“Yes；” said Black with good humor and somewhat childishly。 “Yes。 I agree to
make you mine。”
You remember how only recently I declared I didn’t know why I was
speaking to Black in such a high…handed and insincere manner。 Now I know：
I’ve e to realize that only by assuming such a tone might I convince
Black—who has yet to outgrow his childhood muddle…headedness—to believe
in the possibility of events that even I have a hard time believing will e to
pass。
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“We have a lot to do in fighting our enemies； those who would obstruct the
pletion of my father’s book and those who could contest my divorce and
our marriage ceremony—which will be performed tonight； God willing。 But I
suppose I shouldn’t further confuse you； since you are already even more
confused than I。”
“You aren’t confused at all；” said Black。
“Perhaps； but only because these aren’t my own ideas； I learned them from
my father over the years。” I said this so he wouldn’t dismiss what I said；
assuming that these plans had sprung from my feminine mind。
Next； Black said what I’d heard from every man who wasn’t afraid to admit
he found me very intelligent：
“You’re very beautiful。”
“Yes；” I said； “it pleases me to be praised for my intelligence。 When I was a
child； my father would often do so。”
I was about to add that once I’d grown up my father ceased to praise my
intelligence； but I began to weep。 As I cried； it was as if I’d left myself and was
being another； entirely separate woman。 Like some reader troubled by a
sad picture in the pages of a book； I saw my life from the outside and pitied
what I saw。 There’s something so innocent in crying over one’s troubles； as
though they were another’s； that when Black embraced me； a sense of well…
being spread over us both。 Yet； this time； as we hugged； this sense of fort
remained there between us； unable to affect the adversaries circling us。
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I AM CALLED BLACK
Widowed； abandoned and aggrieved； my beloved Shekure fled with featherlike
steps； and I stood as if stunned in the stillness of the house of the Hanged Jew；
amid the aroma of almonds and dreams of marriage she’d left in her wake。 I
was bewildered； but my mind was churning so fast it almost hurt。 Without
even a chance to grieve properly over my Enishte’s death； I swiftly returned
home。 On the one hand； a worm of doubt was gnawing at me： Was Shekure
using me as a pawn in a grand scheme； was she duping me？ On the other
hand； fantasies of a blissful marriage stubbornly played before my eyes。
After making conversation with my landlady who interrogated me at the
front door as to where I’d gone and whence I was ing at this morning
hour； I went to my room and removed the twenty…two Veian gold pieces
from the lining of the sash I’d hidden in my mattress； placing them in my
money purse with trembling fingers。 When I returned to the street； I knew
immediately I’d see Shekure’s dark； teary； troubled eyes for the rest of the day。
I changed five of the Veian Lions at a perpetually smiling Jewish money
changer。 Next； deep in thought； I entered the neighborhood whose name I’ve
yet to mention because I’m not fond of it： Yakutlar； where my deceased
Enishte and Shekure； along with her children； awaited me at their house。 As I
made my way along the streets almost running； a tall plane tree seemed to
reproach me for being overjoyed by dreams and plans of marriage on the very
day my Enishte had passed away。 Next； as the ice had melted； a street fountain
hissed into my ear： “Don’t take matters too seriously； see to your own affairs
and your own happiness。” “That’s all fine and good；” objected an ill…omened
black cat licking himself on the corner； “but everybody； yourself included；
suspects you had a hand in your uncle’s murder。”
The cat left off licking himself as I suddenly caught sight of its bewitching
eyes。 I don’t have to tell you how brazen these Istanbul cats get when the
locals spoil them。
I found the Imam Effendi； whose droopy eyelids and large black eyes gave
him a perpetually sleepy look； not at his house； but in the courtyard of the
neighborhood mosque； and there I asked him quite a trivial legal question：
“When is one obligated to testify in court？” I raised my eyebrows as I listened
to his haughty answer as if I were hearing this information for the first time。
“Bearing witness is optional if other witnesses are present；” explained the
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Imam Effendi； “but； in situations where there was only one witness； it is the
will of God that one bear witness。”
“That’s just the predicament I find myself in now；” I said； taking up the
conversation。 “In a situation everyone knows about； all the witnesses have
shirked their responsibilities and avoided going to court with the excuse that
”it’s only voluntary；“ and as a result the pressing concerns of those I’m trying
to help are being pletely disregarded。”
“Well；” said the Imam Effendi； “why don’t you loosen your purse…strings a
little more？”
I took out my pouch and showed him the Veian gold pieces huddled
within： The broad space of the mosque courtyard； the face of the preacher；
everything was suddenly illuminated by the glimmer of gold。 He asked me
what my dilemma was all about。
I explained who I was。 “Enishte Effendi is ill；” I confided。 “Before he dies； he
wants his daughter’s widowhood certified and an alimony to be instituted。”
I didn’t even have to mention the proxy of the üsküdar judge。 The Imam
Effendi understood at once and said the entire neighborhood had long been
troubled over the fate of hapless Shekure； adding that the situation had already
persisted too long。 Instead of searching for a second witness required for a
legal separation at the door of the üsküdar judge； the Imam Effendi suggested
his brother。 Now； if I were to offer an additional gold piece to the brother； who
lived in the neighborhood and was familiar with the predicament of Shekure
and her darling children； I’d be doing a good pious turn。 After all； for only two
gold coins the Imam Effendi was giving me a deal on the second witness。 We
immediately agreed。 The Imam Effendi went to fetch his brother。
The rest of our day rather resembled the “cat…and…mouse” stories that I’d
watched storytellers in Aleppo coffeehouses act out。 Because of all the
adventure and trickery； such stories written up as narrative poems and bound
were never taken seriously even if presented in fine calligraphy； that is； they
were never illustrated。 I； on the other hand； was quite pleased to divide our
daylong adventure into four scenes； imagining each in the illustrated pages of
my mind。
In the first scene； the miniaturist ough