“I AM CALLED “OLIVE”
“I AM CALLED “OLIVE” (第2/3页)
’spreparingtomarryyou.”Ismiledtosoftentheweightofthesewordsandsoasnottobereducedtobeingthatmalcontent’smouthpiece.
“What’stheotheronesay,then?”sheasked,butdidsheherselfknowwhomshewasinquiringafter?
“Theminiaturist?”
“Mymind’sallajumble,”shesaidsuddenly,perhapsafraidofherownthoughts.“Itseemsthatmatterswillbecomeevenmoreconfused.Myfather’sgrowingolder.What’llbecomeofus,ofthesefatherlesschildren?Isenseanevilapproaching,thattheDevilispreparingsomemischiefforus.Esther,tellmesomethingthatwillheartenme.”
“Don’tyoufretintheslightest,mydearestShekure,”Isaidasemotionwelledupwithinme.“You’retrulyintelligent,you’reverybeautiful.Onedayyou’llsleepinthesamebedwithyourhandsomehusband,you’llcuddlewithhim,andhavingforgottenallyourworries,you’llbehappy.Icanreadthisinyoureyes.”
Suchaffectionrosewithinmethatmyeyesfilledwithtears.
“Fine,butwhichonewillbecomemyhusband?”
“Isn’tthatwiseheartofyoursgivingyouananswer?”
“It’sbecauseIdon’tunderstandwhatmyheartissayingthatI’mdispirited.”
ForamomentitoccurredtomethatShekuredidn’ttrustmeatall,thatshewasmasterfullyconcealingherdistrustinordertolearnwhatIknew,thatshewastryingtoarousemypity.WhenIsawshewouldn’tbewritingaresponsetothelettersatpresent,Igrabbedmysack,enteredthecourtyardandslippedaway—butnotbeforesayingsomethingItoldallmymaids,eventhosewhowerecross-eyed:
“Fearnot,mydear,ifyoukeepthosebeautifuleyesofyourspeeled,nomisfortune,nomisfortuneatallwillbefallyou.”
I,SHEKUREIftruthbetold,itusedtobethateachtimeEsthertheclothierpaidavisit,I’dfantasizethatamanstrickenwithlovewouldfinallyberousedtowritealetterthatcouldstirtheheartofanintelligentwomanlikemyself—beautiful,well-bredandwidowed,yetwithherhonorstillintact—andsetitpounding.Andtodiscoverthattheletterwasfromoneoftheusualsuitors,would,attheveryleast,fortifymyresolveandforbearancetoawaitmyhusband’sreturn.Butthesedays,everytimeEstherleaves,Ibecomeconfusedandfeelallthemorewretched.
Ilistenedtothesoundsofmyworld.Fromthekitchencamethebubblingsoundofboilingwaterandthesmelloflemonsandonions.Hayriyewasboilingzucchini.ShevketandOrhanwerefrolickingandplaying“swordsman”inthecourtyardbeneaththepomegranatetree,Iheardtheirshouts.Myfatherwassittingsilentlyinthenextroom.IopenedandreadHasan’sletterandwasreassuredthattherewasnocauseforalarm.Still,Igrewalittlemorefrightenedofhim,andcongratulatedmyselfforwithstandinghiseffortstomakelovetomewhenwesharedthesamehouse.Next,IreadBlack’sletter,holdingitgentlyasifitweresomedelicateandsensitivebird,andmythoughtsbecamemuddled.Ididn’treadthelettersagain.ThesunbrokethroughthecloudsanditoccurredtomethatifI’denteredHasan’sbedchamberonenightandmadelovewithhim,noone,exceptAllah,would’vebeenthewiser.Hedidresemblemymissinghusband;it’dbethesamething.Sometimesastrangethoughtlikethisenteredmyhead.Asthesunquicklywarmedme,Icouldfeelmybody:myskin,myneck,evenmynipples.Orhanslippedinsideasthesunlightstruckmethroughtheopendoor.
“Mama,whatareyoureading?”hesaid.
Allrightthen,rememberhowIsaidthatIdidn’trereadthelettersEstherhadjustdelivered?Ilied.Iwasinthemidstofreadingthemagain.Thistime,Itrulydidfoldthemupandtuckthemawayinmyblouse.
