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empty house； occasionally leaning toward the candlestick； in the flickering
light of the dim candle； I y beloved’s angry
letters； the somersaults they turned trying to deceive me and their hip…
swinging right…to…left progression。 Abruptly； those shutters would open before
my eyes； and my beloved’s face and her sorrowful smile would appear。 And
when I saw her real face； I forgot all of those other faces whose sour…cherry
mouths had increasingly matured and ripened in my imagination。
In the middle of the night I lost myself in dreams of marriage： I had no
doubts about my love or that it was reciprocated—we were married in a state
of great contentment—but； my imaginary happiness； set in a house with a
staircase； was dashed when I couldn’t find appropriate work and began
arguing with my wife； unable to make her heed my words。
I knew I’d appropriated these ominous images from the section on the ills
of marriage in Gazzali’s The Revival of Religious Science； which I’d read during
my nights as a bachelor in Arabia； at the same time； I recalled that there was
actually advice on the benefits of marriage in that same section； though now I
could remember only two of these benefits： first； having my household kept in
order （there was no such order in my imagined house）； second； being spared
the guilt of self…abuse and of dragging myself—an even deeper sense of guilt—
behind pimps leading me through dark alleyways to the lairs of prostitutes。
The thought of salvation at this late hour brought masturbation to mind。
With a simple…minded desire； and to rid my mind of this irrepressible urge； I
retired to a corner of the room； as was my wont； but after a while I realized I
couldn’t jack off—proof well enough that I’d fallen in love again after twelve
years！
This struck such excitement and fear into my heart that I walked around the
room nearly atremble like the flame of the candle。 If Shekure meant to present
herself at the window； then why this letter； which put the opposite belief into
play？ Why did her father call for me？ As I paced； I sensed that the door； wall
and squeaky floor； stuttering as I myself did； were trying to creak their
responses to my every question。
I looked at the picture I’d made years ago； which depicted Shirin stricken
with love upon gazing at Hüsrev’s image hanging from a branch。 It didn’t
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embarrass me as it would each time it came to mind in subsequent years； nor
did it bring back my happy childhood memories。 Toward morning； my mind
had mastered the situation： By returning the picture； Shekure had made a
move in an amatory chess game she was masterfully luring me into。 I sat in
the candlelight and wrote her a letter of response。
In the morning； after sleeping for a spell； I went out and walked a long way
through the streets； carrying the letter upon my breast and my light pen…and…
ink holder； as was my custom； in my sash。 The snow widened Istanbul’s
narrow streets and freed the city of its crowds。 All was quieter and slower； as
it’d been in my childhood。 Crows seemed to have beset Istanbul’s roofs；
domes and gardens just as they had on the snowy winter days of my youth。 I
walked swiftly； listening to my steps in the snow and watching the fog of my
breath。 I grew excited； expecting the palace workshop that my Enishte wanted
me to visit to be as silent as the streets。 Before I entered the Jewish quarter； I
sent word by way of a little street urchin to Esther； who’d be able to deliver my
letter to Shekure； telling her where to meet me before the noontime prayers。
I arrived early at the royal artisans’ workshop located behind the Hagia
Sophia。 Except for the icicles hanging from the eaves； there was no change in
the building where I’d often visited my Enishte and for a time worked as a
child apprentice。
Following a handsome young apprentice； I walked past elderly master
binders dazed from the smell of glue and bookbinder’s paste； master
miniaturists whose backs had hunched at an early age and youths who mixed
paints without even looking into the bowls perched on their knees； so
sorrowfully were they absorbed by the flames of the stove。 In a corner； I saw
an old man meticulously painting an ostrich egg on his lap； another elder
enthusiastically embellishing a drawer and a young apprentice graciously
watching them both。 Through an open door； I witnessed young students being
reprimanded as they leaned forward； their noses almost touching the pages
spread before their reddened faces； as they tried to understand the mistakes
they’d made。 In another room； a mournful and melancholy apprentice； having
forgotten momentarily about colors； papers and painting； stared into the
street I’d just now eagerly walked down。
We climbed the icy staircase。 We walked through the portico； which
wrapped around the inner second floor of the building。 Below； in the inner
courtyard covered with snow； two young students； obviously trembling from
the cold despite their thick capes of coarse wool； were waiting—perhaps for an
imminent beating。 I recalled my early youth and the beatings given to students
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who were lazy or who wasted expensive paints； and the blows of the
bastinado； which landed on the soles of their feet until they bled。
We entered a warm room。 I saw two novices who’d recently finished their
apprenticeships。 Since the great masters； whom Master Osman had given
workshop names； now worked at home； this room； which once aroused
excessive reverence and delight in me； no longer seemed like the workshop of a
great and wealthy sultan but merely a largish room in some secluded
caravansary in the remote mountains of the East。
Immediately off to the side； before a long counter； I saw the Head
Illuminator； Master Osman； for the