turned out to be a comely man. Listen Shekure, my heart did tell me, he’s not only handsome, look into his eyes, he possesses the heart of a child, so pure, so alone: Marry him. I, however, sent him a letter wherein I’d given him quite the opposite message.
Though he was twelve years my elder, when I was twelve, I was more mature than he. Back then, instead of standing straight and tall before me in a fashion befitting a man and announcing that he was going to do this or that, jump from this spot or climb onto that thing, he’d just bury his face in some book or picture, hiding as if everything embarrassed him. In time, he also fell in love with me. He made a painting declaring his love. We’d both matured by then. When I turned twelve, I sensed that Black could no longer look into my eyes, as if he were afraid I’d discover he loved me. “Hand me that ivory-handled knife,” he’d say, for example, looking at the knife but unable to look at me. If I asked him, for instance, “Is the cherry sherbet to your liking?” he couldn’t simply indicate so with a delicate smile or nod, as we do when our mouths are full, you see. Instead, he’d scream “Yes” at the top of his lungs, as if trying to communicate with a deaf man. He feared looking me in the face. I was a maiden of striking beauty then. Any man who caught sight of me even once, from afar, or from between parted curtains or yawning doors, or even through the layers of my modest head coverings, immediately became enamored of me. I’m not being a braggart, I’m explaining this so you’ll understand my story and be better able to share in my grief.
In the well-known tale of Hüsrev and Shirin, there’s a moment that Black and I had discussed at length. Hüsrev’s friend, Shapur, intends to make Hüsrev and Shirin fall in love. One day Shirin embarks on a countryside outing with her ladies of the court, when she sees a picture of Hüsrev that Shapur has secretly hung from the branch of one of the trees beneath which the outing party has stopped to rest. Beholding this picture of the handsome Hüsrev in that beautiful garden, Shirin is stricken by love. Many paintings depict this moment-or “scene” as the miniaturists would have it-consisting of Shirin’s look of adoration and bewilderment as she gazes upon the image of Hüsrev. While Black was working with my father, he’d seen this picture many times and had twice made exact copies by eyeing the original as he painted. After falling in love with me, he made a copy for himself. But this time in place of Hüsrev and Shirin, he portrayed himself and me, Black and Shekure. If it weren’t for the captions beneath the figures, only I would’ve known who the man and maiden in the picture were, because sometimes when we were joking around, he’d depict us in the same manner and color: I all in blue, he all in red. And if this weren’t indication enough, he’d also written our names beneath the figures. He’d left the painting where I would find it and run off. He watched me to see what my reaction to his composition would be.
I was well aware that I wouldn’t be able to love him like a Shirin, so I feigned ignorance. On the evening of that summer’s day when Black gave me his painting, during which we’d tried to cool ourselves with sour-cherry sherbets made with ice said to have been brought all the way from snow-capped Mount Ulu, I told my father that he’d made a declaration of love. At that time, Black had just graduated from the religious school. He taught in remote neighborhoods and, more out of my father’s insistence than his own desire, Black was attempting to obtain the patronage of the powerful and esteemed Naim Pasha. But according to my father, Black didn’t yet have his wits about him. My father, who’d taken great pains to win Black a place in Naim Pasha’s circle, at least as a clerk to begin, complained that he wasn’t doing much to further his own cause; in other words,
Though he was twelve years my elder, when I was twelve, I was more mature than he. Back then, instead of standing straight and tall before me in a fashion befitting a man and announcing that he was going to do this or that, jump from this spot or climb onto that thing, he’d just bury his face in some book or picture, hiding as if everything embarrassed him. In time, he also fell in love with me. He made a painting declaring his love. We’d both matured by then. When I turned twelve, I sensed that Black could no longer look into my eyes, as if he were afraid I’d discover he loved me. “Hand me that ivory-handled knife,” he’d say, for example, looking at the knife but unable to look at me. If I asked him, for instance, “Is the cherry sherbet to your liking?” he couldn’t simply indicate so with a delicate smile or nod, as we do when our mouths are full, you see. Instead, he’d scream “Yes” at the top of his lungs, as if trying to communicate with a deaf man. He feared looking me in the face. I was a maiden of striking beauty then. Any man who caught sight of me even once, from afar, or from between parted curtains or yawning doors, or even through the layers of my modest head coverings, immediately became enamored of me. I’m not being a braggart, I’m explaining this so you’ll understand my story and be better able to share in my grief.
In the well-known tale of Hüsrev and Shirin, there’s a moment that Black and I had discussed at length. Hüsrev’s friend, Shapur, intends to make Hüsrev and Shirin fall in love. One day Shirin embarks on a countryside outing with her ladies of the court, when she sees a picture of Hüsrev that Shapur has secretly hung from the branch of one of the trees beneath which the outing party has stopped to rest. Beholding this picture of the handsome Hüsrev in that beautiful garden, Shirin is stricken by love. Many paintings depict this moment-or “scene” as the miniaturists would have it-consisting of Shirin’s look of adoration and bewilderment as she gazes upon the image of Hüsrev. While Black was working with my father, he’d seen this picture many times and had twice made exact copies by eyeing the original as he painted. After falling in love with me, he made a copy for himself. But this time in place of Hüsrev and Shirin, he portrayed himself and me, Black and Shekure. If it weren’t for the captions beneath the figures, only I would’ve known who the man and maiden in the picture were, because sometimes when we were joking around, he’d depict us in the same manner and color: I all in blue, he all in red. And if this weren’t indication enough, he’d also written our names beneath the figures. He’d left the painting where I would find it and run off. He watched me to see what my reaction to his composition would be.
I was well aware that I wouldn’t be able to love him like a Shirin, so I feigned ignorance. On the evening of that summer’s day when Black gave me his painting, during which we’d tried to cool ourselves with sour-cherry sherbets made with ice said to have been brought all the way from snow-capped Mount Ulu, I told my father that he’d made a declaration of love. At that time, Black had just graduated from the religious school. He taught in remote neighborhoods and, more out of my father’s insistence than his own desire, Black was attempting to obtain the patronage of the powerful and esteemed Naim Pasha. But according to my father, Black didn’t yet have his wits about him. My father, who’d taken great pains to win Black a place in Naim Pasha’s circle, at least as a clerk to begin, complained that he wasn’t doing much to further his own cause; in other words,
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