“Comehere,you,ontomylap,”IsaidtoOrhan.Hedidso.“Ohmy,you’resoheavy.MayGodprotectyou,you’vegottenquitebig,”Isaidandkissedhim.“You’reascoldasice…”
“You’resowarm,Mama,”heinterrupted,leaningbackontomybosom.
Wewereleaningtightagainsteachother,enjoyingsittingthatwayinsilence.Ismelledthenapeofhisneckandkissedhim.Ihuggedhimevenmoretightly.Wewerestill.
“I’mfeelingticklish,”hesaidlater.
“Tellmethen,”Isaidinmyseriousvoice.“IftheSultanoftheJinnscameandsaidhe’dgrantyouawish,whatwouldyouwantmostofall?”
“I’dwantShevkettogoaway.”
“Whatbesides?Wouldyouwanttohaveafather?”
“No,whenIgrowupI’mgoingtomarryyoumyself.”
Itwasn’taging,losingone’sbeautyorevenbeingbereftofhusbandandmoneythatwastheworstofallcalamities,whatwastrulyhorriblewasnothavinganyobejealousofyou.IloweredOrhan’swarmingbodyfrommylap.Thinkingthatawickedwomanlikemyselfoughttowedsomeonewithagoodsoul,Iwentuptoseemyfather.
“HisExcellencyOurSultanwillrewardyouafterseeingforHimselfthatHisbookhasbeencompleted,”Isaid.“You’llgotoVeniceagain.”
“Icannotbecertain,”saidmyfather.“Thismurderhasdistressedme.Ourenemiesareapparentlyquitepowerful.”
“Iknow,aswell,thatmyownsituationhasemboldenedthem,givingrisetomisunderstandingsandunfoundedhopes.”
“Howdoyoumean?”
“Ioughttobewedassoonaspossible.”
“What?”saidmyfather.“Towhom?Butyouaremarried.Wheredidthisnotioncomefrom?”heasked.“Who’saskedforyourhand?Evenifweweretofindareasonableandappealingprospect,”saidmyreasonablefather,“Idoubtwe’dbeabletotakehim,notlikethat,youunderstand.”Hesummedupmy
unfortunatesituationasfollows:“You’reawarethatthereareweightyandcomplicatedmatterswemustsettlebeforeyoucanmarryagain.”Afteraprotractedsilence,headded,“Isitthatyouwanttoleaveme,mydeardaughter?”
“LastnightIdreamedthatmyhusbandhaddied,”Isaid.Ididn’tcrythewayawomanwho’dactuallyseensuchadreamwouldhave.
“Likethosewhoknowhowtoreadapicture,oneshouldknowhowtoreadadream.”
“Wouldyouconsideritappropriateformetodescribemydream?”
Therewasapause:Wesmiledateachother,quicklyinferring—asintelligentpeopledo—allpossibleconclusionsfromthematterathand.
“Byinterpretingyourdream,Imightbeconvincedofhisdeath,yetyourfather-in-law,yourbrother-in-lawandthejudge,whoisobligatedtolistentothem,willdemandmoreproof.”
“TwoyearshavepassedsinceIreturnedherewiththechildrenandmyin-lawshaven’tbeenabletoforcemeback…”
“Becausetheyverywellrealizethattheyhavetheirownmisdeedstoanswerfor,”saidmyfather.“Thisdoesn’tmeanthatthey’llbewillingtoletyoupetitionforadivorce.”
“IfwewerefollowersoftheMalikiortheHanbelisects,”Isaid,“thejudge,acknowledgingthatfouryearshavepassed,wouldgrantmeadivorceinadditiontosecuringasupportallowanceforme.Butsinceweare,manythankstoAllah,Hanefis,thisoptionisnotopentous.”
“Don’tmentiontheüsküdarjudge’sShafütestand-intome.That’snotasoundventure.”
“AllthewomenofIstanbulwhosehusbandsaremissingatthefrontgotohimwiththeirwitnessestogetdivorced.Sincehe’saShafüte,hesimplyasks,”Isyourhusbandmissing?“”Howlonghashebeenmissing?“”Areyouhavingtroublemakingendsmeet?“”Aretheseyourwitnesses?“andimmediatelygrantsthedivorce.”
