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protracted silence； he added； “Is it that you want to leave me； my dear
daughter？”
“Last night I dreamed that my husband had died；” I said。 I didn’t cry the
way a woman who’d actually seen such a dream would have。
“Like those who know how to read a picture； one should know how to read
a dream。”
“Would you consider it appropriate for me to describe my dream？”
There was a pause： We smiled at each other； quickly inferring—as intelligent
people do—all possible conclusions from the matter at hand。
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“By interpreting your dream； I might be convinced of his death； yet your
father…in…law； your brother…in…law and the judge； who is obligated to listen to
them； will demand more proof。”
“Two years have passed since I returned here with the children and my in…
laws haven’t been able to force me back…”
“Because they very well realize that they have their own misdeeds to answer
for；” said my father。 “This doesn’t mean that they’ll be willing to let you
petition for a divorce。”
“If we were followers of the Maliki or the Hanbeli sects；” I said； “the judge；
acknowledging that four years have passed； would grant me a divorce in
addition to securing a support allowance for me。 But since we are； many
thanks to Allah； Hanefis； this option is not open to us。”
“Don’t mention the üsküdar judge’s Shafüte stand…in to me。 That’s not a
sound venture。”
“All the women of Istanbul whose husbands are missing at the front go to
him with their witnesses to get divorced。 Since he’s a Shafüte； he simply asks；
”Is your husband missing？“ ”How long has he been missing？“ ”Are you having
trouble making ends meet？“ ”Are these your witnesses？“ and immediately
grants the divorce。”
“My dear Shekure； who’s planted such schemes in your head？” he said。
“Who’s stripped you of your reason？”
“After I’m divorced once and for all； if there is a man who can truly strip
me of my reason； you will； of course； tell me who that might be and I shall
never question your decision about my husband。”
My shrewd father； realizing that his daughter was as shrewd as he； began to
blink。 My father would blink rapidly like this for three reasons： 1。 because he
was in a tight spot and his mind was racing to find a clever way out； 2。 because
he was on the verge of tears of hopelessness and sorrow； 3。 because he was in a
tight spot； cunningly bining reasons 1 and 2 to give the impression that he
might soon cry out of sorrow。
“Are you taking the children and abandoning your old father？ Do you
realize that on account of our book”—yes； he said “our book”—“I was afraid
of being murdered； but now that you want to take the children and leave； I
wele death。”
“My dear father； wasn’t it you who always said that only a divorce could
save me from that good…for…nothing brother…in…law？”
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“I don’t want you to abandon me。 One day your husband might return。
Even if he doesn’t； there’s no harm in your being married—so long as you live
in this house with your father。”
“I want nothing more than to live in this house with you。”
“Darling； weren’t you just now saying that you wanted to get married as
soon as possible？”
This is the dead end you reach by arguing with your father： In due course；
you too will be convinced that you’re in the wrong。
“I was；” I said； gazing at the ground in front of me。 Then； holding back my
tears and encouraged by the truth of what came to mind； I said：
“All right then； shall I never be married again？”
“There’s a special place in my heart for the son…in…law who won’t take you
far from me。 Who is your suitor； would he be willing to live here with us in
this house？”
I fell silent。 We both knew； of course； that my father would never respect a
son…in…law willing to live here together with us； and would gradually demean
and stifle him。 And as Father’s underhanded and expert belittling of the man
who’d moved in with his bride’s family proceeded I would soon want to be
that wife no more。
“Without a father’s approval； in your situation； you know that getting
married is practically impossible； don’t you？ I don’t want you to get married；
and I refuse to grant you permission to do so—”
“I don’t want to get married； I want a divorce。”
“—because some thoughtless beast of a man who cares about nothing but
his own concerns might hurt you。 You know how much I love you； don’t you；
my dear Shekure？ Besides； we must finish this book。”
I said nothing。 For if I were to speak—prompted by the Devil； who was
aware of my anger—I would tell my father right to his face that I knew he
slept with Hayriye at night。 But would it befit a woman like me to admit that
she knew that her elderly father slept with a slave girl？
“Who is it that wants to marry you？”
I gazed at the ground before me and barrassment；
but out of anger。 And recognizing the extent of my anger； but not being able to
respond in some manner made me even more furious。 At that juncture； I
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imagined my father and Hayriye in bed in that ridiculous and disgusting
position。 I was on the verge of tears when I said：
“There’s zucchini on the stove； I don’t want it to burn。”
I crossed to the room beside the staircase； the one with the always…closed
window that looked out onto the well。 In the dark； quickly locating the roll…up
