by Orhan Pamuk
“My tooth is loose.”
“When you get back, if you want, I’ll pull it out,” I said. “You’re to sidle up to him. He’ll be at a loss for what to do and he’ll hug you. Then you’ll secretly place the paper into his hand. Am I understood?”
“I’m afraid.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of. If it weren’t for Black, do you know who wants to become your father in his stead? Uncle Hasan! Do you want Uncle Hasan to become your father?”
“No.”
“All right then, let’s see you go, my pretty and smart Orhan,” I said. “If not, watch out, I’ll be really angry…And if you cry, I’ll get even angrier.”
I folded my letter several times, then stuck it into his small hand now stretched out in hopelessness and resignation. Allah, come to my aid so that these fatherless children aren’t left to fend for themselves. I escorted him to the door, holding his hand. At the threshold he looked at me fearfully one last time.
I watched him through the peephole as he took his uncertain steps toward the sofa, approached my father and Black, stopped, and momentarily hesitated — unsure what to do. He glanced back at the peephole looking for me. He began to cry. But with one final effort he succeeded in surrendering himself to Black’s lap. Black, clever enough to have earned the right to be father to my children, didn’t panic to find Orhan crying unaccountably on his lap and he checked to see if there was anything in the boy’s hands.
Orhan returned beneath the startled gaze of my father, and I ran to meet him and took him onto my lap, kissing him at length. I brought him downstairs to the kitchen, and filled his mouth with the raisins he liked so much.
“Hayriye, take the boys to Galleon Harbor and buy some gray mullet suitable for soup from Kosta’s place. Take these silver coins and with the change from the fish, buy Orhan some dried yellow figs and cherries on the way back. Buy Shevket roasted chickpeas and sweetmeat sausage with walnuts. Walk them around to wherever they want to go until the evening prayers are called, but be careful they don’t catch cold.”
After they’d bundled up and left, the quiet in the house pleased me. I went upstairs and took out the little mirror that my father-in-law had made and my husband had given me as a gift. I kept it hidden away between pillowcases that smelled of lavender. I hung it up. If I looked at myself in the mirror from a distance, and moved oh so delicately, I could see my whole body. My vest of red broadcloth suited me, but I also wanted to don my mother’s purple blouse which had been part of her trousseau. I took out the long pistachio-colored robe my grandmother had embroidered with flowers, and tried it on, but it didn’t please me. As I was trying it on under the purple blouse, I felt a chill; I shuddered, and the candle flame trembled with me. Over it all, of course, I was going to wear my fox fur — lined street robe, but at the last minute I changed my mind, and silently crossing the hall, I removed the very long and loose azure-colored woolen robe that my mother had given me and put it on. Just then I heard a noise at the door and fell into a panic: Black was leaving! I quickly removed my mother’s old robe and put on the fur-lined red one: It was tight around the bustline, but I liked it. I then donned the softest and whitest veil, lowering it over my face.
Black Effendi hadn’t left yet, of course; I’d let my apprehension deceive me. If I go out now, I can tell my father that I went to buy fish with the children. I padded down the stairs like a cat.
I closed the door — click — like a ghost. I quietly passed through the courtyard and when I was out on the street, momentarily turned and looked back at the house. From behind my veil it seemed as if it wasn’t our house at all.
There was no one in the street, not even any cats. Flakes of snow danced in the air. With a shudder, I entered the abandoned garden where sunlight never fell. It smelled of rotten leaves, dampness and death; yet, when I entered the house of the Hanged Jew, I felt as though I were in my own home. They say that jinns meet here at night, light the stove and make merry. I was startled to hear my footsteps in the empty house. I waited, stock-still. I heard a sound in the garden, but then everything was overcome by silence. I heard a dog bark nearby. I recognize all the dogs in our neighborhood from their barks, but I couldn’t place this one.