“MydearShekure,who’splantedsuchschemesinyourhead?”hesaid.“Who’sstrippedyouofyourreason?”
“AfterI’mdivorcedonceandforall,ifthereisamanwhocantrulystripmeofmyreason,youwill,ofcourse,tellmewhothatmightbeandIshallneverquestionyourdecisionaboutmyhusband.”
Myshrewdfather,realizingthathisdaughterwasasshrewdashe,begantoblink.Myfatherwould
blinkrapidlylikethisforthreereasons:1.becausehewasinatightspotandhismindwasracingtofindacleverwayout;2.becausehewasonthevergeoftearsofhopelessnessandsorrow;3.becausehewasinatightspot,cunninglycombiningreasons1and2togivetheimpressionthathemightsooncryoutofsorrow.
“Areyoutakingthechildrenandabandoningyouroldfather?Doyourealizethatonaccountofourbook”—yes,hesaid“ourbook”—“Iwasafraidofbeingmurdered,butnowthatyouwanttotakethechildrenandleave,Iwelcomedeath.”
“Mydearfather,wasn’tityouwhoalwayssaidthatonlyadivorcecouldsavemefromthatgood-for-nothingbrother-in-law?”
“Idon’twantyoutoabandonme.Onedayyourhusbandmightreturn.Evenifhedoesn’t,there’snoharminyourbeingmarried—solongasyouliveinthishousewithyourfather.”
“Iwantnothingmorethantoliveinthishousewithyou.”
“Darling,weren’tyoujustnowsayingthatyouwantedtogetmarriedassoonaspossible?”
Thisisthedeadendyoureachbyarguingwithyourfather:Induecourse,youtoowillbeconvincedthatyou’reinthewrong.
“Iwas,”Isaid,gazingatthegroundinfrontofme.Then,holdingbackmytearsandencouragedbythetruthofwhatcametomind,Isaid:
“Allrightthen,shallIneverbemarriedagain?”
“There’saspecialplaceinmyheartfortheson-in-lawwhowon’ttakeyoufarfromme.Whoisyoursuitor,wouldhebewillingtoliveherewithusinthishouse?”
Ifellsilent.Webothknew,ofcourse,thatmyfatherwouldneverrespectason-in-lawwillingtoliveheretogetherwithus,andwouldgraduallydemeanandstiflehim.AndasFather’sunderhandedandexpertbelittlingofthemanwho’dmovedinwithhisbride’sfamilyproceededIwouldsoonwanttobethatwifenomore.
“Withoutafather’sapproval,inyoursituation,youknowthatgettingmarriedispracticallyimpossible,don’tyou?Idon’twantyoutogetmarried,andIrefusetograntyoupermissiontodoso—”
“Idon’twanttogetmarried,Iwantadivorce.”
“—becausesomethoughtlessbeastofamanwhocaresaboutnothingbuthisownconcernsmighthurt
you.YouknowhowmuchIloveyou,don’tyou,mydearShekure?Besides,wemustfinishthisbook.”
Isaidnothing.ForifIweretospeak—promptedbytheDevil,whowasawareofmyanger—IwouldtellmyfatherrighttohisfacethatIknewhesleptwithHayriyeatnight.Butwoulditbefitawomanlikemetoadmitthatsheknewthatherelderlyfathersleptwithaslavegirl?
“Whoisitthatwantstomarryyou?”
Igazedatthegroundbeforemeandwasquiet,notoutofembarrassment,butoutofanger.Andrecognizingtheextentofmyanger,butnotbeingabletorespondinsomemannermademeevenmorefurious.Atthatjuncture,IimaginedmyfatherandHayriyeinbedinthatridiculousanddisgustingposition.IwasonthevergeoftearswhenIsaid:
“There’szucchinionthestove,Idon’twantittoburn.”
