obstacle to the marriage；” I said。 True； she was a blood relation； but being
maternal cousins is not an obstacle； her previous marriage had been nullified；
there were no religious； social or moary differences between us。 And if he
accepted the gold pieces I offered him up front； if he performed the ceremony
at the wedding scheduled to take place before the entire neighborhood； he’d
also be acplishing a pious act before God for the fatherless children of a
widowed woman。 Did the Imam Effendi； I inquired； enjoy pilaf with almonds
and dried apricots？
He did； but he was still preoccupied with the dogs at the gate。 He took the
gold coins。 He said he’d don his wedding robes； straighten up his appearance；
see to his turban and arrive in time to perform the nuptials。 He asked the way
to the house and I told him。
No matter how rushed a wedding might be—even one that the groom has
dreamed about for twelve years—what could be more natural than his
forgetting his worries and troubles and surrendering to the affectionate hands
and gentle banter of a barber for a prenuptial shave and haircut？ The barber’s；
where my feet took me； was located near the market； on the street of the run…
down house in Aksaray； which my late Enishte； my aunt and fair Shekure had
quitted years after our childhood。 This was the barber I’d faced five days ago；
my first day back。 When I entered he embraced me and as any good Istanbul
barber would do； rather than asking where the last dozen years had gone；
launched into the latest neighborhood gossip； concluding the conversation
with an allusion to the place we would all go at the end of this meaningful
journey called life。
The master barber had aged。 The straight…edged razor he held in his freckled
hand trembled as he made it dance across my cheek。 He’d given himself over
to drinking and had taken on a pink…plexioned； full…lipped； green…eyed
boy…apprentice—who looked upon his master with awe。 pared with
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twelve years ago； the shop was cleaner and more orderly。 After filling the
hanging basin； which hung from the ceiling on a new chain； with boiling
water； he carefully washed my hair and face with water from the brass faucet
at the bottom of the basin。 The old broad basins were newly tinned with no
signs of rust； the heating braziers were clean； and the agate…handled razors
were sharp。 He wore an immaculate silk waistcoat； something he was loath to
wear twelve years ago。 I assumed that the elegant apprentice； tall for his age
and of slender build； had helped bring some order to the shop and its owner；
and surrendering myself to the soapy； rose…scented and steamy pleasures of a
shave； I couldn’t help thinking how marriage not only brought new vitality
and prosperity to a bachelor’s home； but to his work and his shop as well。
I’m not certain how much time had passed。 I melted into the warmth of
the brazier that gently heated the small shop and the barber’s adept fingers。
With life having suddenly presented me the greatest of gifts today； as if for
free； and after so much suffering； I felt a profound thanks toward exalted
Allah。 I felt an intense curiosity； wondering out of what mysterious balance
this world of His had emerged； and I felt sadness and pity for Enishte； who lay
dead in the house where； a while later； I would bee master。 I was readying
myself to spring into action when there was a motion at the always…open
door of the barbershop： Shevket！
Flustered； but with his usual self…confidence； he held out a piece of paper。
Unable to speak and expecting the worst； my insides were chilled as if by an icy
draft as I read：
If there isn’t going to be a bride’s procession； I’m not getting married—Shekure。
Grabbing Shevket by the arm； I lifted him onto my lap。 I would’ve liked to
have responded to my dear Shekure by writing； “As you wish； my love！” but
what would pen and ink be doing in the shop of an illiterate barber？ So； with
a calculated reserve； I whispered my response into the boy’s ear： “All right。”
Still whispering； I asked him how his grandfather was doing。
“He’s sleeping。”
I now sense that Shevket； the barber and even you are suspicious about me
and my Enishte’s death （Shevket； of course； suspects other things as well）。
What a pity！ I forced a kiss upon him； and he quickly left； displeased。 During
the wedding； dressed in his holiday clothes； he glared at me with hostility from
a distance。
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Since Shekure wouldn’t be leaving her father’s house for mine； and I would
be moving into the paternal home as bridegroom； the bridal procession was
only fitting。 Naturally； I was in no position to bedeck my wealthy friends and
relatives and have them wait at Shekure’s front gate mounted on their horses
as others might have done。 Even so； I invited two of my childhood friends
