imbued his picture； but because he dared to make the illustration at all。 As for
me； I feel like someone whose father regards him with embarrassment and
regret。 Why did the miniaturist with the gifted hands regret having illustrated
me？
1。 Because I； the picture of Death； had not been drawn with enough
mastery。 As you can see； I am not as perfect as what the great Veian masters
or the old masters of Herat drew。 I； too； am embarrassed by my wretchedness。
The great master has not depicted me in a style befitting the dignity of Death。
2。 Upon being cunningly duped by the old man； the master illustrator who
drew me found himself； suddenly and unwittingly； imitating the methods and
perspectives of the Frankish virtuosos。 It disturbed his soul because he felt he
was being disrespectful and； he sensed for the first time； oddly dishonorable
toward the old masters。
3。 It must’ve even dawned on him； as it does now on some of the imbeciles
who have tired of me and are smiling： Death is no laughing matter。
The master miniaturist who made me now roams the streets endlessly each
night in fits of regret； like certain Chinese masters； he believes he’s bee
what he has drawn。
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I AM ESTHER
Ladies from the neighborhoods of Redminaret and Blackcat had ordered
purple and red quilting from the town of Bilejik； so； early in the morning； I
loaded up my makeshift satchel—the large cloth that I’d fill up and tie into a
bundle。 I removed the green Chinese silk that had recently arrived by way of
the Portuguese trader but wasn’t selling； substituting the more alluring blue。
And given the persistent snows of this endless winter； I carefully folded plenty
of colorful socks； thick sashes and heavy vests； all of wool； arranging them in
the center of the bundle： When I spread open my blanket a bouquet of color
would bloom to make even the most indifferent woman’s heart leap。 Next； I
packed some lightweight； but expensive； silk handkerchiefs； money purses and
embroidered washcloths especially for those ladies who called for me not to
make a purchase but to gossip。 I lifted the tote。 My goodness； this is much too
heavy； it’ll break my back。 I put it down and opened it。 As I stared at it； trying
to determine what to leave out； I heard knocking at the door。 Nesim opened it
and called to me。
It was that concubine Hayriye； all flushed and blushing。 She held a letter in
her hand。
“Shekure sent it；” she hissed。 This slave was so flustered that you’d think
she was the one who’d fallen in love and wanted to get married。
With dead seriousness； I grabbed the letter。 I warned the idiot to return
home without being seen by anyone and she left。 Nesim cast a questioning eye
at me。 I took up the larger； yet lighter decoy satchel I carried whenever I was
out delivering my letters。
“Shekure； the daughter of Master Enishte； is burning with love；” I said。
“She’s gone clear out of her mind； the poor girl。”
I cackled and stepped outside； but then was gripped by pangs of
embarrassment。 If truth be told； I longed to shed a tear for Shekure’s sorrows
instead of making light of her dalliances。 How beautiful she is； that dark…eyed
melancholy girl of mine！
I ever so quickly strode past the run…down homes of our Jewish
neighborhood； which looked even more deserted and pitiful in the morning
cold。 Much later； when I caught sight of that blind beggar who always took up
his spot on the corner of Hasan’s street； I shouted as loud as I could；
“Clothierrr！”
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“Fat witch；” he said。 “Even if you hadn’t shouted I would’ve recognized you
by your footsteps。”
“You good…for…nothing blind man；” I said。 “You ill…fated Tatar！ Blind men
like you are scourges forsaken by Allah。 May He give you the punishment you
deserve。”
In the past； such exchanges wouldn’t have angered me。 I wouldn’t have
taken them seriously。 Hasan’s father opened the door。 He was an Abkhazian； a
noble gentleman and polite。
“Let’s have a look； then； what have you brought with you this time？” he
said。
“Is that slothful son of yours still asleep？”
“How could he be sleeping？ He’s waiting； expecting news from you。”
This house is so dark that each time I visit； I feel as if I’ve entered a tomb。
Shekure never asks what they’re up to； but I always make a point of carping
about the place so she won’t even consider returning to this crypt。 It’s hard to
imagine that lovely Shekure was once mistress of this house and that she lived
here with her rascally boys。 Within； it smelled of sleep and death。 I entered the
next room； moving farther into the blackness。
You couldn’t see your hand before your face。 I didn’t even have the chance
to present the letter to Hasan。 He appeared out of the darkness and snatched it