Icrossedtotheroombesidethestaircase,theonewiththealways-closedwindowthatlookedoutontothewell.Inthedark,quicklylocatingtheroll-upmattresswithmyhands,Ispreaditopenandlaydown:Ah,whatawonderfulfeeling,toliedownandfallasleepinafitoftearslikeachildwho’sbeenwronglychastised!AndwhatagonyitistoknowthatI’mtheonlypersonintheworldwholikesme.AsIcryinmysolitude,onlyyou,whohearmysobsandmoans,cancometomyaid.
Awhilelater,IfoundthatOrhanhadstretchedoutuponmybed.Heplacedhisheadbetweenmybreasts.Isawthathewassighing,andcryingtoo.Pullinghimclosetome,Iheldhim.
“Don’tcry,Mother,”hesaidlater.“Fatherwillreturnfromthewar.”
“Howdoyouknow?”
Hedidn’tanswer.Ilovedhimso,andpressedhimtomybosomsothatIforgotmyownworriesentirely.BeforeIcuddleupwithmyfine-boned,delicateOrhanandfallasleep,letmeconfessmyonlypressingconcern:Iregrethavingjustnowtoldyou,outofspite,aboutthematterbetweenmyfatherandHayriye.No,Iwasn’tlying,butI’mstillsoembarrassedthatitwouldbebestifyouforgotaboutit.PretendInevermentionedanything,asifmyfatherandHayriyeweren’tthusinvolved,please?
IAMYOURBELOVEDUNCLEAlas,it’sdifficulthavingadaughter,difficult.Assheweptinthenextroom,Icouldhearhersobs,butIcoulddonothingbutlookatthepagesofthebookIheldinmyhands.OnapageofthevolumeIwastryingtoread,theBookoftheApocalypse,itwaswrittenthatthreedaysafterdeath,one’ssoul,receivingpermissionfromAllah,visitedthebodyitformerlyinhabited.Uponbeholdingthepiteousstateofitsbody,bloodied,decomposingandoozing,asitrestedinthegrave,thesoulwouldsorrowfully,tearfullyandmournfullygrieve,“Lo,mymiserablemortalcoil,mydearwretchedold
body.”Atonce,IthoughtofElegantEffendi’sbitterendatthebottomofthewell,andhowupsethissoulnaturallymusthavebeenuponvisiting,andfindinghisbodynotathisgrave,butinthewell.
WhenShekure’ssobsdieddown,Iputasidethebookondeath.Idonnedanextrawoolenundershirt,woundmythickwoolsashtightlyaroundmywaistsoastowarmmymidriff,pulledonmyshalwarpantslinedwithrabbitfurand,asIwasleavingthehouse,turnedtodiscoverShevketinthedoorway.
“Whereareyougoing,Grandfather?”
“Yougetbackinside.Tothefuneral.”
Ipassedthroughsnow-coveredstreets,betweenpoorrottinghousesleaningthiswayandthatway,barelyabletostand,andthroughfire-ravagedneighborhoods.Iwalkedforalongtime,takingthecautiousstepsofanagingmantryingnottoslipandfallontheice.Ipassedthroughout-of-the-wayneighborhoodsandgardensandfields.Iwalkedbyshopsthatdealtincarriagesandwheelsandpassedironsmiths,saddlers,harnessmakersandfarriersonmywaytowardthewallsofthecity.
I’mnotsurewhytheydecidedtostartthefuneralprocessionallthewayattheMihrimahMosquenearthecity’sEdirneGate.Atthemosque,Iembracedthebig-headedandbewilderedbrothersofthedeceased,wholookedangryandobstinate.Weminiaturistsandcalligraphersembracedeachotherandwept.AsIwasperformingmyprayerswithinaleadenfogthathadsuddenlydescendedandswallowedeverything,mygazefellonthecoffinrestingatopthemosque’sstonefuneralblock,andIfeltsuchangertowardthemiscreantwho’dcommittedthiscrime,believeme,eventheAllahümmeBarikprayerbecamemuddledinmymind.
