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of Herat。 And after three days and nights of continuous scrutiny； the great
master went blind。 He accepted his condition with maturity and resignation；
the way one might greet the Angels of Allah； and he never spoke or painted
again。 Mirza Muhammet Haydar Duglat； the author of the History of Rashid；
ascribed this turn of events as follows： “A miniaturist united with the vision
and landscape of Allah’s immortal time can never return to the manuscript
pages meant for ordinary mortals”； and he adds； “Wherever the blind
miniaturist’s memories reach Allah there reigns an absolute silence； a blessed
darkness and the infinity of a blank page。”
90
Certainly it was less out of desire to hear my answer to Master Osman’s
question on blindness and memory than to put himself at ease that Black
asked me the question while he pored over my possessions； my room and my
pictures。 Yet again； I was pleased to see that the stories I recounted affected
him。 “Blindness is a realm of bliss from which the Devil and guilt are barred；” I
said to him。
“In Tabriz；” said Black； “under Master Mirek’s influence； some of the
miniaturists of the old style still look upon blindness as the greatest virtue of
Allah’s grace； and they’re embarrassed about growing old but not blind。 Even
today； fearing that others will consider this proof of a lack of talent and skill；
they pretend to be blind。 As a result of this moral conviction which bears the
influence of Jemalettin of Kazvin； some of them sit for weeks in the darkness
amid mirrors； in the dim light of an oil lamp； without eating or drinking and
stare at illustrated pages painted by the old masters of Herat in order to learn
how to perceive the world like a blind man despite not truly being blind。”
Somebody knocked。 I opened the door to find a handsome apprentice from
the workshop whose lovely almond eyes were opened wide。 He said that the
body of our brother； the gilder Elegant Effendi； had been discovered in an
abandoned well and that his funeral procession would mence at the
Mihrimah Mosque during the afternoon prayer。 He then ran off to deliver the
news to others。 Allah； may you protect us all。
91
I AM ESTHER
Tell me then； does love make one a fool or do only fools fall in love？ I’ve been a
clothes peddler and matchmaker for years； and I don’t have the slightest clue。
How it’d thrill me to bee acquainted with men—or couples—who grew
more intelligent and became more cunning and devious as they fell deeper in
love。 I do know this much though： If a man resorts to wiles； guile and petty
deceptions； it means he’s nowhere near being in love。 As for Black Effendi； it’s
obvious that he’s already lost his posure—when he even talks about
Shekure he loses all self…control。
At the bazaar； I fed him by rote all the well…rehearsed refrains that I tell
everyone： Shekure is always thinking of him； she asked me about his response
to her letter； I’d never seen her like this and so on。 He gave me such a look that
I pitied him。 He told me to take the letter to Shekure straightaway。 Every idiot
assumes there’s a pressing circumstance about his love that necessitates
particular haste； and thereby lays bare the intensity of his love； unwittingly
putting a weapon into the hands of his beloved。 If his lover is smart； she’ll
postpone the answer。 The moral： Haste delays the fruits of love。
Had lovesick Black known that I first took a detour while carrying the letter
he’d charged me to deliver “posthaste；” he’d thank me。 In the market square； I
nearly froze to death waiting for him。 After he left； I thought I’d visit one of
my “daughters” to warm up。 I call the maidens whose letters I’ve delivered；
the ones I’ve married off through the sweat of my brow； my “daughters。” This
ugly maiden of mine was so thankful and beholden to me that at my every
visit； beyond waiting on me hand and foot； flitting about like a moth； she’d
press a few silver coins into my palm。 Now she was pregnant and in good
humor。 She put linden tea on the boil。 I savored each sip。 When she left me
alone； I counted the coins Black Effendi had given me。 Twenty silver pieces。
I set out on my way again。 I passed through side streets and through
ominous alleyways that were frozen； muddy and nearly impassable。 As I was
knocking on the door； mirth took hold of me and I began to shout。
“The clothier is here！ Clothierrr！” I said。 “e and see the best of my
ruffled muslin fit for a sultan。 e get my stunning shawls from Kashmir；
my Bursa velvet sash cloth； my superb silk…edged Egyptian shirt cloth； my
embroidered muslin tablecloths； my mattress and bedsheets； and my colorful
handkerchiefs。 Clothierrr！”
92
The door opened。 I entered。 As always； the house smelled of bedding； sleep；
frying oil and humidity； that terrible smell peculiar to aging bachelors。
“Old hag；” he said。 “Why are you shouting？”
I silently removed the letter and handed it to him。 In the half…lit room； he
stealthily and quietly approached me and snatched it from my hand。 He
passed into the next room where an oil lamp always burned。 I waited at the
threshold。
“Isn’t your dear father home？”
He didn’t answer。 He’d lost himself in the letter。 I left him alone so he
could read。 He stood behind the lamp； and I couldn’t see his face。 After
finishing the letter； he read it anew。
“Yes；” I said； “and what has he written？”
Hasan read：
My Dearest Shekure； as I too have for years now sustained myself through my
dreams of one single person； I respectfully understand your waiting for your
husband without considering another。 What else could one expect from a woman
of your stature besides honesty and virtue？ ＇Hasan cackled！＇ My ing to visit
your fa