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what I said。 
“And my clothes?” 
I told her。 
“Do I smell nice?” 
Of course; Shekure also knew that what Nizami referred to as “love chess” 
did  not  consist  of  such  rhetorical  games;  but  of  the  hidden  emotional 
maneuvers between lovers。 
“What kind of living do you expect to earn?” she asked。 “Will you be able 
to care for my fatherless children?” 
As  I  talked  about  my  more  than  twelve  years  of  governmental  and 
secretarial experience; the vast knowledge I’d acquired in battle and witnessing 
death and my luminous prospects; I embraced her。 
“How beautifully we embraced each other just now;” she said。 “And already 
everything has lost its primal mystery。” 
To prove how sincere I was; I hugged her even tighter。 I asked her why; after 
having kept it for twelve years; she’d had Esther return the painting I’d made 
169 
 
for her。 In her eyes I read surprise at my weariness and an affection that welled 
up  within  her。  We  kissed。  This  time  I  didn’t  find  myself  immobilized  by  a 
staggering yoke of lust; both of us were stunned by the fluttering—like a flock 
of  sparrows—of  a  powerful  love  that  had  entered  our  hearts;  chests  and 
stomachs。 Isn’t lovemaking the best antidote to love? 
As  I  palmed  her  large  breasts;  Shekure  pushed  me  away  in  an  even  more 
determined and sweeter way than before。 She implied that I wasn’t a mature…
enough  man  to  maintain  a  trustworthy  marriage  with  a  woman  that  I’d 
sullied  beforehand。  I  was  careless  enough  to  forget  that  the  Devil  would  get 
involved  in  any  hasty  deeds  and  too  inexperienced  to  know  how  much 
patience and quiet suffering underlie happy marriages。 She’d escaped my arms 
and was walking toward the door; her linen veil having fallen around her neck。 
I caught sight of the snow falling onto the streets; which always succumbed to 
the darkness first; and forgetting that we’d been whispering here; perhaps to 
avoid disturbing the spirit of the Hanged Jew; I cried out: 
“What are we to do now?” 
“I  don’t  know;”  she  said;  minding  the  rules  of  “love  chess。”  Walking 
through the old garden; she left delicate footprints in the snow—certain to be 
erased by the whiteness—and disappeared quietly。 
 
 
   
170 
 
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER 
 
Doubtless;  you  too  have  experienced  what  I’m  about  to  describe:  At  times; 
while  walking  through  the  infinite  and  winding  streets  of  Istanbul;  while 
spooning  a  bite  of  vegetable  stew  into  my  mouth  at  a  public  kitchen  or 
squinting  with  fixed  attention  on  the  curved  design  of  a  reed…style  border 
illumination; I feel I’m living the present as if it were the past。 That is; when 
I’m  walking  down  a  street  whitewashed  with  snow;  I’ll  have  the  urge  to  say 
that I was walking down it。 
The extraordinary events I will relate occurred at once in the present and in 
the  past。  It  was  evening;  the  twilight  gave  way  to  blackness  and  a  very  faint 
snow fell as I walked down the street where Enishte Effendi lived。 
Unlike other evenings; I’d e here knowing precisely what I wanted。 On 
other  evenings;  my  legs  would  take  me  here  as  I  absentmindedly  thought 
about  other  things:  how  I’d  told  my  mother  I  earned  seven  hundred  silver 
pieces  for  a  single  book;  about  the  covers  of  Herat  volumes  with  ungilded 
ornamental rosettes dating from the time of Tamerlane; about the continued 
shock  of  learning  that  others  still  painted  under  my  name  or  about  my 
tomfoolery  and  transgressions。  This  time;  however;  I’d  e  here  with 
forethought and intent。 
The large courtyard gate—that I feared no one would open for me—opened 
on its own when I went to knock; reassuring me that Allah was with me。 The 
shiny  stone…paved  portion  of  the  courtyard  that  I  walked  through  on  those 
nights when I came to add new illustrations to Enishte Effendi’s magnificent 
book was empty。 To the right beside the well rested the bucket; and perched on 
it a sparrow apparently oblivious to the cold; a bit farther on sat the open…air 
stone stove; which for some reason wasn’t lit even at this late hour; and to the 
left; the stable for visitors’ horses which made up part of the house’s ground 
floor。  Everything  was  as  I  expected  it  to  be。  I  entered  through  the  unlocked 
door beside the stable; and as an uninvited guest might do to avoid happening 
upon an inappropriate scene; I stamped my feet and coughed as I climbed the 
wooden staircase to the living quarters。 
My  coughing  elicited  no  response。  Nor  did  the  noise  of  stamping  my 
muddy shoes; which I removed and left next to those lined up at the entrance 
of  the  wide  hall  which  was  also  used  as  an  anteroom。  As  had  bee  my 
custom  whenever  I  visited;  I  searched  for  what  I  assumed  to  be  Shekure’s 
171 
 
