Certainly it was less out of desire to hear my answer to Master Osman’s question on blindness and memory than to put himself at ease that Black asked me the question while he pored over my possessions, my room and my pictures. Yet again, I was pleased to see that the stories I recounted affected him. “Blindness is a realm of bliss from which the Devil and guilt are barred,” I said to him.
“In Tabriz,” said Black, “under Master Mirek’s influence, some of the miniaturists of the old style still look upon blindness as the greatest virtue of Allah’s grace, and they’re embarrassed about growing old but not blind. Even today, fearing that others will consider this proof of a lack of talent and skill, they pretend to be blind. As a result of this moral conviction which bears the influence of Jemalettin of Kazvin, some of them sit for weeks in the darkness amid mirrors, in the dim light of an oil lamp, without eating or drinking and stare at illustrated pages painted by the old masters of Herat in order to learn how to perceive the world like a blind man despite not truly being blind.”
Somebody knocked. I opened the door to find a handsome apprentice from the workshop whose lovely almond eyes were opened wide. He said that the body of our brother, the gilder Elegant Effendi, had been discovered in an abandoned well and that his funeral procession would commence at the Mihrimah Mosque during the afternoon prayer. He then ran off to deliver the news to others. Allah, may you protect us all.
I AM ESTHER
Tell me then, does love make one a fool or do only fools fall in love? I’ve been a clothes peddler and matchmaker for years, and I don’t have the slightest clue. How it’d thrill me to become acquainted with men-or couples-who grew more intelligent and became more cunning and devious as they fell deeper in love. I do know this much though: If a man resorts to wiles, guile and petty deceptions, it means he’s nowhere near being in love. As for Black Effendi, it’s obvious that he’s already lost his composure-when he even talks about Shekure he loses all self-control.
At the bazaar, I fed him by rote all the well-rehearsed refrains that I tell everyone: Shekure is always thinking of him, she asked me about his response to her letter, I’d never seen her like this and so on. He gave me such a look that I pitied him. He told me to take the letter to Shekure straightaway. Every idiot assumes there’s a pressing circumstance about his love that necessitates particular haste, and thereby lays bare the intensity of his love, unwittingly putting a weapon into the hands of his beloved. If his lover is smart, she’ll postpone the answer. The moral: Haste delays the fruits of love.
Had lovesick Black known that I first took a detour while carrying the letter he’d charged me to deliver “posthaste,” he’d thank me. In the market square, I nearly froze to death waiting for him. After he left, I thought I’d visit one of my “daughters” to warm up. I call the maidens whose letters I’ve delivered, the ones I’ve married off through the sweat of my brow, my “daughters.” This ugly maiden of mine was so thankful and beholden to me that at my every visit, beyond waiting on me hand and foot, flitting about like a moth, she’d press a few silver coins into my palm. Now she was pregnant and in good humor. She put linden tea on the boil. I savored each sip. When she left me alone, I counted the coins Black Effendi had given me. Twenty silver pieces.
I set out on my way again. I passed through side streets and through ominous alleyways that were frozen, muddy and nearly impassable. As I was knocking on the door, mirth took hold of me and I began to shout.
“The clothier is here! Clothierrr!” I said. “Come and see the best of my ruffled muslin fit for a sultan. Come get my stunning shawls from Kashmir, my Bursa velvet sash cloth, my superb silk-edged Egyptian shirt cloth, my embroidered muslin tablecloths, my mattress and bedsheets, and my colorful handkerchiefs. Clothierrr!”
The door opened. I entered. As always, the house smelled of bedding, sleep, frying oil and humidity, that terrible smell peculiar to aging bachelors.
“Old hag,” he said. “Why are you shouting?”
I silently removed the letter and handed it to him. In the half-lit room, he stealthily and quietly approached me and snatched it from my hand. He passed into the next room where an oil lamp always burned. I waited at the threshold.
“Isn’t your dear father home?”
He didn’t answer. He’d lost himself in the letter. I left him alone so he could read. He stood behind the lamp, and I couldn’t see his face. After finishing the letter, he read it anew.
“Yes,” I said, “and what has he written?”
Hasan read:
My Dearest Shekure, as I too have for years now sustained myself through my dreams of one single person, I respectfully understand your waiting for your husband without considering another. What else could one expect from a woman of your stature besides honesty and virtue? [Hasan cackled!] My coming to visit your father for the sake of painting, however, does not amount to harassing you. This would never even cross my mind. I make no claim at having received a sign from you or any other encouragement. When your face appeared to me at the window like divine light, I considered it nothing but an act of God’s grace. The pleasure of seeing your face is all I need. [“He took that from Nizami,” Hasan interrupted, annoyed.] But you ask me to keep my distance; tell me then, are you an angel that approaching you should be so terrifying? Listen to what I have to say, listen: I used to try to sleep watching the moonlight fall onto the naked mountains from remote and godforsaken caravansaries where nobody but a desperate han keeper and a few thugs fleeing the gallows lodged, and there, in the middle of the night, listening to the howling of wolves even lonelier and more unfortunate than myself, I used to think that one day you would suddenly appear to me, just as you did at the window. Read closely: Now that I’ve returned to your father for the sake of the book, you’ve sent back the picture I made in my childhood. I know this is not a sign of your death but a sign that I’ve found you again. I saw one of your children, Orhan. That poor fatherless boy. One day I will become his father!
“God protect him, he’s written well,” I said, “this one has become quite the poet.”
“”Are you an angel that approaching you should be so terrifying?“” he repeated. “He stole that line from Ibn Zerhani. I could do better.” He took his own letter out of his pocket. “Take this and deliver it to Shekure.”
For the first time, accepting money along with the letters disturbed me. I felt something like disgust toward this man and his mad obsession, his unrequited love. Hasan, as if to confirm my hunch, for the first time in a long while set aside his good etiquette and said quite rudely:
“Tell her that if we so desire, we’ll force her back here under pressure of the judge.”
“You really want me to say that?”
Silence. “Nay,” he said. The light from the oil lamp illuminated his face, allowing me to see him lower his head like a guilty child. It’s because I know this side of Hasan’s character as well that I have some respect for his feelings and deliver his letters. It’s not only for the money, as you might think.
I was leaving the house, and he stopped me at the door.
“Do you let Shekure know how much I love her?” he asked me excitedly and foolishly.
“Don’t you tell her so in your letters?”
“Tell me how I might convince her and her father? How might I persuade them?”
“By being a good person,” I said and walked to the door.
“At this age, it’s too late…” he said with sincere anguish.
“You’ve begun to earn a lot of money, Customs Officer Hasan. This makes one a good person…” I said and fled.