and bit down upon them crudely with eagerness and longing。
“Coins counterfeited by the Veians are everywhere；” she said； smiling。
As soon as she’d left； I warned Hayriye not to let the children upstairs。 I
went up to the room where Black lay； locked the door behind me and cuddled
up eagerly next to Black’s naked body。 Then； more out of curiosity than desire；
more out of care than fear； I did what Black wanted me to do in the house of
the Hanged Jew the night my poor father was killed。
I can’t say I pletely understood why Persian poets； who for centuries
had likened that male tool to a reed pen； also pared the mouths of us
women to inkwells； or what lay behind such parisons whose origins had
been forgotten through rote repetition—was it the smallness of the mouth？
The arcane silence of the inkwell？ Was it that God Himself was an illuminator？
Love； however； must be understood； not through the logic of a woman like me
who continually racks her brain to protect herself； but through its illogic。
So； let me tell you a secret： There； in that room that smelled of death； it
wasn’t the object in my mouth that delighted me。 What delighted me then；
440
lying there with the entire world throbbing between my lips； was the happy
twittering of my sons cursing and roughhousing with each other in the
courtyard。
While my mouth was thus occupied； my eyes could make out Black looking
at me in a pletely different way。 He said he’d never again forget my face
and my mouth。 As with some of my father’s old books； his skin smelled of
moldy paper； and the scent of the Treasury’s dust and cloth had saturated his
hair。 As I let myself go and caressed his wounds； his cuts and swellings； he
groaned like a child； moving further and further away from death； and it was
then I understood I would bee even more attached to him。 Like a solemn
ship that gains speed as its sails swell with wind； our gradually quickening
lovemaking took us boldly into unfamiliar seas。
I could tell by the way he was able to navigate these waters； even on his
deathbed； that Black had plied these seas many times before with who knows
what manner of indecent women。 While I was confused as to whether the
forearm I kissed was my own or his； whether I was sucking my own finger or
an entire life； he stared out of one half…opened eye； nearly intoxicated by his
wounds and pleasure； checking where the world was taking him； and from
time to time； he would hold my head delicately in his hands； and stare at my
face astounded； now looking as if at a picture； now as if at a Mingerian whore。
At the peak of pleasure； he cried out like the legendary heroes cut clear in
half with a single stroke of the sword in fabled pictures that immortalized the
clash of Persian and Turanian armies； the fact that this cry could be heard
throughout the neighborhood frightened me。 Like a genuine master
miniaturist at the moment of greatest inspiration； holding his reed under the
direct guidance of Allah； yet still able to take into consideration the form and
position of the entire page； Black continued to direct our place in the
world from a corner of his mind even through his highest excitement。
“You can tell them you were spreading salve onto my wounds；” he said
breathlessly。
These words not only constituted the color of our love—which settled into
a bottleneck between life and death； prohibition and paradise； hopelessness
and shame—they also were the excuse for our love。 For the next twenty…six
years； until my beloved husband Black collapsed next to the well one morning
to die of a bad heart； each afternoon； as the sunlight filtered into the room
through the slats of the shutters； and for the first few years； to the sounds of
Shevket and Orhan playing； we made love； always referring to it as “spreading
salve onto wounds。” This was how my jealous sons； whom I didn’t want to
441
suffer beatings at the jealous whims of a rough and melancholy father； were
able to continue sleeping in the same bed with me for years。 All sensible
women know how it’s much nicer to sleep curled up with one’s children than
with a melancholy husband who’s been beaten down by life。
We； my children and I； were happy； but Black couldn’t be。 The most obvious
reason for this was the wound on his shoulder and neck that never pletely
healed； my beloved husband was left “crippled；” as I heard him described by
others。 But this didn’t disrupt his life； other than in its appearance。 There were
even times when I heard other women； who’d seen my husband from a
distance； describe him as handsome。 But Black’s right shoulder was lower than
the left and his neck remained oddly cocked。 I also heard gossip to the effect
