Black was being an ignoramus. And that very night in reference to Black and me, my father declared, “I think he’s set his sights very high, this impoverished nephew,” and without regard for my mother’s presence, he added, “he’s smarter than we’d supposed.”
I remember with misery what my father did in the following days, how I kept my distance from Black and how he ceased to visit our house, but I won’t explain all of this for fear that you’ll dislike my father and me. I swear to you, we had no other choice. You know how in such situations reasonable people immediately sense that love without hope is simply hopeless, and understanding the limits of the illogical realm of the heart, make a quick end of it by politely declaring, “They didn’t find us suitably matched. That’s just the way it is.” But, I’ll have you know that my mother said several times, “At least don’t break the boy’s heart.” Black, whom my mother referred to as a “boy,” was twenty-four, and I was half his age. Because my father considered Black’s declaration of love an act of insolence, he wouldn’t humor my mother’s wishes.
Though we hadn’t forgotten him altogether by the time we received news that he’d left Istanbul, we’d let him slip completely out of our affections. Because we hadn’t received news about him from any city for years, I deemed it appropriate to save the picture he’d made and shown me, as a token of our childhood memories and friendship. To prevent my father, and later my soldier-husband, from discovering the picture and getting upset or jealous, I expertly concealed the names “Shekure” and “Black” beneath the figures by making it appear as if someone had dribbled my father’s Hasan Pasha ink onto them, in an accident later to be disguised as flowers. Since I’ve returned that picture to him today, maybe those among you inclined to take a dim view of how I revealed myself to him at the window will feel ashamed and reconsider your prejudices somewhat.
Having exposed my face to him, I remained for a while there at the window, showered in the crimson hue of the evening sun, and gazed in awe at the garden bathed in reddish-orange light, until I felt the chill of the evening air. There was no breeze. I didn’t care what someone passing in the street would’ve said upon seeing me at the open window. One of Ziver Pasha’s daughters, Mesrure, who always laughed and enjoyed herself saying the most surprising things at the most inopportune times when we went merrily and playfully to the public baths each week, once told me that a person never knows exactly what she herself is thinking. This is what I know: Sometimes I’ll say something and realize upon uttering it that it is of my own thinking; but no sooner do I arrive at that realization than I’m convinced the very opposite is true.
I was sorry when poor Elegant Effendi, one of the miniaturists my father often invited to the house-and I won’t pretend I haven’t spied on each of them-went missing, much like my unfortunate husband. “Elegant” was the ugliest among them and the most impoverished of spirit.
I closed the shutters, left the room and went down to the kitchen.
“Mother, Shevket didn’t listen to you,” Orhan said. “While Black was taking his horse out of the stable, Shevket left the kitchen and spied on him from the peephole.”
“What of it!” Shevket said, waving his hand in the air. “Mother spied on him from the hole in the closet.”
“Hayriye,” I said. “Fry some bread in a little butter and serve it to them with marzipan and sugar.”
Orhan jumped up and down with joy though Shevket was silent. But as I walked back upstairs, they both caught up to me, screaming, pushing and shoving by me excitedly. “Be slow, slow down,” I said with a laugh. “You rascals.” I patted them on their delicate backs.
How wonderful it is to be home with children as evening approaches! My father had quietly
I remember with misery what my father did in the following days, how I kept my distance from Black and how he ceased to visit our house, but I won’t explain all of this for fear that you’ll dislike my father and me. I swear to you, we had no other choice. You know how in such situations reasonable people immediately sense that love without hope is simply hopeless, and understanding the limits of the illogical realm of the heart, make a quick end of it by politely declaring, “They didn’t find us suitably matched. That’s just the way it is.” But, I’ll have you know that my mother said several times, “At least don’t break the boy’s heart.” Black, whom my mother referred to as a “boy,” was twenty-four, and I was half his age. Because my father considered Black’s declaration of love an act of insolence, he wouldn’t humor my mother’s wishes.
Though we hadn’t forgotten him altogether by the time we received news that he’d left Istanbul, we’d let him slip completely out of our affections. Because we hadn’t received news about him from any city for years, I deemed it appropriate to save the picture he’d made and shown me, as a token of our childhood memories and friendship. To prevent my father, and later my soldier-husband, from discovering the picture and getting upset or jealous, I expertly concealed the names “Shekure” and “Black” beneath the figures by making it appear as if someone had dribbled my father’s Hasan Pasha ink onto them, in an accident later to be disguised as flowers. Since I’ve returned that picture to him today, maybe those among you inclined to take a dim view of how I revealed myself to him at the window will feel ashamed and reconsider your prejudices somewhat.
Having exposed my face to him, I remained for a while there at the window, showered in the crimson hue of the evening sun, and gazed in awe at the garden bathed in reddish-orange light, until I felt the chill of the evening air. There was no breeze. I didn’t care what someone passing in the street would’ve said upon seeing me at the open window. One of Ziver Pasha’s daughters, Mesrure, who always laughed and enjoyed herself saying the most surprising things at the most inopportune times when we went merrily and playfully to the public baths each week, once told me that a person never knows exactly what she herself is thinking. This is what I know: Sometimes I’ll say something and realize upon uttering it that it is of my own thinking; but no sooner do I arrive at that realization than I’m convinced the very opposite is true.
I was sorry when poor Elegant Effendi, one of the miniaturists my father often invited to the house-and I won’t pretend I haven’t spied on each of them-went missing, much like my unfortunate husband. “Elegant” was the ugliest among them and the most impoverished of spirit.
I closed the shutters, left the room and went down to the kitchen.
“Mother, Shevket didn’t listen to you,” Orhan said. “While Black was taking his horse out of the stable, Shevket left the kitchen and spied on him from the peephole.”
“What of it!” Shevket said, waving his hand in the air. “Mother spied on him from the hole in the closet.”
“Hayriye,” I said. “Fry some bread in a little butter and serve it to them with marzipan and sugar.”
Orhan jumped up and down with joy though Shevket was silent. But as I walked back upstairs, they both caught up to me, screaming, pushing and shoving by me excitedly. “Be slow, slow down,” I said with a laugh. “You rascals.” I patted them on their delicate backs.
How wonderful it is to be home with children as evening approaches! My father had quietly
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