Aftertheprayers,whilethecongregationshoulderedthecoffin,Iwasstillamongalltheminiaturistsandcalligraphers.StorkandIhadforgottenthatonsomenights,whenwesatinthedimlightofoillampsworkinguntilmorningonmybook,he’dtriedtoconvincemeoftheinferiorityofElegantEffendi’sgildingworkandofthelackofbalanceinhisuseofcolors—hecoloredeverythingnavybluesoitwouldlookricher!We’dbothforgottenthatI’dactuallygivenhimcredence,byallowing“Butnooneelseisqualifiedtodothiswork,”andweembracedeachotheranyway,sobbingoncemore.Later,Olivegavemeafriendlyandrespectfullookbeforehuggingme—amanwhoknowshowtoembraceisagoodman—andthesegesturessopleasedmethatIwasremindedhowofalltheworkshopartists,hewastheonewhomostbelievedinmybook.
OnthestairsofthecourtyardgateIfoundmyselfbesideHeadIlluminatorMasterOsman.Wewerebothatalossforwords,astrangeandtensemoment.Oneofthedeceased’sbrothersbegantocryandsob,andsomeonepompouslyshouted,“Godisgreat.”
“Towhichcemetery?”MasterOsmanaskedmeforthesakeofaskingsomething.
Torespond“Idon’tknow”seemedhostileforsomereason.Flustered,andwithoutthinking,Iaskedthe
samequestionofthemanstandingnexttomeonthestairs,“Towhichcemetery?TheonebytheEdirneGate?”
“Eyüp,”saidanill-tempered,beardedandyoungdolt.
“Eyüp,”Isaidturningtothemaster,buthe’dheardwhattheill-tempereddolthadsaidanyway.Then,helookedatmeasiftosay,“Iunderstand”inawaythatletmeknowhedidn’twantourencountertolastamomentlongerthanitalreadyhad.
WithoutmentioningmyinfluenceonOurSultan’sgrowinginterestinFrankishstylesofpainting,MasterOsmanwasofcourseannoyedthatOurSultanhadorderedmetooverseethewritingout,embellishmentandillustrationoftheilluminatedmanuscript,whichI’vedescribedas“secret.”Ononeoccasion,theSultanforcedthegreatMasterOsmantocopyaportraitofHisHighness,whichhadbeencommissionedfromaVian.IknowMasterOsmanholdsmeresponsibleforhavingtoimitatethatpainter,forhavingtomakethatstrangepainting,whichhedidwithdisgust,referringtotheexperienceas“torture.”Hiswrathwasjustified.
Standinginthemiddleofthestaircaseforawhile,Ilookedatthesky.WhenIwasconvincedthatI’dbeenleftquitebehind,Icontinueddowntheicystairs.I’dbarelydescended—eversoslowly—twostepswhenamantookmebythearmandembracedme:Black.
“Theairisfreezing,”hesaid.“Youmustbecold.”
Ihadn’ttheslightestdoubtthatthiswastheonewho’dmuddledShekure’smind.Theself-confidencewithwhichhetookmyarmwasproofenough.Therewassomethinginhisdemeanorthatannounced,“I’veworkedfortwelveyearsandhavetrulygrownup.”Whenwecametothebottomofthestairs,ItoldhimthatI’dexpectanaccountlaterofwhathe’dlearnedattheworkshop.
“Yougoahead,mychild,”Isaid.“Goaheadandcatchuptothecongregation.”
Hewastakenaback,butdidn’tleton.Thewayheletgoofmyarmwithreservationandwalkedaheadofmepleasedme,even.IfIgaveShekuretohim,wouldheagreetoliveinthesamehousewithus?
We’dleftthecitythroughtheEdirneGate.Isawthecoffinonthevergeofdisappearingintothefogalongwiththecrowdofillustrators,calligraphersandapprenticesshoulderingitastheyquicklydescendedthehilltowardtheGoldenHorn.Theywerewalkingsofast,they’dalreadytraveledhalfofthemuddyroadthatleddownthesnow-coveredvalleytoEyüp.Inthesilentfog,offtotheleft,thechimneyoftheHan1mSultanCharitycandleworksshophappilypipedupitssmoke.Undertheshadowofthewalls,thereweretanneriesandthebustlingslaughterhousesthatservedtheGreekbutchersofEyüp.Thesmellofoffalcomingfromtheseplaceshadwaftedoverthevalley,whichextendedtothevaguelydiscernibledomesoftheEyüpMosqueanditscypress-linedcemetery.Afterwalkingforawhilelonger,IheardfrombelowtheshoutsofchildrenatplaycomingfromthenewJewishquarterin
Balat.