that a woman like myself could only marry a husband whom she felt was
beneath her； and how as much as Black’s wound was the cause of his
discontent； it was also the secret source of our shared happiness。
As with all gossip； there is perhaps an element of truth in this as well。
However deprived and destitute I felt at not being able to pass down the
streets of Istanbul mounted tall on an exceptionally beautiful horse；
surrounded by slaves； lady servants and attendants—what Esther always
thought I deserved—I also occasionally longed for a brave and spirited
husband who held his head high and looked at the world with a sense of
victory。
Whatever the cause； Black always remained melancholy。 Because I knew
that his sadness had nothing to do with his shoulder； I believed that
somewhere in a secret corner of his soul he was possessed by a jinn of sorrow
that dampened his mood even during our most exhilarating moments of
lovemaking。 To appease that jinn； at times he’d drink wine； at times stare at
illustrations in books and take an interest in art； at times he’d even spend his
days and nights with miniaturists chasing after pretty boys。 There were periods
when he entertained himself in the pany of painters； calligraphers and
poets in orgies of puns； double entendres； innuendos； metaphors and games of
flattery； and there were periods when he forgot everything and surrendered
himself to secretarial duties and a governmental clerkship under Hunched
Süleyman Pasha； into whose service he’d managed to enter。 Four years later；
when Our Sultan died； and with the ascension of Sultan Mehmed； who turned
his back entirely on all artistry； Black’s enthusiasm for illumination and
painting turned from an openly celebrated pleasure into a private secret
pursued behind closed doors。 There were times when he’d open one of the
books left to us by my father； and stare； guilty and sad； at an illustration made
442
during the era of Tamerlane’s sons in Herat—yes； Shirin falling in love with
Hüsrev after seeing his picture—not as if it were part of a happy game of
talent still being played in palace circles； but as if he were dwelling upon a
sweet secret long surrendered to memory。
In the third year of Our Sultan’s reign； the Queen of England sent His
Excellency a miraculous clock that contained a musical instrument with a
bellows。 An English delegation assembled this enormous clock after weeks of
toil with various pieces； cogs； pictures and statuettes that they brought with
them from England； erecting it on a slope of the Royal Private Garden facing
the Golden Horn。 The crowds that collected on the slopes of the Golden Horn
or came in ca？ques to watch； astonished and awed； saw how the life…size
statues and ornaments spun around each other purposefully when the huge
clock played its noisy and terrifying music； how they danced elegantly and
meaningfully by themselves in time to the melody as if they were creations of
God rather than of His servants； and how the clock announced the time to all
Istanbul with a chime that resembled the sounding of a bell。
Black and Esther told me on different occasions how the clock； as well as
being the focus of endless astonishment on the part of Istanbul’s riffraff and
dull…witted mobs； was understandably a source of disfort to the pious and
to Our Sultan because it symbolized the power of the infidel。 In a time when
rumors of this sort abounded； Sultan Ahmed； the subsequent sovereign； woke
up in the middle of the night under Allah’s instigation； seized His mace and
descended from the harem to the Private Garden where He shattered the clock
and its statues to pieces。 Those who brought us the news and the rumors
explained how as Our Sultan slept； He saw the sacred face of Our Exalted
Prophet bathed in holy light and how the Apostle of God warned Him： If Our
Sultan allowed his subjects to be awed by pictures and； worse yet； by objects
that mimicked Mankind and thus peted with Allah’s creations； the
sovereign would be diverging from divine will。 They also added that Our
Sultan had taken up His mace while still dreaming。 This was more or less how
Our Sultan dictated the event to His faithful historian。 He had this book；
entitled The Quintessence of Histories； prepared by calligraphers； upon whom
He lavished purses full of gold； though He forbade its illustration by
miniaturists。
Thus withered the red rose of the joy of painting and illumination that had
bloomed for a century in Istanbul； nurtured by inspiration from the lands of
Persia。 The conflict between the methods of the old masters of Herat and the
Frankish masters that paved the ong artists and endless
443
quandries was never resolve