I AM CALLED BLACK-2
I AM CALLED BLACK-2 (第1/3页)
WhenIfirstlaideyesonherchild,IknewatoncewhatI’dlongandmistakenlyrecalledaboutShekure’sface.LikeOrhan’sface,herswasthin,thoughherchinwaslongerthanwhatIremembered.So,thenthemouthofmybelovedwassurelysmallerandnarrowerthanIimaginedittobe.Foradozenyears,asIventuredfromcitytocity,I’dwidenedShekure’smouthoutofdesireandhadimaginedherlipstobemorepert,fleshyandirresistible,likealarge,shinycherry.
HadItakenShekure’sportraitwithme,renderedinthestyleoftheVianmasters,Iwouldn’thavefeltsuchlossduringmylongtravelswhenIcouldscarcelyremembermybeloved,whosefaceI’dleftsomewherebehindme.Forifalover’sfacesurvivesemblazonedonyourheart,theworldisstillyourhome.
MeetingShekure’syoungestsonandspeakingwithhim,seeinghisfaceupcloseandkissinghim,arousedinmearestlessnesspeculiartotheluckless,tomurderersandtosinners.Aninnervoiceurgedmeon,“Bequicknow,goandseeher.”
Forawhile,IconsideredsilentlyquittingmyEnishte’spresenceandopeningeachofthedoorsalongthewidehallway—I’dcountedthemoutofthecornerofmyeye,fivedarkdoors,oneofwhich,naturally,openedontothestaircase—untilIfoundShekure.But,I’dbeenseparatedfrommybelovedfortwelveyearsbecauseIrecklesslyrevealedwhatlayinmyheart.Idecidedtowaitdiscreetly,listeningtomyEnishtewhileadmiringtheobjectsthatShekurehadtouchedandthelargepillowuponwhichshe’dreclinedwhoknowshowmanytimes.
HerecountedtomethattheSultanwantedtohavethebookcompletedintimeforthethousandth-yearanniversaryoftheHegira.OurSultan,RefugeoftheWorld,wantedtodemonstratethatinthethousandthyearoftheMuslimcalendarHeandHisstatecouldmakeuseofthestylesoftheFranksaswellastheFranksthemselves.BecauseHewasalsohavingaBookofFestivitiesmade,theSultangrantedthatthemasterminiaturists,whomHeknewwerequitebusy,bepermittedtosequesterthemselvesathometoworkinpeaceinsteadofamongthecrowdsattheworkshop.Hewas,ofcourse,alsoawarethattheyallregularlypaidclandestinevisitstomyEnishte.
“YoushallvisitHeadIlluminatorMasterOsman,”saidmyEnishte.“Somesayhe’sgoneblind,othersthathe’slosthissenses.Ithinkhe’sblindandsenileboth.”
DespitethefactthatmyEnishtedidn’thavethestandingofamasterillustratorandthatthiswasn’thisfieldofartisticexpertiseatall,hedidhavecontroloveranillustratedmanuscript.This,infact,waswiththepermissionandencouragementoftheSultan,asituationthat,ofcourse,strainedhisrelationshipwiththeelderlyMasterOsman.
Thinkingofmychildhood,Iallowedmyattentiontobeabsorbedbythefurnitureandobjectswithinthehouse.Fromtwelveyearsago,IstillrememberedthebluekilimfromKulacoveringthefloor,thecopperewer,thecoffeesetandtray,thecopperpailandthedelicatecoffeecupsthathadcomeallthewayfromChinabywayofPortugal,asmylateaunthadboastednumeroustimes.Theseeffects,likethelowX-shapedreadingdeskinlaidwithmother-of-pearl,thestandforaturbannailedtothewall,theredvelvetpillowwhosesmoothnessIrecalledassoonasItouchedit,werefromthehouseinAksaraywhereI’dpassedmychildhoodwithShekure,andtheystillcarriedsomethingoftheblissofmydaysofpaintinginthathouse.
