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that she’d boil them for food。
At Kemeraral？k； I saw a woman on horseback with her slaves； sitting bolt
upright like a man。 She was proud as proud could be； maybe the wife of a
pasha or his rich daughter。 I sighed。 If Shekure’s father hadn’t been so
absentmindedly devoted to books； if her husband had returned from the
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Safavid war with his plunder； Shekure might’ve lived like this haughty woman。
More than anyone； she deserved it。
When I turned onto Black’s street； my heart quickened。 Did I want Shekure
to marry this man？ I’ve succeeded both in keeping Shekure involved with
Hasan and； at the same time； in keeping them apart。 But what about this
Black？ He seems to have both feet on the ground in all respects except with
regard to his love for Shekure。
“Clothierrrrr！”
There’s nothing I’d trade for the pleasure of delivering letters to lovers
addled by loneliness or the lack of wife or husband。 Even if they’re certain of
receiving the worst news； when they’re about to read the letter； a shudder of
hope overes them。
By not mentioning anything about her husband’s return； by tying her
warning “Don’t get your hopes up” to one condition alone； Shekure had； of
course； given Black more than just cause to be hopeful。 With great pleasure； I
watched him read the letter。 He was so happy he was distraught； afraid even。
When he withdrew to write his response； I； being a sensible clothes peddler；
spread open my decoy “delivery” satchel and withdrew from it a dark money
purse； which I attempted to sell to Black’s nosy landlady。
“This is made of the best Persian velvet；” I said。
“My son died at war in Persia；” she said。 “Whose letters do you deliver to
Black？”
I could read from her face that she was making plans to set up her own
wiry daughter； or who knows whose daughter； with lionhearted Black。 “No
one’s；” I said。 “A poor relative of his who’s on his deathbed in the
Bayrampasha sickhouse and needs money。”
“Oh my；” she said； unconvinced； “who is the unfortunate man？”
“How did your son die in the war？” I asked stubbornly。
We began to glare at each other with hostility。 She was a widow and all
alone。 Her life must’ve been quite difficult。 If you ever happen to bee a
clothier…cum…messenger like Esther； you’ll soon learn that only wealth； might
and legendary romances stir people’s curiosity。 Everything else is but worry；
separation； jealousy； loneliness； enmity； tears； gossip and never…ending poverty。
Such things never change； just like the objects that furnish a home： a faded old
kilim； a ladle and small copper pan resting on an empty baking sheet； tongs
and an ash box resting beside the stove； two worn chests—one small； one
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large—a turban stand maintained to conceal the widow’s solitary life and an
old sword to scare thieves off。
Black hastily returned with his money purse。 “Clothier woman；” he said；
making himself heard to the meddling landlady rather than myself。 “Take this
and bring it to our suffering patient。 If he has any response for me； I’ll be
waiting。 You can find me at Master Enishte’s house； where I’ll spend the rest
of the day。”
There’s no need for all of these games。 No cause for a young brave…heart like
Black to hide his amatory maneuvers； the signals he receives； the handkerchiefs
and letters he sends in pursuit of a maiden。 Or does he truly have his eye on
his landlady’s daughter？ At times； I didn’t trust Black at all and was afraid that
he was deceiving Shekure terribly。 How is it that； despite spending his entire
day with Shekure in the same house； he’s incapable of giving her a sign？
Once I was outside； I opened the purse。 It contained twelve silver coins and
a letter。 I was so curious about the letter that I nearly ran to Hasan。 Vegetable…
sellers had spread out cabbage； carrots and the rest in front of their shops。 But
I didn’t even have it in me to touch the plump leeks that were crying out to
me to fondle them。
I turned onto the side street； and saw that the blind Tatar was there waiting
to heckle me again。 “Tuh；” I spat in his direction； that was all。 Why doesn’t this
biting cold freeze these vagrants to death？
As Hasan silently read the letter； I could barely maintain my patience。
Finally； unable to restrain myself； I suddenly said “Yes？” and he began reading
aloud：
My Dearest Shekure； you’ve requested that I plete your father’s book。 You
can be certain that I have no other goal。 I visit your house for this reason； not to
pester you； as you’d earlier indicated。 I’m quite aware that my love for you is my
own concern。 Yet； due to this love； I’m unable properly to take up my pen and
write what your father—my dear Uncle—has requested for his book。 Whenever I
sense your presence in the house； I seize up and am of no service to your father。 I’ve
mulled this over extensively and there can be but one cause： After twelve years； I’ve
seen your face only once； when you showed yourself at the window。 Now； I quite
fear losing that vision。 If I could once more see you close…up； I’d have no fear of
losing you； and I could easily finish your father’s book。 Yesterday； Shevket brought
me to the abandoned house of the Hanged Jew。 No one will see us there。 Today； at
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whatever time you see fit； I’ll go there and wait for you。 Yesterday； Shevket
mentioned that you dreamt your husband had died。
Hasan read the letter mockingly； in places raising his already high…pitched
voice even higher like a woman’s； and in places； emulating the trembling
supplication of a lover who’d lost all reason。 He made light of Black’s having
written his wish “to see you just once” in Persian。 He added； “As soon as Black
saw that Shekure had given him some hope； he quickly began to negotiate。
Such ha