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conscious mind and alighted somewhere in my memory。 Later； I would muse
over these words one by one。 But at the time my appreciation of the magic of
what he said was purely visceral and it bound me to him。 I felt guilty for
having caused him such pain for twelve years。 What a honey…tongued man！
What a good person this Black was！ Like an innocent child！ I could read all of
this from his eyes。 The fact that he loved me so much made me trust him。
We embraced。 This so pleased me that I felt no guilt。 I let myself be borne
away by sweet emotion。 I hugged him tighter。 I let him kiss me； and I kissed
him back。 And as we kissed； it was as if the entire world had entered a gentle
twilight。 I wished everybody could embrace each other the way we did。 I faintly
recalled that love was supposed to be like this。 He put his tongue into my
mouth。 I was so content with what I was doing； it was as if the whole world
were engulfed in blissful light； I could think of nothing bad。
Let me describe for you how our embrace might’ve been depicted by the
master miniaturists of Herat； if this tragic story of mine were one day recorded
in a book。 There are certain amazing illustrations that my father has shown me
wherein the thrill of the script’s flow matches the swaying of the leaves； the
wall ornamentation is echoed in the design of the border gilding and the joy
of the swallow’s matchless wings piercing the picture’s border suggests the
elation of the lovers。 Exchanging glances from afar and tormenting each other
with suggestive phrases； the lovers would be depicted so small； so far in the
distance； that for a moment it’d seem like the story wasn’t about them at all；
but had to do with the starry night； the dark trees； the exquisite palace where
they met； its courtyard and its wonderful garden whose every leaf was lovingly
and particularly rendered。 If； however； one paid very close attention to the
secret symmetry of the colors； which the miniaturist could only convey with
total resignation to his art； and to the mysterious light infusing the entire
painting； the careful observer would immediately see that the secret behind
these illustrations is that they’re created by love itself。 It’s as if a light were
emanating from the lovers； from the very depths of the illustration。 And when
Black and I embraced； well…being flooded the world in the very same manner。
163
Thank God I’ve seen enough of life to know that such well…being never lasts
for long。 Black sweetly took my large breasts into his hands。 This felt good and；
forgetting all； I longed for him to suck on my nipples。 But he couldn’t quite
manage it； because he wasn’t all that sure of what he was doing； though his
uncertainty didn’t prevent him from wanting more。 Gradually； fear and
embarrassment came between us the longer we embraced。 But when he
grabbed my thighs to pull me close； pressing his large hardened manliness
against my stomach； I liked it at first； I was curious。 I wasn’t embarrassed。 I
told myself that an embrace such as we’d had would naturally lead to another
such as this。 And though I turned my head away； I couldn’t take my widening
eyes off its size。
Later still； when he abruptly tried to force me to perform that vulgar act
that even Kipchak women and concubines who tell stories at the public baths
wouldn’t do； I froze in astonishment and indecision。
“Don’t furrow your brow； my dear；” he begged。
I stood up； pushed him away and began shouting at him without paying
the slightest mind to his disappointment。
164
I AM CALLED BLACK
Within the darkness of the house of the Hanged Jew； Shekure furrowed her
brow and began raving that I might easily stick the monstrosity I held in my
hands into the mouths of Circassian girls I’d met in Tiflis； Kipchak harlots；
poor brides sold at inns； Turkmen and Persian widows； mon prostitutes
whose numbers were increasing in Istanbul； lecherous Mingerians； coquettish
Abkhazians； Armenian shrews； Genoese and Syrian hags； thespians passing as
women and insatiable boys； but it would not go into hers。 She angrily accused
me of having lost all sense of decorum and self…control by sleeping with all
manner of cheap； pathetic riffraff—from Persia to Baghdad and from the
alleyways of small hot Arabian towns to the shores of the Caspian—and of
having forgotten that some women still took pains to maintain their honor。
All my words of love； she charged； were insincere。
I respectfully listened to my beloved’s outburst； which caused the guilty
member in my hand to fade； and though I was thoroughly embarrassed by the
situation and the rejection I was suffering； two things pleased me： 1。 that I
refrained from lowering myself to match Shekure’s wrath with a response of
similar hue； as I often had reacted viciously to other women in similar
situations； and 2。 that I discovered Shekure’s particular awareness of my
travels； proof that she’d thought of me much more than I’d assumed。
Seeing how downcast I’d bee at being unable to carry out my desires；
she’d already begun to pity me。
“If you truly loved me； passionately and obsessively；” she said as if trying to
excuse herself； “you’d try to control yourself like a gentleman。 You wouldn’t
try to offend the honor of the woman toward whom you entertained serious
intentions。 You’re not the only man who’s making motions to marry me。 Did
anyone see you on your way here？”
“Nay。”
As if she heard someone walking in the dark and snow…covered garden； she
turned her sweet face； which for twelve years I hadn’t been able to recall；
toward the door and gave me the pleasure of seeing her profile。 When we
heard a momentary clattering； we both waited in silence； but nobody entered。
I recalled how even wh