During the next silence I sensed that there was somebody else in the house and I stood dead still so he wouldn’t hear my footsteps. Strangers talked as they passed on the street. I thought of Hayriye and the children. I hoped to God that they wouldn’t catch cold. In the silence that followed, I was gradually overcome by regret. Black wasn’t coming. I’d made a mistake, and I ought to return home before my pride was damaged even further. Terrified, I imagined that Hasan was watching me, and then I heard movement in the garden. The door opened.
I abruptly changed my position. I didn’t know why I did so, but when I stood to the left of the window through which a faint light from the garden was filtering, I realized that Black would be able to see me, to borrow a phrase from my father, “within the mysteries of shadow.” I covered my face with my veil and waited, listening to his footsteps.
Black passed through the doorway and saw me, then took a few more steps and stopped. We stood five paces apart and beheld each other. He looked healthier and stronger than he’d appeared through the peephole. There was a silence.
“Remove your veil,” he said in a whisper. “Please.”
“I’m married. I’m awaiting my husband’s return.”
“Remove your veil,” he said in the same tone. “Your husband won’t ever come back.”
“Have you arranged to meet me here to tell me this?”
“Nay, I’ve done so to be able to see you. I’ve been thinking of you for twelve years. Remove your veil, my darling, let me look at you just once.”
I removed it. I was pleased as he silently studied my face and stared at length into the depths of my eyes.
“Marriage and motherhood have made you even more beautiful. And your face has become entirely different than what I remembered.”
“How had you remembered me?”
“With agony, because when I thought of you, I couldn’t help but think that what I was remembering wasn’t you but a fantasy. In our childhood, you remember how we used to discuss Hüsrev and Shirin, who fell in love after seeing images of each other, don’t you? Why was it that Shirin hadn’t fallen in love with handsome Hüsrev when first she saw his picture hanging from a tree branch but had to see that image three times before falling in love? You used to say that in fairy tales everything happens thrice. I would argue that love ought to have blossomed when she first saw the picture. But who could have depicted Hüsrev realistically enough for her to fall in love with him, and precisely enough that she would recognize him? We never talked about this. Over these last twelve years, if I had such a realistic portrait of your matchless face, perhaps I wouldn’t have suffered so.”
He said some quite lovely things in this vein, stories of looking at an illustration and falling in love and of how he’d suffered desperately for me. I noticed the way he slowly approached; and his every word flitted through my conscious mind and alighted somewhere in my memory. Later, I would muse over these words one by one. But at the time my appreciation of the magic of what he said was purely visceral and it bound me to him. I felt guilty for having caused him such pain for twelve years. What a honey-tongued man! What a good person this Black was! Like an innocent child! I could read all of this from his eyes. The fact that he loved me so much made me trust him.
We embraced. This so pleased me that I felt no guilt. I let myself be borne away by sweet emotion. I hugged him tighter. I let him kiss me, and I kissed him back. And as we kissed, it was as if the entire world had entered a gentle twilight. I wished everybody could embrace each other the way we did. I faintly recalled that love was supposed to be like this. He put his tongue into my mouth. I was so content with what I was doing, it was as if the whole world were engulfed in blissful light; I could think of nothing bad.
Let me describe
for you how our embrace might’ve been depicted by the master miniaturists of Herat, if this tragic story of mine were one day recorded in a book. There are certain amazing illustrations that my father has shown me wherein the thrill of the script’s flow matches the swaying of the leaves, the wall ornamentation is echoed in the design of the border gilding and the joy of the swallow’s matchless wings piercing the picture’s border suggests the elation of the lovers. Exchanging glances from afar and tormenting each other with suggestive phrases, the lovers would be depicted so small, so far in the distance, that for a moment it’d seem like the story wasn’t about them at all, but had to do with the starry night, the dark trees, the exquisite palace where they met, its courtyard and its wonderful garden whose every leaf was lovingly and particularly rendered. If, however, one paid very close attention to the secret symmetry of the colors, which the miniaturist could only convey with total resignation to his art, and to the mysterious light infusing the entire painting, the careful observer would immediately see that the secret behind these illustrations is that they’re created by love itself. It’s as if a light were emanating from the lovers, from the very depths of the illustration. And when Black and I embraced, well-being flooded the world in the very same manner.
