Effendi； she cautiously added that all these doubts arose gradually rather than
at once； and since poor Elegant Effendi never found anything that would be
considered blatant sacrilege； he was able to dismiss his worries as unfounded。
Besides； he forted himself by never missing a sermon given by Nusret Hoja
of Erzurum； and if he skipped one of his five daily prayers it unsettled him。
Just as he knew that certain scoundrels at the workshop ridiculed his plete
devotion to the faith； so he understood very well that their brazen jokes arose
out of envy of his talent and artistry。
A large； glimmering tear slid from Kalbiye’s gleaming eye down her cheek；
and at the first opportunity； your good…hearted Esther decided to find Kalbiye
a better husband than the one she’d recently lost。
“My late husband didn’t often share these concerns of his with me；”
Kalbiye said cautiously。 “Based on whatever I could remember and piece
together I’ve concluded that everything happened on account of the
illustrations that took him to Enishte Effendi’s house on his very last night。”
This was some manner of apology。 In response； I reminded her how her fate
and Shekure’s； not to mention their enemies； were the same if one considered
that Enishte Effendi had perhaps been killed by the same “scoundrel。” The two
large…headed fatherless waifs staring at me from the corner suggested another
similarity between the two women。 But my merciless matchmaker’s logic
quickly reminded me that Shekure’s situation was much more beautiful； rich
and mysterious。 I let Kalbiye know exactly what I felt：
“Shekure told me to tell you that if she has wronged you； she’s sorry；” I
said。 “She wants to say that she loves you as a sister and as a woman who
shares her fate。 She wants you to think about this and help her。 When the late
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Elegant Effendi left here on his last night； did he mention he’d be seeing
anyone besides Enishte Effendi？ Did you ever consider that he might’ve been
going to meet somebody else？”
“This was found on his person；” she said。
She removed a folded piece of paper from a lidded wicker box； which
contained embroidery needles； pieces of cloth and a large walnut。
When I took up the crumpled piece of rough paper and examined it； I saw a
variety of shapes drawn in ink that had run and smudged in the well water。 I’d
just determined what the forms were when Kalbiye voiced my thoughts。
“Horses；” she said。 “But late Elegant Effendi only did gilding work。 He never
drew horses。 And no one would’ve ever asked him to render a horse。”
Your elderly Esther was looking at the horses which had been quickly
sketched； but she couldn’t quite make anything of them。
“If I were to take this piece of paper to Shekure； she’d be quite pleased；” I
said。
“If Shekure desires to see these sketches； let her e get them herself；” said
Kalbiye with no small hint of conceit。
268
I AM CALLED BLACK
Maybe you’ve understood by now that for men like myself； that is； melancholy
men for whom love； agony； happiness and misery are just excuses for
maintaining eternal loneliness； life offers neither great joy nor great sadness。
I’m not saying we can’t relate to other souls overwhelmed by these feelings；
on the contrary； we sympathize with them。 What we cannot fathom is the odd
disquiet our souls sink into at such times。 This silent turmoil dims our
intellects and dampens our hearts； usurping the place reserved for the true joy
and sadness we ought to experience。
I had buried her father； thank God； hurried home from the funeral； and in a
gesture of condolence； embraced my wife； Shekure； then suddenly； in a fit of
tears she collapsed onto a large cushion with her children； who were glaring at
me with spite； and I didn’t know what to do。 Her misery coincided with my
victory。 In one fell swoop； I had wed the dream of my youth； freed myself from
her father who belittled me； and bee master of the house。 Who would
ever believe the sincerity of my tears？ But believe me； it wasn’t like that。 I truly
wanted to grieve； but couldn’t： Enishte had always been more of a father to
me than my real father。 But since the meddlesome preacher who’d performed
Enishte’s final ablution never stopped babbling； the rumor that my Enishte
died under mysterious circumstances spread among the neighbors during the
funeral—as I could sense standing in the courtyard of the mosque。 I didn’t
want my inability to cry to be interpreted negatively； I don’t have to tell you
how real the fear of being branded “stonehearted” is。
You know how some sympathetic aunt will always attest that “he’s crying
on the inside” to prevent someone like me from being banished from the
group。 I did in fact cry on the inside as I tried to hide in a corner from the
