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long even I felt as if I were deceiving her。 While my father was being murdered
here； I was with Black engaged in an act of lovemaking。 If it were only Hayriye
who knew this； I wouldn’t feel as guilty； but I suspect that you might make
something of it as well。 So； admit it； you believe that I’m hiding something。
Alas； poor woman！ Could my fate be any darker？ I began to cry； then Hayriye
cried； and we embraced again。
I pretended to satisfy my hunger at the table we’d set upstairs。 From time
to time； with the excuse of “checking on Grandfather；” I would step into the
other room and burst into tears。 Later because the children were scared and
agitated； they snuggled up tightly next to me in bed。 For a long while they
were unable to sleep for fear of jinns； and as they tossed and turned they kept
asking； “I heard a noise； did you hear it？” To lull them to sleep； I promised to
tell them a love story。 You know how words take wing in the darkness。
“Mother； you’re not going to get married are you？” said Shevket。
“Listen to me；” I said。 “There was a prince who； from afar； fell in love with a
strikingly beautiful maiden。 How did this happen？ I’ll tell you how。 Before
laying eyes on the pretty maiden； he’d seen her portrait； that’s how。”
As I would often do when I was upset and troubled； I recounted the tale not
from memory； but improvising according to how I felt at that time。 And since I
colored it using a palette of my own memories and worries； what I recounted
became a kind of melancholy illustration to acpany all that had happened
to me。
After both children fell asleep； I left the warm bed and； together with
Hayriye； cleaned up what that vile demon had scattered about。 We picked up
ruined chests； books； cloth； ceramic cups； earthenware pots； plates and inkpots
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that had been thrown about and shattered； we cleared away a demolished
folding worktable； paint boxes and papers that had been torn up with furious
hatred； and while doing so one of us； periodically； would stop and break down
crying。 It was as though we were more distraught over the wreckage of the
rooms and their furnishings and the savage violation of our privacy； than we
were over my father’s death。 I can tell you from experience； unfortunates
who’ve lost loved ones are forted by the unchanged presence of objects in
the house； they’re lulled by the sameness of the curtains； blankets and
daylight； which； in turn； allows them occasionally to forget that Azrael has
carried away their beloved or kin。 The house that my father looked after with
patience and love； whose nooks and doors he had meticulously embellished；
had been mercilessly vandalized； thus； we were not only devoid of fort and
pleasant memories but； reminded of the pitilessness of the culprit’s damned
soul； we were terrified as well。
When； for example； at my insistence we went downstairs； drew fresh water
from the well； performed our ablutions and were reciting from the “Family of
Imran” chapter—which my dearly departed father said he loved so much
because it mentioned hope and death—out of his most cherished Herat…
bound Koran； we were under sway of this terror and alarmed that the
courtyard gate had begun to creak。 It was nothing。 But； after we checked that
the latch was locked； and barricaded the gate by moving with our bined
strength the planter of sweet basil that my father would water on spring
mornings with freshly drawn well water； we reentered the house in the dead of
night； and it suddenly seemed that the elongated shadows we were casting by
the light of the oil lamp belonged to others。 Most frightening of all was the
horror that overcame us like a silent act of piety； as we solemnly washed his
bloodied face and changed his clothes so that I might deceive myself into
believing that my father had died at his appointed time； “Hand me his sleeve
from underneath；” Hayriye had whispered to me。
As we removed his bloody clothes and undergarments； what aroused our
amazement and awe was the vitality and whitish color of my father’s skin
illuminated by candlelight。 Because there were many more threatening things
to frighten us； neither of us was shy about looking at my father’s sprawling
naked body covered with moles and wounds。 When Hayriye went back
upstairs to fetch clean undergarments and his green silk shirt； unable to
restrain myself； I looked down there and ed at
what I’d done。 After I’d dressed my father in fresh clothes and carefully
cleaned the blood off his neck； face and hair； I embraced him with all my
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strength； and burying my nose in his beard； I inhaled his scent and cried at
length。
For those of you who would accuse me of lacking feeling； or even of being
guilty； let me hasten to tell of two further instances when I broke down crying：
1。 When I was tidying the upstairs room so the children wouldn’t discover
what had happened and I brought a seashell he’d used as a paper burnisher to
my ear； as I’d done as a child； only to discover that the sound of the sea had
diminished。 2。 When I saw that the red velvet cushion my father sat upon
often over the last twenty years—so much so it’d bee part of his rear
end—had been torn apart。
When everything in the house； excluding the damage that was beyond
repair； was put back in order； I mercilessly denied Hayriye’s request to spread
her roll…up mattress out in our room。 “I don’t want the children to get
suspicious in the morning；” I explained to her。 But； to be honest； I was as eager
to be alone with my children as I was to punish her。 I entered my bed but was
unable to sleep for a long while； not because I was preoccupied with the
horror of what had happened； but because I was considering all that yet lay