Paintingandhappiness.Iwouldlikemydearreaderswhohavegivencloseattentiontomystoryandmyfatetobearthesetwothingsinmind,astheyarethegenesisofmyworld.Atime,Iwascontentedhere,amongthesebooks,calligraphybrushesandpaintings.Then,IfellinloveandwasbanishedfromthisParadise.IntheyearsIenduredmyamorousexile,IoftenthoughthowIwasinfactdeeplyindebtedtoShekureandmyloveforher,becausetheyhadenabledmetoadaptoptimisticallytolifeandtheworld.SinceIhad,inmychildlikena?veté,nodoubtthatmylovewouldbereciprocated,Igrewexceedinglyassuredandcametoregardtheworldasagoodplace.Yousee,itwaswiththissameearnestnessthatIinvolvedmyselfwithbooksandcametolovethem,tolovethereadingmyEnishterequiredofmebackthen,myreligiousschoollessonsandmyillustratingandpainting.ButasmuchasIowedthesunny,festiveandmorefertilefirsthalfofmyeducationtotheloveIfeltforShekure,Iowedthedarkknowledgethatpoisonedthelattertimetobeingrejected;mydesireonicynightstosputteroutandvanishlikethedyingflamesintheironstovesofacaravansary,repeatedlydreamingafteranightoflovethatIwasplungingintoadesolateabyssalongwithwhicheverwomanlaybesideme,andthenotionthatIwassimplyworthless—allofitwasfurnishedbyShekure.
“Wereyouaware,”myEnishtesaidmuchlater,“thatafterdeathoursoulswillbeabletomeetwiththespiritsofmenandwomeninthisworldwhoarepeacefullyasleepintheirbeds?”
“No,Iwasnot.”
“Wetakealongjourneyafterdeath,soI’mnotafraidofdying.WhatIfearisdyingbeforeIfinishOurSultan’sbook.”
PartofmefeltIwasstronger,morereasonableandmorereliablethanmyEnishte,andpartofmewasdwellingonthecostofthecaftanthatI’dpurchasedonmywayheretomeetwiththismanwho’ddeniedmehisdaughter’shandandonthesilverbridleandhand-workedsaddleofthehorsewhich,soonaftergoingdownstairs,I’dtakeoutofthestableandrideaway.
ItoldhimI’dapprisehimofeverythingIlearnedduringmyvisitstothevariousminiaturists.Ikissedhishandandbroughtittomyforehead.Iwalkeddownthestairs,enteredthecourtyard,andsensingthesnowycolduponme,acceptedthatIwasneitherachildnoranoldman:Ijoyouslyfelttheworlduponmyskin.AsIshutthestabledoor,abreezebegantostir.Iledmywhitehorsebythebridleoverthestonewalkwaytotheearthenpartofthecourtyard,andwebothshuddered:Ifeltasifhisstrong,large-veinedlegs,hisimpatienceandhisstubbornnessweremyown.Assoonasweenteredthestreet,Iwasabouttoswiftlymountmysteedanddisappeardownthenarrowwaylikeafabledhorseman,nevertoreturnagain,whenanenormouswoman,aJewessdressedallinpinkandcarryingabundle,appearedoutofnowhereandaccostedme.Shewasaslargeandwideasanarmoire.Yetshewasboisterous,livelyandevencoquettish.
“Mybraveman,myyounghero,Iseeyou’retrulyashandsomeastheysayyouare,”shesaid.“Mightyoubemarried?Ormightyoubeabachelor?
WouldyoudeigntobuyasilkhandkerchiefforyoursecretloverfromEsther,Istanbul’spremierpeddleroffinecloth?”
“Nay.”
“AredsashofAtlassilk?”
“Nay.”
“Don’tgoonpiping”nay‘atmelikethat!Howcouldabraveheartlikeyounothaveafiancéeorasecretlover?Whoknowshowmanyteary-eyedmaidensareburningwithdesireforyou?“Herbodylengthenedliketheslenderformofanacrobatandsheleanedtowardmewithanelegantgesture.Atthesametime,withtheskillofa
magicianwhoplucksobjectsoutofthinair,shecausedalettertoappearinherhand.Istealthilygrabbedit,andasifI’dbeentrainingforthismomentforyears,Ihastilyandartfullyplaceditintomysash.Itwasathickletterandfeltlikefireagainsttheicyskinofmyside,betweenmybellyandback.
“Rideatanamble,”saidEsthertheclothespeddler.“Turnrightatthecorner,followingthecurveofthewallwithoutbreakingstride,butwhenyougettothepomegranatetreeturnandlookatthehouseyou’vejustleft,atthewindowtoyourright.”
Shewentonherwayandvanishedinaninstant.
Imountedthehorse,butlikeanovicedoingsoforthefirsttime.Myheartwasracing,mymindwasovercomebyexcitement,myhandshadforgottenhowtocontrolthereins,butwhenmylegstightlygrippedthehorse’sbody,soundreasonandskilltookcontrolofmyhorseandme,andasEstherhadinstructed,mywisehorseambledsteadilyand,howlovely,weturnedrightontothesidestreet!
