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of  Herat。  And  after  three  days  and  nights  of  continuous  scrutiny;  the  great 
master went blind。 He accepted his condition with maturity and resignation; 
the  way  one  might  greet  the  Angels  of Allah;  and  he  never  spoke  or  painted 
again。 Mirza Muhammet Haydar Duglat; the author of the History of Rashid; 
ascribed this turn of events as follows: “A miniaturist united with the vision 
and  landscape  of  Allah’s  immortal  time  can  never  return  to  the  manuscript 
pages  meant  for  ordinary  mortals”;  and  he  adds;  “Wherever  the  blind 
miniaturist’s memories reach Allah there reigns an absolute silence; a blessed 
darkness and the infinity of a blank page。” 
 
90 
 
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  mence  at  the 
Mihrimah Mosque during the afternoon prayer。 He then ran off to deliver the 
news to others。 Allah; may you protect us all。 
 
 
   
91 
 
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 bee 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  posure—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。  “e  and  see  the  best  of  my 
ruffled  muslin  fit  for  a  sultan。  e  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!” 
92 
 
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 ing 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 
bee his father! 
 
93 
 
“God protect him; he’s written well;” I said; “this one has bee 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。 
The house was so dark an

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