The house was so dark and melancholy that the air outside seemed warmer. The sunlight hit my face. I wished for Shekure’s happiness. But I also felt something for that poor man in that damp, chilly and dark house. On a whim, I turned into the Spice Market in Laleli thinking the smells of cinnamon, saffron and pepper would restore my spirits. I was mistaken.

At Shekure’s house, after she took up the letters, she immediately asked after Black. I told her that the fire of love had mercilessly engulfed his entire being. This news pleased her.

“Even lonely spinsters busy with their knitting are discussing why Elegant Effendi might’ve been killed,” I said later, changing the subject.

“Hayriye, make some halva as a present of condolence and take it over to Kalbiye, poor Elegant Effendi’s widow,” said Shekure.

“All the Erzurumis and quite a crowd of others will be attending his funeral service,” I said. “His relatives swear they’ll avenge his spilt blood.”

Shekure had already begun to read Black’s letter. I looked into her face intently and angrily. This woman was probably such a fox that she could control how her passions were reflected in her face. As she read I sensed that my silence pleased her, that she regarded it as my approval of the special import she gave to Black’s letter. Shekure finished the letter and smiled at me; to meet with her satisfaction, I felt forced to ask, “What has he written?”

“Just as in his childhood…He’s in love with me.”

“What are your thoughts?”

“I’m a married woman. I’m waiting for my husband.”

Contrary to your expectations, the fact that she’d lie to me after asking me to get involved in her affairs didn’t anger me. Actually, this comment relieved me. If more of the young maidens and women I’ve carried letters for and advised in the ways of the world attended to details the way Shekure did, they would’ve lessened the work for us both by half. More importantly, they would’ve ended up in better marriages.

“What does the other one write?” I asked anyway.

“I don’t intend to read Hasan’s letter right now,” she answered. “Does Hasan know that Black’s returned to Istanbul?”

“He doesn’t even know he exists.”

“Do you speak with Hasan?” she asked, opening wide her beautiful black eyes.

“As you’ve requested.”

“Yes?”

“He’s in agony. He’s deeply in love with you. Even if your heart belongs to another, it’ll be difficult ever to be free of him now. By accepting his letters you’ve greatly encouraged him. Be wary of him, however. For not only does he want to make you return there, but by establishing that his older brother has died, he’s preparing to marry you.” I smiled to soften the weight of these words and so as not to be reduced to being that malcontent’s mouthpiece.

“What’s the other one say, then?” she asked, but did she herself know whom she was inquiring after?

“The miniaturist?”

“My mind’s all ajumble,” she said suddenly, perhaps afraid of her own thoughts. “It seems that matters will become even more confused. My father’s growing older. What’ll become of us, of these fatherless children? I sense an evil approaching, that the Devil is preparing some mischief for us. Esther, tell me something that will hearten me.”

“Don’t you fret in the slightest, my dearest Shekure,” I said as emotion welled up within me. “You’re truly intelligent, you’re very beautiful. One day you’ll sleep in the same bed with your handsome husband, you’ll cuddle with him, and having forgotten all your worries, you’ll be happy. I can read this in your eyes.”

Such affection rose within me that my eyes filled with tears.

“Fine, but which one will become my husband?”

“Isn’t that wise heart of yours giving you an answer?”

“It’s because I don’t understand what my heart is saying that I’m dispirited.”

For a moment it occurred to me that Shekure didn’t trust me at all, that she was masterfully concealing her distrust in order to learn what I knew, that she was trying to arouse my pity. When I saw she wouldn’t be writing a response to the letters at present, I grabbed my sack, entered the courtyard and slipped away-but not before saying something I told all my maids, even those who were cross-eyed:

“Fear not, my dear, if you keep those beautiful eyes of yours peeled, no misfortune, no misfortune at all will befall you.”

I, SHEKURE

If truth be told, it used to be that each time Esther the clothier paid a visit, I’d fantasize that a man stricken with love would finally be roused to write a letter that could stir the heart of an intelligent woman like myself-beautiful, well-bred and widowed, yet with her honor still intact-and set it pounding. And to discover that the letter was from one of the usual suitors, would, at the very least, fortify my resolve and forbearance to await my husband’s return. But these days, every time Esther leaves, I become confused and feel all the more wretched.

I listened to the sounds of my world. From the kitchen came the bubbling sound of boiling water and the smell of lemons and onions. Hayriye was boiling zucchini. Shevket and Orhan were frolicking and playing “swordsman” in the courtyard beneath the pomegranate tree, I heard their shouts. My father was sitting silently in the next room. I opened and read Hasan’s letter and was reassured that there was no cause for alarm. Still, I grew a little more frightened of him, and congratulated myself for withstanding his efforts to make love to me when we shared the same house. Next, I read Black’s letter, holding it gently as if it were some delicate and sensitive bird, and my thoughts became muddled. I didn’t read the letters again. The sun broke through the clouds and it occurred to me that if I’d entered Hasan’s bedchamber one night and made love with him, no one, except Allah, would’ve been the wiser. He did resemble my missing husband; it’d be the same thing. Sometimes a strange thought like this entered my head. As the sun quickly warmed me, I could feel my body: my skin, my neck, even my nipples. Orhan slipped inside as the sunlight struck me through the open door.

“Mama, what are you reading?” he said.

All right then, remember how I said that I didn’t reread the letters Esther had just delivered? I lied. I was in the midst of reading them again. This time, I truly did fold them up and tuck them away in my blouse.

“Come here, you, onto my lap,” I said to Orhan. He did so. “Oh my, you’re so heavy. May God protect you, you’ve gotten quite big,” I said and kissed him. “You’re as cold as ice…”

“You’re so warm, Mama,” he interrupted, leaning back onto my bosom.

We were leaning tight against each other, enjoying sitting that way in silence. I smelled the nape of his neck and kissed him. I hugged him even more tightly. We were still.

“I’m feeling ticklish,” he said later.

“Tell me then,” I said in my serious voice. “If the Sultan of the Jinns came and said he’d grant you a wish, what would you want most of all?”

“I’d want Shevket to go away.”

“What besides? Would you want to have a father?”

“No, when I grow up I’m going to marry you myself.”

It wasn’t aging, losing one’s beauty or even being bereft of husband and money that was the worst of all calamities, what was truly horrible was not having anyone to be jealous of you. I lowered Orhan’s warming body from my lap. Thinking that a wicked woman like myself ought to wed someone with a good soul, I went up to see my father.

“His Excellency Our Sultan will reward you after seeing for Himself that His book has been completed,” I said. “You’ll go to Venice again.”

“I cannot be certain,” said my father. “This murder has distressed me. Our enemies are apparently quite powerful.”

“I know, as well, that my own situation has emboldened them, giving rise to misunderstandings and unfounded hopes.”