Thank God I’ve seen enough of life to know that such well-being never lasts for long. Black sweetly took my large breasts into his hands. This felt good and, forgetting all, I longed for him to suck on my nipples. But he couldn’t quite manage it, because he wasn’t all that sure of what he was doing, though his uncertainty didn’t prevent him from wanting more. Gradually, fear and embarrassment came between us the longer we embraced. But when he grabbed my thighs to pull me close, pressing his large hardened manliness against my stomach, I liked it at first; I was curious. I wasn’t embarrassed. I told myself that an embrace such as we’d had would naturally lead to another such as this. And though I turned my head away, I couldn’t take my widening eyes off its size.
Later still, when he abruptly tried to force me to perform that vulgar act that even Kipchak women and concubines who tell stories at the public baths wouldn’t do, I froze in astonishment and indecision.
“Don’t furrow your brow, my dear,” he begged.
I stood up, pushed him away and began shouting at him without paying the slightest mind to his disappointment.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I AM CALLED BLACK
Within the darkness of the house of the Hanged Jew, Shekure furrowed her brow and began raving that I might easily stick the monstrosity I held in my hands into the mouths of Circassian girls I’d met in Tiflis, Kipchak harlots, poor brides sold at inns, Turkmen and Persian widows, common prostitutes whose numbers were increasing in Istanbul, lecherous Mingerians, coquettish Abkhazians, Armenian shrews, Genoese and Syrian hags, thespians passing as women and insatiable boys, but it would not go into hers. She angrily accused me of having lost all sense of decorum and self-control by sleeping with all manner of cheap, pathetic riffraff — from Persia to Baghdad and from the alleyways of small hot Arabian towns to the shores of the Caspian — and of having forgotten that some women still took pains to maintain their honor. All my words of love, she charged, were insincere.
I respectfully listened to my beloved’s outburst, which caused the guilty member in my hand to fade, and though I was thoroughly embarrassed by the situation and the rejection I was suffering, two things pleased me: 1. that I refrained from lowering myself to match Shekure’s wrath with a response of similar hue, as I often had reacted viciously to other women in similar situations, and 2. that I discovered Shekure’s particular awareness of my travels, proof that she’d thought of me much more than I’d assumed.
Seeing how downcast I’d become at being unable to carry out my desires, she’d already begun to pity me.
“If you truly loved me, passionately and obsessively,” she said as if trying to excuse herself, “you’d try to control yourself like a gentleman. You wouldn’t try to offend the honor of the woman toward whom you entertained serious intentions. You’re not the only man who’s making motions to marry me. Did anyone see you on your way here?”
“Nay.”
As if she heard someone walking in the dark and snow-covered garden, she turned her sweet face, which for twelve years I hadn’t been able to recall, toward the door and gave me the pleasure of seeing her profile. When we heard a momentary clattering, we both waited in silence, but nobody entered. I recalled how even when she was only twelve, Shekure had aroused in me an odd feeling because she knew more than I did.
“The ghost of the Hanged Jew haunts this place,” she said.
“Do you ever come here?”
“Jinns, phantoms, the living dead…they come with the wind, possess objects and make sounds out of silence. Everything speaks. I don’t have to come all the way here. I can hear them.”
“Shevket brought me here to show me the dead cat, but it was gone.”
“I understand you told him that you killed his father.”
“Not exactly. Is that the way my words were twisted? Not that I killed his father, rather that I’d like to become his father.”
“Why did you say that you’d killed his father?”
“He’d asked me first if I’d ever killed a man. I told him the truth, that I’d killed two men.”
“In order to boast?”
“To boast, and to impress a child whose mother I love, because I realized that this mother comforted those two little brigands by exaggerating the wartime heroics of their father and by showing off the remnants of his plunder in the house.”
“Go on boasting then! They don’t like you.”
“Shevket doesn’t like me, but Orhan does,” I said, in the prideful glow of having caught my beloved’s error. “Yet, I shall become father to them both.”