WhenwereachedtheplainwhereEyüpwaslocated,Butterflyapproachedme,andinhisusualfierymanner,abruptlybroachedhissubject:
“OliveandStorkaretheonesbehindthisvulgarity,”hesaid.“Likeeveryoneelse,theyknewIhadabadrelationshipwiththedeceased.Theykneweveryonewasawareofthis.Therewasjealousybetweenus,evenopenanimosityandantagonism,overwhowouldassumeleadershipoftheworkshopafterMasterOsman.Nowtheyexpecttheguilttofallonmyshoulders,orattheleast,thattheHeadTreasurer,andunderhisinfluence,OurSultan,willdistancethemselvesfromme,nay,fromus.”
“Whoisthis”us’ofwhichyouspeak?““Thoseofuswhobelievethattheoldmoralityoughttopersistattheworkshop,thatweshouldfollowthepathlaidbythePersianmasters,thatanartistshouldn’tillustratejustanysceneformoneyalone.Inplaceofweapons,armies,slavesandconquests,webelievethattheoldmyths,legendsandstoriesoughttobeintroducedanewintoourbooks.Weshouldn’tforgotheoldmodels.Genuineminiaturistsshouldn’tloiterattheshopsinthebazaarandpaintanyoldthing,depictionsofindecency,forafewextrakurushfromanybodywhohappensby.HisExcellencyOurSultanwouldfindusjustified.”
“You’reincriminatingyourselfsenselessly,”Isaidsohemightbedonewithhisranting.“I’mconvincedthattheateliercouldnotharboranybodycapableofcommittingsuchacrime.You’reallbrethren.There’snogreatharminillustratingafewsubjectsthathaven’tbeendepictedpreviously,atleastnoharmsogreatastobeanoccasionforenmity.”
AshappenedwhenIfirstheardthehorridnews,Ihadanepiphanyofsorts.ElegantEffendi’smurdererwasoneofthepremiermastersinthepalaceworkshopandhewasamemberofthecrowdbeforeme,climbingthehillthatledtothecemetery.Iwasalsoconvincedthatthemurdererwouldcontinuewithhisdevilryandsedition,thathewasanenemyofthebookIwasmaking,andmostprobably,thathe’dvisitedmyhousetopickupsomeworkillustratingandpainting.HadButterfly,too,likemostoftheartistswhofrequentedmyhouse,falleninlovewithShekure?Ashemadehisassertions,hadheforgottenthetimeswhenI’drequestedthathepaintpicturesthatwerecontrarytohispointofview,orwashejustneedlingmewithexpertskill?
Nay,Ithoughtalittlewhilelater,hecouldn’tbeneedlingme.Butterfly,liketheothermasterillustrators,obviouslyowedmeadebtofgratitude:Withmoneyandgiftstominiaturistsdwindling,duetothewarsandlackofinterestonthepartofOurSultan,thesolesignificantsourceofextraincomehadforsometimebeenwhattheyearnedworkingforme.Iknewtheywerejealousofoneanotherovermyattentions,andforthisreason—butnotonlyforthisreason—Imetwiththemindividuallyatmyhouse,hardlyabasisforhostilitytowardme.Allofmyminiaturistswerematureenoughtobehaveintelligently,tosincerelyfindareasontoadmireamantowhomtheywereobligedfortheirownprofit.
Torelievethesilenceandensurethattheprevioustopicofconversationwouldn’tberevisited,Isaid,“Oh,willHiswondersnevercease!They’reabletotakethecoffinupthathillasfastastheybroughtitdown.”
Butterflysmiledsweetlyshowingallhisteeth:“Duetothecold.”
Couldthisoneactuallykillaman,Iwondered,forexample,outofenvy?Mighthekillme?Hehadthefollowingexcuse:Thismanwasdebasingmyreligion.Nay,buthe’sagreatmaster,aperfectembodimentoftalent,whyshouldheresorttomurder?Agemeansnotonlystrainingoneselfclimbinghills,butalso,Igather,notbeingsoafraidofdeath.Itmeansalackofdesire,enteringintoaslavegirl’sbedchamber,notinafitofexcitement,butoutofcustom.Inaburstofintuition,ItoldhimtohisfacethedecisionI’dmade:
“I’mnotcontinuingwiththebookanylonger.”