ItwasthenthatIfeltImightintruthbehandsome.Asinfairytales,frombehindeveryshutterandeverylatticedwindow,acoywomanwaswatchingmeandIfeltImightburnonceagainwiththatsamefirethathadonceconsumedme.IsthiswhatIdesired?WasIsuccumbinganewtotheillnessfromwhichI’dsufferedforsomanyyears?Thesunsuddenlybrokethroughtheclouds,startlingme.
Wherewasthepomegranatetree?Wasitthisthin,melancholytreehere?
Yes!Iturnedslightlytotherightinmysaddle.Isawawindowbehindthetree,buttherewasnobodythere.I’dbeendupedbythatwenchEsther!
JustasIwasthinkingsuchthoughts,thewindow’siced-overshuttersopenedwithaloudburst,asifthey’dexploded,andaftertwelveyears,Isawmybeloved’sstunningfaceamongsnowybranches,framedbythewindowwhoseicytrimshonebrightlyinthesunlight.
Wasmydark-eyedbelovedlookingatmeoratanotherlifebeyondme?Icouldn’ttellwhethershewassadorsmilingorsmilingsadly.Foolishhorse,heednotmyheart,slowdown!Icalmlytwistedinmysaddleagain,fixingmydesirousstareforaslongaspossible,untilhergaunt,elegantandmysteriousfacedisappearedbehindthebranches.
Muchlater,afteropeningherletterandseeingtheillustrationwithin,Ithoughthowmyvisittoheratthewindowonhorsebackcloselyresembledthatmoment,picturedathousandtimes,inwhichHüsrevvisitsShirinbeneathherwindow—onlyinourcase,therewasthatmelancholytree
betweenus.WhenIrecognizedthissimilarity,ohhowIburnedwithalovesuchastheydescribeinthosebookswesocherishandadore.
IAMESTHERAllofyou,Iknow,arewonderingwhatShekurepennedinthatletterIpresentedtoBlack.Asthiswasalsoacuriosityofmine,Ilearnedeverythingtherewastoknow.Ifyouwould,then,pretendyou’reflippingbackthroughthepagesofthestoryandletmetellyouwhatoccurredbeforeIdeliveredthatletter.
Now,it’sgettingontowardevening,I’veretiredtoourhouseinthequaintlittleJewishquarteratthemouthoftheGoldenHornwithmyhusbandNesim,twooldpeoplehuffingandpuffing,tryingtokeepwarmbyfeedinglogsintothestove.Paynomindtomycallingmyself“old.”WhenIloadmywares—itemscheapandpreciousalike,certaintoluretheladies,rings,earrings,necklacesandbaubles—intothefoldsofsilkhandkerchiefs,gloves,sheetsandthecolorfulshirtclothsentoverinPortugueseships,whenIshoulderthatbundle,Esther’saladleandIstanbul’sakettle,andthere’snaryastreetIdon’tvisit.Thereisn’tawordofgossiporletterthatIhaven’tcarriedfromonedoortothenext,andI’veplayedmatchmakertohalfthemaidensofIstanbul,butIdidn’tbeginthisrecitaltobrag.AsIwassaying,weweretakingoureaseintheevening,and“rap,rap”someonewasatthedoor.IwentandopenedittodiscoverHayriye,thatidiotslavegirl,standingbeforeme.Sheheldaletterinherhand.Icouldn’ttellwhetheritwasfromthecoldorfromexcitement,butshewastremblingassheexplainedShekure’swishes.
Atfirst,IassumedthisletterwastobetakentoHasan,that’swhyIwassoastonished.YouknowaboutprettyShekure’shusband,theonewhoneverreturnedfromthewar—ifyouaskme,he’slongsincehadhishidepierced.
Wellyousee,thatnever-to-returnsoldier-husbandalsohasaneager,lovesickbrotherbythenameofHasan.SoimaginemysurprisewhenIsawthatShekure’sletterwasn’tmeantforHasan,butforsomeoneelse.Whatdidthelettersay?Estherwasmadwithcuriosity,andintheend,Ididsucceedinreadingit.
