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“Hayriye； tell us a story；” said Orhan as he sat on his chamber pot。
“Once upon a time there was a blue man；” said Hayriye； “and his closest
panion was a jinn。”
“Why was the man blue？” said Orhan。
“For goodness sake； Hayriye；” I said。 “Tonight at least don’t tell a story
about jinns and ghosts。”
“Why shouldn’t she？” said Shevket。 “Mother； after we fall asleep do you
leave the bed and go to be with Grandfather？”
“Your grandfather； Allah protect him； is gravely ill；” I said。 “Of course I go to
his bedside at night to look after him。 Then； I return to our bed； don’t I？”
“Have Hayriye look after Grandfather；” said Shevket。 “Doesn’t Hayriye look
after my grandfather at night anyway？”
“Are you finished？” Hayriye asked of Orhan。 As she wiped Orhan’s behind
with a wet rag； his face was overe with a sweet lethargy。 She glanced into
the pot and wrinkled up her face； not due to the smell； but as if what she saw
wasn’t sufficient。
“Hayriye；” I said。 “Empty the chamber pot and bring it back。 I don’t want
Shevket to leave the room in the middle of the night。”
“Why shouldn’t I leave the room？” asked Shevket。 “Why shouldn’t Hayriye
tell us a story about jinns and fairies？”
227
“Because there are jinns in the house； you idiot；” Orhan said； not so much
out of fear； but with the dumb optimism I always noticed in his expression
after he’d relieved himself。
“Mother； are there jinns here？”
“If you leave the room； if you attempt to see your grandfather； the jinn will
catch you。”
“Where will Black lay out his bed？” said Shevket。 “Where will he sleep
tonight？”
“I’m not sure；” I said。 “Hayriye will be preparing his bed。”
“Mother； you’re still going to sleep with us； aren’t you？” said Shevket。
“How many times do I have to tell you？ I’ll sleep together with you two as
before。”
“Always？”
Hayriye left carrying the chamber pot。 From the cabi where I’d hidden
them； I removed the remaining nine illustrations left behind by the
unspeakable murderer and sat on the bed。 By the light of a candle； I stared at
them for a long time trying to fathom their secret。 These illustrations were
beautiful enough that you might mistake them for your own forgotten
memories； and as with writing； as you looked at them； they spoke。
I’d lost myself in the pictures。 I understood from the scent of Orhan’s
beautiful head； upon which I’d rested my nose； that he； too； was looking at
that odd and suspicious Red。 As occasionally happened； I had the urge to take
out my breast and nurse him。 Later； when Orhan was frightened by the
terrifying picture of Death； gently and sweetly breathing through his reddish
lips； I suddenly wanted to eat him。
“I’ll eat you up； do you understand me？”
“Mama； tickle me；” he said and threw himself down。
“Get off there； get up you beast；” I screamed and slapped him。 He’d lain
across the pictures。 I checked the illustrations； apparently no harm had e
to them。 The image of the horse in the topmost picture was faintly； yet
unnoticeably； crumpled。
Hayriye entered with the empty chamber pot。 I gathered the pictures and
was about to leave the room when Shevket began to cry：
“Mother？ Where are you going？”
228
“I’ll be right back。”
I crossed the freezing hallway。 Black was seated across from my father’s
empty cushion； in the same position that he’d spent four days discussing
painting and perspective with him。 I laid out the illustrations on the folding
bookstand； the cushion and on the floor before him。 Color abruptly suffused
the candlelit room with a warmth and an astonishing liveliness； as if
everything had been set in motion。
Utterly still； we looked at the pictures at length； silently and respectfully。
When we made even the slightest movement； the still air； which bore the scent
of death from the room across the wide hall； would make the candle flame
flicker and my father’s mysterious illustrations seemed to move too。 Had the
paintings taken on such significance for me because they were the cause of my
father’s death？ Was I mesmerized by the peculiarity of the horse or the
uniqueness of Red； by the misery of the tree or the sadness of the two
wandering dervishes； or was it because I feared the murderer who’d killed my
father and perhaps others on account of these illustrations？ After a while；
Black and I fully understood that the silence between us； as much as it
might’ve been caused by the paintings； was also due to our being alone in the
same room on our wedding night。 Both of us wanted to speak。
“When we wake tomorrow morning； we should tell everybody that my
hapless father has passed away in his sleep；” I said。 Although what I’d said was
correct； it appeared as if I were being insincere。
“Everything will be fine in the morning；” said Black in the same peculiar
manner； unable to believe in the truth of what he’d spoken。
When he made a nearly imperceptible gesture to draw closer to me； I had
the urge to embrace him and； as I did with the children； to take his head into
my hands。
Just at that moment； I heard the door to my father’s room open and；
springing up in terror； I ran over； opened our door and looked out： By the light
that filtered into the hallway； I was shocked to see my father’s door half open。
I stepped into the icy hallway。 My father’s room； heated by the still…lit brazier；
reeked of decay。 Had Shevket or somebody else e here？ His body； dressed
in his nightgown； rested peacefully； bathed in the faint light of the brazier。 I
thought about the way； on some nights； I’d say； “Have a good night； dear
Father；” while he read the Book of the Soul by candlelight before going to sleep。
Raising himself slightly； he’d take the glass I’d brought hi