“What?”saidButterflyashisexpressionchanged.
“There’ssomekindofill-fortuneinit.OurSultanhascutoffthefunding.You’retotellOliveandStork,aswell.”
Perhapshewouldhaveinquiredfurther,butwefoundourselvesontheslopesofthegraveyardamidtightlyspacedtoweringcypresses,highfernsandtombstones.Asthegreatcrowdencircledthegravesite,myonlycluethatthebodywasatthatverymomentbeingloweredintothegravewastheincreasingintensityoftheweepingandsobbingandtheexclamationsofbismillahiandalamilletiResulullah.
“Uncoverhisfacecompletely,”someonesaid.
Theywereremovingthewhiteshroud,andtheymust’vebeeneyetoeyewiththecorpseifindeedtherewasaneyeremaininginthatsmashedhead.IwasinthebackandIcouldn’tseeanything.I’doncegazedintotheeyesofDeath,notatagravesite,inanentirelydifferentplace…Amemory:Thirtyyearsago,OurSultan’sgrandfather,DenizenofParadise,decidedonceandforalltotakeCyprusfromtheVians.SheikhulislamEbussuutEffendi,recallingthatthisislandwasoncedesignatedacommissariatforMeccaandMedina,issue**twawhichmoreorlessstatedthatitwasinappropriateforanislandwhichhadhelpedsustainholysitestoremainunderChristianinfidelcontrol.Inturn,thedifficulttaskofinformingtheViansofthisunforeseendecision,thattheymustsurrendertheirisland,felltome.Asaresult,IwasabletotourthecathedralsofVenice.ThoughImarveledattheirbridgesandpalazzos,IwasmostenchantedbythepictureshanginginVianhomes.Nevertheless,inthemidstofthisbewilderment,trustinginthehospitalitydisplayedbytheVians,Ideliveredthemenacingcorrespondence,informingtheminahaughty,superciliousfashionthatOurSultandesiredCyprus.TheViansweresoangrythatintheircongress,whichhadbeenhastilyconvened,itwasdecidedthateventodiscusssuchaletterwasunacceptable.Furiousmobshadforced
metoconfinemyselftotheDoge’spalazzo.Andwhensomeroguesmanagedtogetpasttheguardsanddoorkeepersandhadsettostranglingme,twooftheDoge’spersonalmusketeerssucceededinescortingmeoutoneofthesecretpassagewaystoanexitthatopenedontothecanal.There,inafognotunlikethisone,Ithoughtforaninstantthatthetallandpalegondolierdressedinwhite,who’dtakenmebythearm,wasnoneotherthanDeath.Icaughtsightofmyreflectioninhiseyes.
Longingly,IdreamedoffinishingmybookinsecretandreturningtoVenice.Iapproachedthegrave,whichhadbeencarefullycoveredwithdirt:Atthismoment,angelsareinterrogatinghimabove,askinghimwhetherheismaleorfemale,hisreligionandwhomherecognizesashisprophet.Thepossibilityofmyowndeathcametomind.
Acrowalightedbesideme.IgazedlovinglyintoBlack’seyesandaskedhimtotakemyarmandaccompanymeonthewayback.ItoldhimIexpectedhimatthehouseearlythenextmorningtocontinueworkingonthebook.Ihadindeedimaginedmyowndeath,andrealized,onceagain,thatthebookmustbecompleted,whateverthecost.
IWILLBECALLEDAMURDERERTheythrewcold,muddyearthontothebatteredanddisfiguredcorpseofill-fatedElegantEffendiandIweptmorethananyofthem.Ishouted,“Iwanttodiewithhim!”and“Letmesharehisgrave!”andtheyheldmebythewaistsoIwouldn’tfallin.Igaspedforairandtheypressedtheirpalmstomyforehead,drawingmyheadbacksoImightbreathe.Bytheglancesofthedeceased’srelatives,IsensedImighthaveexaggeratedmysobsandwailin
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