whom I’d run into during my six days back in Istanbul （one had bee a
clerk like myself and the other was running a bath house） as well as my dear
barber； whose eyes had watered as he wished me happiness during my shave
and haircut。 Mounted upon my white horse； which I’d been riding that first
day； I knocked at my beloved Shekure’s gate as if poised to take her to another
house and another life。
To Hayriye； who opened the gate； I presented a generous tip。 Shekure；
dressed in a bright…red wedding gown with pink bridal streamers flowing from
her hair to her feet； emerged amid cries； sobs； sighs （a woman scolded the
children）； outbursts； and shouts of “May God protect her；” and gracefully
mounted a second white horse which we’d brought with us。 As a hand…
drummer and shrill zurna piper； kindly arranged by the barber for me at the
last minute； began to play a slow bride’s melody； our poor； melancholy； yet
proud procession set out on its way。
As our horses began to saunter； I understood that Shekure； with her usual
cunning； had arranged this spectacle for the sake of safeguarding the nuptials。
Our procession； having announced our wedding to the entire neighborhood；
even if only at the last moment； had essentially secured everyone’s approval；
thereby neutralizing any future objections to our marriage。 Nevertheless；
announcing that we were on the verge of marriage； and having a public
wedding—as if to challenge our enemies； Shekure’s former husband and his
family—further endangered the whole affair。 Had it been left to me； I’d have
held the ceremony in secret； without telling a soul； without a wedding
celebration； I’d have preferred being her husband first and defending the
marriage afterward。
I led the parade astride my fickle white fairy…tale horse； and as we moved
through the neighborhood； I nervously watched for Hasan and his men； whom
I expected to ambush us from an alleyway or a shadowy courtyard gate。 I
noticed how young men； the elders of the neighborhood and strangers
stopped and waved from door fronts； without pletely understanding all
that was transpiring。 In the small market area we’d unintentionally entered； I
figured out that Shekure had masterfully activated her grapevine； and that her
divorce and marriage to me was quickly winning acceptance in the
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neighborhood。 This was evident from the excitement of the fruit…and…vegetable
seller； who without leaving his colorful quinces； carrots and apples for too
long； joined us for a few strides shouting “Praise be to God； may He protect
you both；” and from the smile of the woeful shopkeeper and from the
approving glances of the baker； who was having his apprentice scrape away the
burnt residue in his pans。 Still； I was anxious； maintaining my vigil against a
sudden raid； or even a word of vulgar heckling。 For this reason； I wasn’t at all
disturbed by the motion of the crowd of money…seeking children that had
formed behind us as we left the bazaar。 I understood from the smiles of
women I glimpsed behind windows； bars and shutters that the enthusiasm of
this noisy throng of children protected and supported us。
As I gazed at the road along which we’d advanced and were now； thank
God； finally winding our way back toward the house； my heart was with
Shekure and her sorrow。 Actually； it wasn’t her misfortune in having to wed
within a day of her father’s murder that saddened me； it was that the wedding
was so unadorned and meager。 My dear Shekure was worthy of horses with
silver reins and ornamented saddles； mounted riders outfitted in sable and silk
with gold embroidery； and hundreds of carriages laden with gifts and dowry；
she deserved to lead an endless procession of pasha’s daughters； sultans and
carriages full of elderly harem women chattering about the extravagances of
days bygone。 But Shekure’s wedding lacked even the four pole bearers to hold
aloft the red silk canopy that ordinarily protected rich maidens from prying
eyes； for that matter； there wasn’t even one servant to lead the procession
bearing large wedding candles and tree…shaped decorations ornamented with
fruit； gold； silver leaf and polished stones。 More than embarrassment； I felt a
sadness that threatened to fill my eyes with tears each time the disrespectful
hand…drum and zurna players simply stopped playing when our procession got
swallowed up in crowds of market…goers or servants fetching water from the
fountain in the square because we had no one clearing the way with shouts of
“Here es the bride。” As we were nearing the house； I mustered the courage
to turn in my saddle and gaze at her； and was relieved that beneath her pink
bride’s tinsel and red veil； far from being saddened by all these pitiful
shortings； she seemed heartened to know tha