busybody neighbors and distant relatives with their astonishing abilities to
summon a downpour of tears； I thought about being the master of the house
and whether I should somehow take charge of the situation； but just then
there came a knock at the door。 A moment of panic。 Was it Hasan？ Regardless；
I wanted to save myself from this hell of whimpering at whatever cost。
It was a royal page； summoning me to the palace。 I was stunned。
As I exited the courtyard； I found a mud…covered silver coin on the ground。
Was I afraid to go to the palace？ Yes； but I was also happy to be outside in the
cold among the horses； dogs； trees and people。 I thought I’d befriend the
pageboy like those hopeless daydreamers who； believing they might sweeten
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the world’s cruelty before facing the executioner； attempt a lighthearted
conversation with the dungeon guard about this and that； the beauties of life；
the ducks afloat on the pond； or the strangeness of a cloud in the sky； but alas
he disappointed me； proving a rather morose； pimply； tight…lipped youth。 As I
passed the Hagia Sophia； noticing with awe the slender cypresses delicately
stretching into the hazy sky； it wasn’t the horror of dying right after marrying
Shekure after all these years that made my hair stand on end。 It was the
injustice of dying at the hands of the palace torturers without having shared
one good session of lovemaking with her。
We didn’t walk toward the terrifying spires of the Middle Gate； beyond
which the torturers and the quick…handed executioners saw to their work； but
toward the carpentry shops。 As we headed between the granaries； a cat
cleaning itself in the mud between the legs of a chestnut horse with steaming
nostrils turned but didn’t look at us： The cat was preoccupied with its own
filth； much as we were。
Behind the granaries； two figures； whose rank and affiliation I couldn’t
determine from their green and purple uniforms； relieved the pageboy； and
locked me into the dark room of a small house； which I could tell was new by
the smell of fresh lumber。 I knew locking a man up in a dark room was meant
to arouse fear before torture； hoping they’d begin with the bastinado； I
thought about the lies I could tell to save my hide。 A crowd in the adjoining
room seemed to be raising quite a ruckus。
There are most certainly those of you who can’t attribute my mocking and
mirthful tone to that of a man on the verge of torture。 But haven’t I
mentioned I consider myself one of God’s luckier servants？ And if the birds of
fortune that alighted upon my head these last two days after years of
deprivation aren’t proof enough； surely the silver coin I found outside the
courtyard gate must be some indication。
Awaiting my torture； I was forted by the silver coin and had plete
faith it would protect me； I palmed it； rubbed it and repeatedly kissed this
token of good fortune that Allah had sent me。 But at whatever time they
removed me from the darkness and brought me into the next room where I
saw the mander of the Imperial Guard and his bald…headed Croatian
torturers； I knew the silver coin was worthless。 The pitiless voice within me
was absolutely correct： The coin in my pocket hadn’t e from God； but was
one of those that I’d showered Shekure with two days ago—that the children
overlooked。 Hence； in the hands of my torturers； I had nothing in which to
take refuge。
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I didn’t even notice that tears began to fall from my eyes。 I wanted to beg；
but as in a dream； no sound issued from my mouth。 I knew from wars； deaths
and political assassination and torture （which I’d witnessed from afar） that life
could be extinguished instantaneously； but I’d never experienced it this
closely。 They were going to strip me from this world just as they’d stripped off
my garments。
They took off my vest and shirt。 One of the executioners sat on me； driving
his knees into my shoulders。 Another placed a cage over my head with all the
practiced elegance of a woman preparing food and began slowly turning the
screw at its front。 Nay； it wasn’t a cage； but rather a vise that gradually
squeezed my head。
I screamed at the top of my lungs。 I begged； but incoherently。 I cried； mostly
because my nerves had given out。
They stopped momentarily and asked： “Were you the one who killed
Enishte Effendi？”
I took a deep breath： “Nay。”
They began to tighten the vise again。 It was excruciating。
They asked again。
“Nay。”
“Who then？”
“I don’t know！”
I wondered if I should just tell them I’d killed him。 The world spun
pleasantly about my head。 I was overe with reluctance。 I asked myself if I
were growing accustomed to the pain。 My executioners and I stayed still for a
moment。 I felt no pain； I was simply terrified。
Just as I decided from the silver coin