet at celebrations held by the Sultan in the Hippodrome； eating
everything at weddings； and tossing down the sesame； honey or variously
flavored condolence halvas sent by the neighbors at wakes。
I quietly slipped into the hallway； put on my shoes and went downstairs。
Before I turned into the kitchen； I grew curious about an odd noise ing
through the half…open door of the room next to the stable。 I took a few steps
in that direction and glanced inside to discover that Shevket and Orhan had
tied up the son of one of the women mourners and were in the midst of
painting his face with their late grandfather’s paints and brushes。 “If you try
to escape； we’ll hit you like this；” Shevket said and slapped the boy。
“My dear child； play nice and gentle now； don’t hurt each other； all right？”
I said in a voice as velvety as I could muster。
“Mind your own affairs！” Shevket shouted。
I noticed the small； frightened； blond…haired sister of the boy they were
tormenting standing beside them； and for whatever reason； I felt for her
pletely。 Forget about it； now； Esther！
In the kitchen； Hayriye peered at me suspiciously。
“I’ve cried myself dry； Hayriye；” I said。 “For God’s sake； pour me a glass of
water。”
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She did so； silently。 Before I drank it； I stared into her eyes； swollen from
weeping。
“Poor Enishte Effendi； they say he was already dead before Shekure’s
wedding；” I mented。 “People’s mouths aren’t like bags that can be cinched
up； some even claim there was foul play involved。”
In an exaggerated gesture； she looked down at her toes。 Then she lifted her
head and without looking at me said； “May God protect us from baseless
slander。”
Her first gesture confirmed what I’d said； and moreover the cadence of her
words conveyed that they were spoken under duress—to hide the truth。
“What’s going on？” I asked abruptly； whispering as if I were her confidant。
Indecisive Hayriye had of course understood that there was no hope of
claiming any authority over Shekure after Enishte Effendi’s death。 And a short
while ago； she was the one mourning with the most heartfelt tears。
“What’s to bee of me； now？” she said。
“Shekure holds you in high regard；” I said in my habit of giving news。
Lifting up the lids of the pots of halva lined up between the large clay jar of
grape molasses and the pickle jar； sneaking a fingerful from one or simply
leaning over to smell another； I asked who’d sent each of them。
Hayriye was rattling off who’d sent which pot： “This one’s from Kas？m
Effendi of Kayseri； this one； the assistant from the miniaturists division who
lives two streets over； that’s from the locksmith； Left…Handed Hamdi； that one；
the young bride from Edirne—” when Shekure interrupted her。
“Kalbiye； the late Elegant Effendi’s widow； didn’t e to offer her
condolences； didn’t send word and didn’t send any halva either！”
She was heading from the kitchen door to the foot of the stairs。 I followed
her； knowing that she wanted to have a word with me in private。
“There was no ill…will between Elegant Effendi and my father。 On the day of
Elegant’s funeral； we prepared our halva and sent it to them。 I want to know
what’s going on；” Shekure said。
“I’ll go right away and find out；” I said； anticipating Shekure’s thoughts。
Since I kept our chat brief； she kissed me on the cheek。 As the cold of the
courtyard bit into us； we embraced and stood there without moving。
Afterward； I stroked my beautiful Shekure’s hair。
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“Esther； I’m afraid；” she said。
“My dear； don’t be afraid；” I said。 “Every cloud has a silver lining。 Look；
you’re finally married。”
“But I’m not sure I did the right thing；” she said。 “That’s why I haven’t let
him get near me。 I spent the night beside my unfortunate father。”
She opened her eyes wide and looked at me in a way that said； You
understand what I mean。
“Hasan claims that your wedding is null in the eyes of the judge；” I said。
“He sent this to you。”
Though she said； “No more；” she immediately opened the small note and
read； but this time she didn’t tell me what it contained。
She was right to be discreet； we weren’t alone in the courtyard where we’d
stood embracing： Above us； a smirking carpenter； reattaching the shutter of
the hall window； which fell and broke for some unknown reason that
morning； was also eyeing both us and the women mourning inside。
Meanwhile； Hayriye came out of the house and rushed to open the door for
the son of a loyal neighbor who’d called out； “the halva’s here；” as he knocked
on the courtyard gate。
“It’s been quite some time since we buried him；” said Shekure。 “I can now
sense that my poor father’s soul is leaving his body for good and rising into
the heavens。”
She removed herself from my arms； and gazing up at the bright sky； recited
a long prayer。
I suddenly felt so distant and estranged from Shekure that it wouldn’t have
surprised me if I were the cloud she was gazing at。 As soon as she finished her
prayer； pretty Shekure kissed me affectionately on both cheeks。
“Esther；” she said； “so long as my father’s murderer roams free； there’ll be
no peace in this world for me or my children。”
It pleased me that she didn’t mention her new husband’s name。
“Go to Elegant Effendi’s house； talk casually to his widow and learn why
they didn’t send us any halva。 Let me know immediately what you find out。”
“Do you have any messages for Hasan？” I said。
I felt embarrassed； not because I’d asked this question； but because I
couldn’t look her in the eye as I did so。 To cover up my embarrassment； I
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stopped Hayriye and opened the lid of the pot she was holding。 “Ohh；” I said；
“semolina halva with pistachios；” as I had a taste。 “And they’ve added oranges；
too。”
It made me happy to see Shekure smile sweetly as if everything were
happening as planned。
I grabbed my bundle and left。 I’d taken no more than two steps when I saw
Black at the end of the street。 He’d just e from the burial of his father…in…
law； and I could tell from his beaming face that this new husband was quite
pleased with his life。 In order not to dampen his spirits； I left the street；
entered the vegetable rows and passed through the garden of the house where
the brother of the lover of the famous Jewish doctor Moshe Hamon had lived
before he was hanged。 This garden； which recalled death； always brought such
great sadness upon me when I walked through it that I invariably forgot I’d
been charged to find a buyer for the property。
The air of death was also in Elegant Effendi’s house； though for me it
provoked no sadness。 I was Esther； a woman who went in and out of
thousands of homes and was acquainted with hundreds of widows； I knew
that women who lost their husbands early were spellbound either by defeat
and misery or anger and rebellion （although Shekure had suffered all these
afflictions）。 Kalbiye had partaken of the poison of anger and I fast realized that
this would serve to hasten my work。
As with all conceited women to whom life has been cruel； Kalbiye quite
rightly suspected that all her visitors came to pity her in her darkest hour； or
even worse； to witness her agony and secretly rejoice in their own better
situ