We shuddered anxiously and trembled in the half-light as though the shadow of some nonexistent thing had passed between us. I pulled myself together and saw that Shekure was crying with tiny sobs.
“My ill-fated husband has a brother named Hasan. As I waited for my husband’s return, I lived two years in the same house with him and my father-in-law. He fell in love with me. Lately, he’s suspicious of what might be going on. He’s furious imagining that I might marry somebody else, you perhaps. He sent word declaring that he wants to take me back to their house by force. They say that since I’m not a widow in the eyes of the judge, they’re going to force me back there in the name of my husband. They might raid our house at any time. My father doesn’t want me to be declared a widow by verdict of the judge either. If I am granted a divorce, he thinks I’ll find myself a new husband and abandon him. By returning home with my children, I brought him great happiness in the loneliness he suffered after the death of my mother. Would you agree to live with us?”
“How do you mean?”
“If we were wed, would you live with my father, together with us?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think about this as soon as possible. You don’t have much time, believe me. My father senses that some evil is coming our way, and I think he’s right. If Hasan and his men raid our home with a handful of Janissaries and bring my father before the judge, would you testify that you’d in fact seen my husband’s corpse? You’ve recently come from Persia, they would believe you.”
“I would testify, but I wasn’t the one who killed him.”
“All right, then. Together with another witness, in order that I be declared a widow, would you testify before the judge that you saw my husband’s bloody corpse on the battlefield in Persia?”
“I didn’t actually see it, my dear, but for your sake I would testify so.”
“Do you love my children?”
“I do.”
“Tell me, what is it about them that you love?”
“I love Shevket’s strength, decisiveness, honesty, intelligence and stubbornness,” I said. “And I love Orhan’s sensitive and delicate demeanor and his astuteness. I love the
fact that they’re your children.”
My black-eyed beloved smiled slightly and shed a few tears. Then, in the calculated fluster of a woman hoping to accomplish a lot in a short time, she changed the subject:
“My father’s book ought to be completed and presented to Our Sultan. This book is the source of the bad luck that plagues us.”
“What devilry has plagued us besides the murder of Elegant Effendi?”
This question displeased her. Appearing insincere in her attempt to be sincere, she said:
“The followers of Nusret Hoja are spreading rumors that my father’s book is a desecration and bears the marks of Frankish infideldom. Have the miniaturists who frequent our house grown jealous of each other to the degree that they’re hatching plans? You’ve been among them, you would know best!”
“Your late husband’s brother,” I said, “does he have any association with these miniaturists, your father’s book or the followers of Nusret Hoja, or does he keep to himself?”
“He’s not involved in any of that, but he doesn’t keep to himself at all,” she said.
A mysterious and strange quiet passed.
“When you lived in the same house with Hasan wasn’t there any way you could get away from him?”
“As much as possible in a two-room house.”
A few dogs, not too far away, giving themselves over completely to whatever they were up to, began barking excitedly.
I couldn’t bring myself to ask why Shekure’s late husband, a man who’d emerged victorious from so many battles and had become the proprietor of a fief, saw fit to have his wife live together with his brother in a two-room house. Timidly and hesitantly, I asked my childhood beloved the following question: “Why did you see fit to marry him?”
“I was, of course, certain to be married off to someone,” she said. This was true, and it succinctly and cleverly explained her marriage in a way that avoided praising her husband and upsetting me. “You’d left, perhaps never to return. Disappearing in a sulk might be a symptom of love, yet a sulking lover is also tiresome and holds no promise of a future.” This was true as well, but it wasn’t cause enough to marry that rogue. It wasn’t too difficult to deduce from her coy expression alone that a short time after I’d abandoned Istanbul, Shekure had forgotten about me, like everyone else had. She’d told me this blatant lie to mend my broken heart, if only a little, and I considered it a sign of her good intentions, which demanded my gratitude. I began to explain how during my travels I couldn’t get her out of my thoughts, how at night her image haunted me like a specter. This was the most secret, most profound agony I’d suffered and I assumed I’d never be able to share it with another; the agony was quite real, but as I realized with surprise at that instant, it wasn’t the least bit sincere.