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immediately sense that love without hope is simply hopeless； and
understanding the limits of the illogical realm of the heart； make a quick end
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of it by politely declaring； “They didn’t find us suitably matched。 That’s just
the way it is。” But； I’ll have you know that my mother said several times； “At
least don’t break the boy’s heart。” Black； whom my mother referred to as a
“boy；” was twenty…four； and I was half his age。 Because my father considered
Black’s declaration of love an act of insolence； he wouldn’t humor my
mother’s wishes。
Though we hadn’t forgotten him altogether by the time we received news
that he’d left Istanbul； we’d let him slip pletely out of our affections。
Because we hadn’t received news about him from any city for years； I deemed
it appropriate to save the picture he’d made and shown me； as a token of our
childhood memories and friendship。 To prevent my father； and later my
soldier…husband； from discovering the picture and getting upset or jealous； I
expertly concealed the names “Shekure” and “Black” beneath the figures by
making it appear as if someone had dribbled my father’s Hasan Pasha ink onto
them； in an accident later to be disguised as flowers。 Since I’ve returned that
picture to him today； maybe those among you inclined to take a dim view of
how I revealed myself to him at the window will feel ashamed and reconsider
your prejudices somewhat。
Having exposed my face to him； I remained for a while there at the window；
showered in the crimson hue of the evening sun； and gazed in awe at the
garden bathed in reddish…orange light； until I felt the chill of the evening air。
There was no breeze。 I didn’t care what someone passing in the street would’ve
said upon seeing me at the open window。 One of Ziver Pasha’s daughters；
Mesrure； who always laughed and enjoyed herself saying the most surprising
things at the most inopportune times when we went merrily and playfully to
the public baths each week； once told me that a person never knows exactly
what she herself is thinking。 This is what I know： Sometimes I’ll say something
and realize upon uttering it that it is of my own thinking； but no sooner do I
arrive at that realization than I’m convinced the very opposite is true。
I was sorry when poor Elegant Effendi； one of the miniaturists my father
often invited to the house—and I won’t pretend I haven’t spied on each of
them—went missing； much like my unfortunate husband。 “Elegant” was the
ugliest among them and the most impoverished of spirit。
I closed the shutters； left the room and went down to the kitchen。
“Mother； Shevket didn’t listen to you；” Orhan said。 “While Black was
taking his horse out of the stable； Shevket left the kitchen and spied on him
from the peephole。”
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“What of it！” Shevket said； waving his hand in the air。 “Mother spied on
him from the hole in the closet。”
“Hayriye；” I said。 “Fry some bread in a little butter and serve it to them
with marzipan and sugar。”
Orhan jumped up and down with joy though Shevket was silent。 But as I
walked back upstairs； they both caught up to me； screaming； pushing and
shoving by me excitedly。 “Be slow； slow down；” I said with a laugh。 “You
rascals。” I patted them on their delicate backs。
How wonderful it is to be home with children as evening approaches！ My
father had quietly given himself over to a book。
“Your guest has departed；” I said。 “I hope he didn’t trouble you much？”
“On the contrary；” he said。 “He entertained me。 He’s as respectful as ever
of his Enishte。”
“Good。”
“But now he’s also measured and calculating。”
He’d said that less to observe my reaction than to close the subject in a
manner that made light of Black。 On any other occasion； I would’ve answered
him with a sharp tongue； as I am wont to do。 This time； though； I just thought
of Black making ground on his white horse； and I shuddered。
I’m not sure how it happened； but later in the room with the closet； Orhan
and I found ourselves hugging each other。 Shevket joined us； there was a brief
skirmish between them。 As they tussled we all rolled over onto the floor。 I
kissed them on the backs of their necks and their hair； I pressed them to my
bosom and felt their weight on my breasts。
“Ahhh；” I said。 “Your hair stinks。 I’m going to send you to the baths
tomorrow with Hayriye。”
“I don’t want to go to the baths with Hayriye anymore；” Shevket said。
“Why？ Are you too grown…up？” I said。
“Mother； why did you wear your fine purple blouse？” Shevket said。
I went into the other room and removed my purple blouse。 I pulled on the
faded green one that I usually wear。 As I was changing； I felt cold and shivered；
but I could sense that my skin was aflame； my body vibrant and alive。 I’d
rubbed a bit of rouge onto my cheeks； which probably smudged while I was
rolling around with the children； but I evened it out by licking my palm and
rubbing my cheeks。 Are you aware that my relatives； the women whom I meet
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at the baths and everyone who sees me； swear that I look more like a sixteen…
year…old maiden than a twenty…four…year…old mother of two past her prime？
Believe them； truly believe them； or I shan’t tell you any more。
Don’t be surprised that I’m talking to you。 For years I’ve bed through
the pictures in my father’s books looking for images of women and great
beauties。 They do exist； if few and far between； and always look shy；
embarrassed； gazing only at one another； as if apologetically。 Never do they
raise their heads； stand straight and face the people of the world as soldiers
and sultans would。 Only in cheap； hastily illustrated books by careless artists
are the eyes of some women trained not on the ground or on some thing in
the ill