from my hand。 As I always did； I left him alone to read the letter and satisfy his
curiosity。 He soon raised his head from the page。
“Isn’t there anything else？” he said。 He knew there was nothing else。 “This
is a brief note；” he said and read
Black Effendi； you pay visits to our home； and spend your days here。 Yet I’ve
heard that you haven’t written even a single line of my father’s book。 Don’t get
your hopes up without first pleting that manuscript。
Letter in hand； he glared accusingly into my eyes； as if all this was my fault。
I’m not fond of these silences in this house。
“There’s no longer any word of her being married； of her husband
returning from the front；” he said。 “Why？”
“How should I know why？” I said。 “I’m not the one who writes the letters。”
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“Sometimes I wonder even about that；” he said； handing back the letter
along with fifteen silver。
“Some men grow stingier the more they earn。 You’re not that way；” I said。
There was such an enchanting； intelligent side to this man that despite all
his dark and evil traits； one could see why Shekure would still accept his letters。
“What is this book of Shekure’s father？”
“You know！ Our Sultan is funding the whole project they say。”
“Miniaturists are murdering each other over the pictures in that book；” he
said。 “Is it for the money or—God forbid—because the book desecrates our
religion？ They say one glance at its pages is enough to bring on blindness。”
He said all this； smiling in such a way that I knew I shouldn’t take any of it
seriously。 Even if it were a matter to take to heart； at the very least； there was
nothing for him to take seriously about me taking the matter seriously。 Like
many of the men who depended on my services as a letter courier and
mediator； Hasan lashed out at me when his pride was hurt。 I； as part of my
job； pretended to be upset to hearten him。 Maidens； on the contrary； hugged
me and cried when their feelings were hurt。
“You’re an intelligent woman；” said Hasan in order to soothe my pride；
which he believed he’d injured。 “Deliver this posthaste。 I’m curious about that
fool’s response。”
For a moment； I felt like saying； “Black is not so foolish。” In such situations；
making rival suitors jealous of each other will earn Esther the matchmaker
more money。 But I was afraid he’d have a sudden tantrum。
“You know the Tatar beggar at the end of the street？” I said。 “He’s very
vulgar； that one。”
To avoid getting into it with the blind man； I walked down the other end of
the street and thus happened to pass through the Chicken Market early in the
morning。 Why don’t Muslims eat the heads and feet of chickens？ Because
they’re so strange！ My grandmother； may she rest in peace； would tell me how
chicken feet were so inexpensive when her family arrived here from Portugal
that she’d boil them for food。
At Kemeraral？k； I saw a woman on horseback with her slaves； sitting bolt
upright like a man。 She was proud as proud could be； maybe the wife of a
pasha or his rich daughter。 I sighed。 If Shekure’s father hadn’t been so
absentmindedly devoted to books； if her husband had returned from the
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Safavid war with his plunder； Shekure might’ve lived like this haughty woman。
More than anyone； she deserved it。
When I turned onto Black’s street； my heart quickened。 Did I want Shekure
to marry this man？ I’ve succeeded both in keeping Shekure involved with
Hasan and； at the same time； in keeping them apart。 But what about this
Black？ He seems to have both feet on the ground in all respects except with
regard to his love for Shekure。
“Clothierrrrr！”
There’s nothing I’d trade for the pleasure of delivering letters to lovers
addled by loneliness or the lack of wife or husband。 Even if they’re certain of
receiving the worst news； when they’re about to read the letter； a shudder of
hope overes them。
By not mentioning anything about her husband’s return； by tying her
warning “Don’t get your hopes up” to one condition alone； Shekure had； of
course； given Black more than just cause to be hopeful。 With great pleasure； I
watched him read the letter。 He was so happy he was distraught； afraid even。
When he withdrew to write his response； I； being a sensible clothes peddler；
spread open my decoy “delivery” satchel and withdrew from it a dark money
purse； which I attempted to sell to Black’s nosy landlady。
“This is made of the best Persian velvet；” I said。
“My son died at war in Persia；” she said。 “Whose letters do you deliver to
Black？”
I could read from her face that she was making plans to set up her own
wiry daughter； or who knows whose daughter； with lionhearted Black。 “No
one’s；” I said。 “A poor relative of his who’s on his deathbed in the
Bayrampasha sickhouse and needs money。”
“Oh my；” sh