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239
Contrary to what’s depicted in battle illustrations； there isn’t a horse in this
world that extends one foreleg like a curious dog； leaving the other firmly
planted on the ground。 There is no spahi cavalry division in existence whose
horses saunter in unison； as if traced with an identical stencil twenty times
back to back。 We horses scrounge for and eat the green grass at our feet when
nobody is looking。 We never assume a statuesque stance and wait around
elegantly； the way we’re shown in paintings。 Why is everybody so embarrassed
about our eating； drinking； shitting and sleeping？ Why are they afraid to
depict this wondrous God…given and unique implement of mine？ On the sly；
women and children； in particular； love to stare at it； and what’s the harm in
this？ Is the Hoja from Erzurum against this as well？
They say that once upon a time there was a feeble and nervous shah in
Shiraz。 He was in mortal fear that his enemies would have him deposed so his
son could assume the throne； rather than sending the prince to Isfahan as
provincial governor； he imprisoned him in the most out of the way room of
his palace。 The prince grew up and lived in this makeshift cell； which looked
onto neither courtyard nor garden； for thirty…one years。 After his father’s
allotted time on Earth ran out； the prince； who’d lived alone with his books；
ascended the throne and declared： “I mand that you bring me a horse。 I’ve
always seen pictures of them in books； and am curious about them。” They
brought him the most beautiful gray steed in the palace； but when the new
king saw that the horse had nostrils like mine…shafts； a shameless ass； a coat
duller than in the illustrations and a brutish rump； he was so disenchanted
that he had all the horses in his kingdom massacred。 After this brutal
slaughter； which lasted forty days； all the kingdom’s rivers flowed a somber
red。 But Exalted Allah did not refrain from meting out His justice： The king
now had no cavalry whatsoever； and when faced with the army of his
archenemy； the Turkmen Bey of the Blacksheep clan； he was routed and； in the
end； hacked apart。 Let there be no doubt： As all the histories will reveal； the
nation of horses had taken its revenge。
240
I AM CALLED BLACK
Shekure shut herself into the room with the children； and I listened at length
to the sounds within the house and to its incessant creaking。 Shekure and
Shevket began whispering to each other and she anxiously quieted them with
an abrupt “shush！” I heard a rattling ing from the stone…paved area near
the well； but it didn’t last。 Later； my attention was caught by a squawking
seagull that had alighted on the roof。 Then it； too； fell silent along with
everything else。 Afterward； I heard a low moan from the other side of the
hallway： Hayriye was crying in her sleep。 Her moans dissolved into coughing
which ended as suddenly as it had begun； giving way once again to that deep；
dreadful silence。 A while later； I imagined that an intruder was roaming
around the room where my dead Enishte lay； and I froze pletely。
During each span of silence； I examined the pictures before me；
contemplating how the passionate Olive； the beautiful Butterfly and the
deceased gilder had dabbed paint onto the page。 I had the urge to confront
each of the images by shouting “Satan！” or “Death！” as my Enishte used to do
some nights； but fear restrained me。 Besides； these illustrations had vexed me
plenty because I couldn’t write an appropriate story to acpany them
despite my Enishte’s insistence。 Since I was slowly growing certain that his
death was linked to these images； I felt fretful and impatient。 I’d already
scrutinized the illustrations endlessly while listening to Enishte’s stories； all for
a chance to be near Shekure。 Now that she was my lawfully wedded wife； why
should I preoccupy myself with them？ A merciless inner voice answered：
“Because even after her children have fallen asleep； Shekure refuses to leave her
bed and join you。” I waited for a long while gazing at the pictures by
candlelight； hoping that my black…eyed beauty would e to me。
In the morning； stirred from my sleep by Hayriye’s shrieks； I grabbed the
candle…holder and rushed into the hallway。 I thought Hasan had raided the
house with his men； and I considered hiding the illustrations； but quickly
realized that Hayriye had begun screaming upon Shekure’s mand； as a way
to announce Enishte Effendi’s death to the children and neighbors。
When I met Shekure in the hall； we embraced fondly。 The children； who’d
leapt out of bed when they’d heard Hayriye’s shouts； stood motionless。
“Your grandfather has died；” Shekure said to them。 “I don’t want you to
enter that room anymore under any circumstances。”
241
She freed herself from my arms and； going to her father’s side； began to
weep。
I herded the children back into their room。 “Change out of your bedclothes；
you’ll catch cold；” I said and sat on the edge of the bed。
“Grandfather didn’t die this morning。 He died last night；” Shevket said。
A long loose strand of Shekure’s gorgeous hair had coiled into an Arabic
script “vav” on her pillow。 Her warmth hadn’t yet dissipated from beneath the
quilt。 We could hear her sobbing and wailing along with Hayriye。 Her ability to
shriek as though her father had actually died unexpectedly was so shockingly
disingenuous that I felt as if I didn’t know Shekure at all； like she’d been
possessed by a strange jinn。
“I’m frightened；” said Orhan with a glance that was also a request for
permission to cry。
“Don’t be afraid；” I said。 “Your mother is crying so the neighbors will know
of you