elegant green pair among the others; but for naught; and the possibility that 
no one was home crossed my mind。 
I walked to the right into the room—there was one in each corner of the 
second  floor—where  I  imagined  Shekure  slept  cuddled  with  her  children。  I 
groped for beds and mattresses; and opened a chest in the corner and a tall 
armoire with a very light door。 While I thought the delicate almond scent in 
the room must be the scent of Shekure’s skin; a pillow; which had been stuffed 
into the cabi; fell onto my dim…witted head and then onto a copper pitcher 
and  cups。  You  hear  a  noise  and  suddenly  realize  the  room  is  dark;  well;  I 
realized it was cold。 
“Hayriye?”  Enishte  Effendi  called  from  within  another  room;  “Shekure? 
Which of you is it?” 
I  swiftly  exited  the  room;  walking  diagonally  across  the  wide  hall;  and 
entered the room with the blue door where I had labored with Enishte Effendi 
on his book this past winter。 
“It’s me; Enishte Effendi;” I said。 “Me。” 
“Who might you be?” 
At that instant; I understood that the workshop names Enishte Effendi had 
selected had less to do with secrecy then with his subtle mockery of us。 As a 
haughty scribe might write in the colophon on the last leaf of a magnificently 
illustrated  manuscript;  I  slowly  pronounced  the  syllables  of  my  full  name; 
which  included  my  father’s  name;  my  place  of  birth  and  the  phrase  “your 
poor sinful servant。” 
“Hah?” he said at first; then added; “Hah!” 
Just  like  the  old  man  who  meets  Death  in  the  Assyrian  fable  I  heard  as  a 
child; Enishte Effendi sank into a very brief silence that lasted forever。 If there 
are those among you who believe; since I’ve just now mentioned “Death;” that 
I’ve  e  here  to  involve  myself  in  such  an  affair;  you’ve  pletely 
misunderstood  the  book  you’re  holding。  Would  someone  with  such  designs 
knock on the gate? Take off his shoes? e without a knife? 
“So; you’ve e;” he said; again like the old man in the fable。 But then he 
assumed an entirely different tone: “Wele; my child。 Tell me then; what is 
it that you want?” 
It had grown quite dark by now。 Enough light entered through the narrow 
beeswax…dipped  cloth  windowpane—which;  when  removed  in  springtime; 
revealed a pomegranate and plane tree—to distinguish the outlines of objects 
172 
 
within the room; enough light to please a humble Chinese illustrator。 I could 
not  fully  see  Enishte  Effendi’s  face  as  he  sat;  as  usual;  before  a  low;  folding 
reading  desk;  so  that  the  light  fell  to  his  left  side。  I  tried  desperately  to 
recapture  the  intimacy  between  us  when  we’d  painted  miniatures  together; 
gently  and  quietly  discussing  them  all  night  by  candlelight  amid  these 
burnishing stones; reed pens; inkwells and brushes。 I’m not sure if it was out 
of this sense of alienation or out of embarrassment; but I was ashamed and 
held back from openly confessing my misgivings; at that moment; I decided to 
explain myself through a story。 
Perhaps you’ve also heard of the artist Sheikh Muhammad of Isfahan? There 
was  no  painter  who  could  surpass  him  in  choice  of  color;  in  his  sense  of 
symmetry; in depicting human figures; animals and faces; in painting with an 
effusiveness  bespeaking  poetry;  and  in  the  application  of  an  arcane  logic 
reserved for geometry。 After achieving the status of master painter at a young 
age; this virtuoso with a divine touch spent a full thirty years in pursuit of the 
most fearless innovation of subject matter; position and style。 Working in 
the Chinese black…ink style—brought to us by the Mongols—with skill and an 
elegant  sense  of  symmetry;  he  was  the  one  who  introduced  the  terrifying 
demons;  horned  jinns;  horses  with  large  testicles;  half…human  monsters  and 
giants  into  the  devilishly  subtle  and  sensitive  Herat  style  of  painting;  he  was 
the first to take an interest in and be influenced by the portraiture that had 
e by Western ships from Portugal and Flanders; he reintroduced forgo

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