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paper and pen。 I shall give what you write to the calligrapher straightaway。”
He stared at the picture in silence。 “Who painted this？” he asked later。
“Butterfly。 He’s the most talented of the lot。 Master Osman had been in
love with and awed by him for years。”
“I’ve seen rougher versions of this depiction of a dog at the coffeehouse
where the storyteller performs；” Black said。
“My illustrators； most of whom are spiritually bound to Master Osman
and the workshop； take a dim view of the labors performed for my book。
When they leave here at night I imagine they have their vulgar fun over these
illustrations which they draw for money and ridicule me at the coffeehouse。
And who among them will ever forget the time Our Sultan had the young
Veian artist； whom He’d invited from the embassy at my behest； paint His
portrait。 Thereafter； He had Master Osman make a copy of that oil painting。
Forced to imitate the Veian painter； Master Osman held me responsible for
this unseemly coercion and the shameful portrait that came of it。 He was
justified。”
All day long； I showed him every picture—except the final illustration that I
cannot； for whatever reason； finish。 I prodded him to write。 I discussed the
temperaments of the miniaturists； and I enumerated the sums of money I
meted out to them。 We discussed “perspective” and whether the diminutive
objects in the background of Veian pictures were sacrilegious； and equally；
we talked about the possibility that unfortunate Elegant Effendi had been
murdered for excessive ambition and out of jealousy over his wealth。
As Black returned home that night； I was confident he’d e again the
next morning as promised and that he’d once again listen to me recount the
stories that would constitute my book。 I listened to his footsteps fading
beyond the open gate； there was something to the cold night that seemed to
make my sleepless and troubled murderer stronger and more devilish than me
and my book。
I closed the courtyard gate tightly behind him。 I placed the old ceramic
water basin that I used as a basil planter behind the gate as I did each night。
Before I reduced the stove to smoldering ashes and went to bed； I glanced up
to see Shekure in a white gown looking like a ghost in the blackness。
“Are you absolutely certain that you want to marry him？” I asked。
125
“No； dear Father。 I’ve long since forgotten about marriage。 Besides； I am
married。”
“If you still want to marry him； I’m willing to give you my blessing now。”
“I wish not to be wed to him。”
“Why？”
“Because it’s against your will。 In all sincerity； I desire nobody that you do
not want。”
I noticed； momentarily； the coals in the stove reflected in her eyes。 Her eyes
had aged； not out of unhappiness； but anger； yet there was no trace of offense
in her voice。
“Black is in love with you；” I said as if divulging a secret。
“I know。”
“He listened to all I had to say today not out of his love of painting； but out
of his love for you。”
“He will plete your book； this is what matters。”
“Your husband might return one day；” I said。
“I’m not certain why； perhaps it’s the silence； but tonight I’ve realized once
and for all that my husband will never return。 What I’ve dreamt seems to be
the truth： They must’ve killed him。 He’s long since turned to dust。” She
whispered the last statement lest the sleeping children hear。 And she said it
with a peculiar tinge of anger。
“If they happen to kill me；” I said； “I want you to finish this book to which
I’ve dedicated everything。 Swear that you will。”
“I give my word。 Who will be the one to plete your book？”
“Black！ You can ensure that he does so。”
“You are already ensuring that he does so； dear Father；” she said。 “You have
no need for me。”
“Agreed； but he’s giving in to me because of you。 If they kill me； he might
be afraid to continue on。”
“In that case； he won’t be able to marry me；” said my clever daughter；
smiling。
126
Where did I e up with the detail about her smiling？ During the entire
conversation； I noticed nothing except an occasional glimmer in her eyes。 We
were standing tensely facing one another in the middle of the room。
“Do you municate with each other； exchange signals？” I asked； unable
to contain myself。
“How could you even think such a thing？”
A long agonizing silence passed。 A dog barked in the distance。 I was slightly
cold and shuddered。 The room was so black now that we could no longer see
each other； we could each only sense the other’s presence。 We abruptly
embraced with all our might。 She began to cry； and said that she missed her
mother。 I kissed and stroked her head； which indeed smelled like her mother’s
hair。 I walked her to her bedchamber and put her to bed next to the children
who were sleeping side by side。 And as I reflected back over the last two days； I
was certain that Shekure had corresponded with Black。
127
I AM CALLED BLACK
When I returned home that night； ably evading my landlady—who was
beginning to act like my mother—I sequestered myself in my room and lay on
my mattress； giving myself over to visions of Shekure。
Allow me the amusement of describing the sounds I’d heard in Enishte’s
house。 On my second visit after twelve years； she didn’t show herself。 She did
succeed； however； in so magically endowing me with her presence that I was
certain of being； somehow； continually under her watch； while she sized me
up as a future husband； amusing herself all the while as if playing a game of
logic。 Knowing this； I also imagined I was continually able to see her。 Thus was
I better able to understand Ibn Arabi’s notion that love is the ability to make
the invisible visible and the desire always to feel the invisible in one’s midst。
I could infer that Shekure was continually watch