Butalas,wedon’tknoweachotherthatwell,dowe?Tobehonest,Iwasovercomewithembarrassmentandworry.HowIreadtheletteryou’llneverknow.Maybeyou’llshameandbelittlemeformymeddling—asifyouyourselvesaren’tasnosyasbarbers.I’lljustrelatetoyouwhatIlearnedfromreadingtheletter.ThisiswhatsweetShekurehadwritten:
BlackEffendi,you’reavisitortomyhousethankstoyourcloserelationswithmyfather.Butdon’texpectanodfromme.Muchhashappenedsinceyouleft.Iwaswed,andhavetwostrongandspiritedsons.OneofthemisOrhan,he’stheonewhomyousawjustnowcometotheworkshop.WhileI’vebeenawatingthereturnofmyhusbandthesefouryears,littleelsehasenteredmythoughts.Imightfeellonely,hopelessandweaklivingwithmytwochildrenandanelderlyfather.Imissthestrengthandprotectionofaman,butletnooneassumehemighttakeadvantageofmysituation.Therefore,itwouldpleasemeifyouceasedcallingonus.Youdidembarrassmeoncebefore,andafterward,Ihadtoenduremuchsufferingtoregainmyhonorinmyfather’seyes!Alongwiththisletter,I’malsoreturningthepictureyoupaintedandsenttomewhenyouwereanimpulsiveyouthwithhiswitsnotyetabouthim.Idothissoyouwon’tharboranyfalsehopesormisreadanysigns.It’samistaketobelievethatonecouldfallinlovegazingatapicture.It’dbebestifyoustoppedcomingtoourhousecompletely.
MypoorShekure,you’reneitheranoblemannorapashawithafancysealtostampyourletter!Atthebottomofthepage,shesignedthefirstletterofhername,whichlookedlikeasmall,frightenedbird.Nothingmore.
Isaid“seal.”You’reprobablywonderinghowIopenandclosethesewax-sealedletters.Butinfactthelettersaren’tsealedatall.“ThatEstherisanilliterateJew,”mydearShekurehadassumed.“She’llneverunderstandmywriting.”True,Ican’treadwhat’swritten,butIcanalwayshavesomeoneelsereadit.Andasforwhat’snotwritten,Icanquitereadily“read”thatmyself.
Confused,areyou?
Letmeputitthisway,soeventhemostthick-headedofyouwillunderstand:
Aletterdoesn’tcommunicatebywordsalone.Aletter,justlikeabook,canbereadbysmellingit,touchingitandfondlingit.Thereby,intelligentfolkwillsay,“Goonthen,readwhatthelettertellsyou!”whereasthedull-wittedwillsay,“Goonthen,readwhathe’swritten!”Listen,now,towhatelseShekuresaid:.
ThoughI’vesentthisletterinsecret,byrelyingonEsther,who’smadeletter-deliveryamatterofcommerceandcustom,I’msignifyingthatIdon’tintendtoconcealthatmuchatall
ThatI’vefoldedituplikeaFrenchpastryimpliessecrecyandmystery,true.Buttheletterisn’tsealedandthere’sahugepictureenclosed.Theapparentimplicationis,“Pray,keepoursecretatallcosts,”whichmorebefitsaninvitationtolovethanaletterofrebuke
Furthermore,thesmelloftheletterconfirmsthisinterpretation.Thefragrancewasfaintenoughtobeambiguous—didsheintentionallyperfumetheletter?—yetalluringenoughtofirereaders’curiosity—isthisthearomaofattarorthesmellofherhand?Andafragrance,whichwasenoughtoenrapturethepoormanwhoreadthelettertome,willsurelyhavethesameeffectonBlack
IamEsther,whoknowsneitherhowtoreadnorwrite,butthisIdoknow:Althoughtheflowofthescriptandthehandwritingseemstosay“Alas,Iamrushed,Iamwritingcarelesslyandwithoutpayingseriousattention,”
theselettersthattwitterelegantlyasifcaughtinagentlebreezeconveytheexactoppositemessage.Evenherphrase“justnowcome”whenreferringtoOrhan,implyingthattheletterwaswrittenatthatverymoment,betraysaploynolessobviousthancaretakenineachline
ThepicturesentalongwiththeletterdepictsprettyShiringazingathandsomeHüsrev’simageandfallinginlove,astoldinthestorythatevenI,EsthertheJewess,knowwell.AllthelovelornladiesofIstanbuladorethisstory,butneverhaveIknownsomeosendanillustrationrelatingtoit.
Ithappensallthetimetoyoufortunateliteratepeople:Amaidenwhocan’treadbegsyoutoreadalovelettershe’sreceived.Theletterissosurprising,excitinganddisturbingthatitsowner,thoughembarrassedatyourbecomingprivytohermostintimateaffairs,ashamedanddistraught,asksyouallthesametoreaditoncemore.Youreaditagain.Intheend,you’vereadthelettersomanytimesthatbothofyouhavememorizedit.Beforelong,she’lltaketheletterinherhandsandask,“Didhemakethatstatementthere?”and“Didhesaythathere?”Asyoupointtotheappropriateplaces,she’llporeoverthosepassages,stillunabletomakesenseofthewordsthere.Asshestaresatthecurvylettersofthewords,sometimesIamsomovedIforgetthatImyselfcan’treadorwriteandfeeltheurgetoembracethoseilliteratemai
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