mattress with my hands； I spread it open and lay down： Ah； what a wonderful
feeling； to lie down and fall asleep in a fit of tears like a child who’s been
wrongly chastised！ And what agony it is to know that I’m the only person in
the world who likes me。 As I cry in my solitude； only you； who hear my sobs
and moans； can e to my aid。
A while later； I found that Orhan had stretched out upon my bed。 He placed
his head between my breasts。 I saw that he was sighing； and crying too。 Pulling
him close to me； I held him。
“Don’t cry； Mother；” he said later。 “Father will return from the war。”
“How do you know？”
He didn’t answer。 I loved him so； and pressed him to my bosom so that I
forgot my own worries entirely。 Before I cuddle up with my fine…boned；
delicate Orhan and fall asleep； let me confess my only pressing concern： I
regret having just now told you； out of spite； about the matter between my
father and Hayriye。 No； I wasn’t lying； but I’m still so embarrassed that it
would be best if you forgot about it。 Pretend I never mentioned anything； as if
my father and Hayriye weren’t thus involved； please？
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I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLE
Alas； it’s difficult having a daughter； difficult。 As she wept in the next room； I
could hear her sobs； but I could do nothing but look at the pages of the book I
held in my hands。 On a page of the volume I was trying to read； the Book of the
Apocalypse； it was written that three days after death； one’s soul； receiving
permission from Allah； visited the body it formerly inhabited。 Upon beholding
the piteous state of its body； bloodied； deposing and oozing； as it rested in
the grave； the soul would sorrowfully； tearfully and mournfully grieve； “Lo； my
miserable mortal coil； my dear wretched old body。” At once； I thought of
Elegant Effendi’s bitter end at the bottom of the well； and how upset his soul
naturally must have been upon visiting； and finding his body not at his grave；
but in the well。
When Shekure’s sobs died down； I put aside the book on death。 I donned
an extra woolen undershirt； wound my thick wool sash tightly around my
waist so as to warm my midriff； pulled on my shalwar pants lined with rabbit
fur and； as I was leaving the house； turned to discover Shevket in the doorway。
“Where are you going； Grandfather？”
“You get back inside。 To the funeral。”
I passed through snow…covered streets； between poor rotting houses leaning
this way and that way； barely able to stand； and through fire…ravaged
neighborhoods。 I walked for a long time； taking the cautious steps of an aging
man trying not to slip and fall on the ice。 I passed through out…of…the…way
neighborhoods and gardens and fields。 I walked by shops that dealt in
carriages and wheels and passed iron smiths； saddlers； harness makers and
farriers on my way toward the walls of the city。
I’m not sure why they decided to start the funeral procession all the way at
the Mihrimah Mosque near the city’s Edirne Gate。 At the mosque； I embraced
the big…headed and bewildered brothers of the deceased； who looked angry
and obstinate。 We miniaturists and calligraphers embraced each other and
wept。 As I was performing my prayers within a leaden fog that had suddenly
descended and swallowed everything； my gaze fell on the coffin resting atop
the mosque’s stone funeral block； and I felt such anger toward the miscreant
who’d mitted this crime； believe me； even the Allahümme Barik prayer
became muddled in my mind。
After the prayers； while the congregation shouldered the coffin； I was still
among all the miniaturists and calligraphers。 Stork and I had forgotten that on
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some nights； when we sat in the dim light of oil lamps working until morning
on my book； he’d tried to convince me of the inferiority of Elegant Effendi’s
gilding work and of the lack of balance in his use of colors—he colored
everything navy blue so it would look richer！ We’d both forgotten that I’d
actually given him credence； by allowing “But no one else is qualified to do
this work；” and we embraced each other anyway； sobbing once more。 Later；
Olive gave me a friendly and respectful look before hugging me—a man who
knows how to embrace is a good man—and these gestures so pleased me that
I was reminded how of all the workshop artists； he was the one who most
believed in my book。
On the stairs of the courtyard gate I found myself beside Head Illuminator
Master Osman。 We were both at a loss for words； a strange and tense
moment。 One of the deceased’s brothers began to cry and sob； and someone
pompously shouted； “God is great。”
“To which cemetery？” Master Osman asked me for the sake of asking
something。
To respond “I don’t know” seemed hostile for some reason。 Flustered； and
without thinking； I asked the same question of the man standing next to me
on the stairs； “To which cemetery？ The one by the Edirne Gate？”
“Eyüp；” said an ill…tempered； bearded and young dolt。
“Eyüp；” I said turning to the master； but he’d heard what the ill…tempered
dolt had said anyway。 Then； he looked at me as if to say； “I understand” in a
way that let me know he didn’t want our encounter to last a moment longer
than it already had。
Without mentioning my influence on Our Sultan’s growing interest in
Frankish styles of painting； Master Osman was of course annoyed that Our
Sultan had ordered me to oversee the writing out； embellishment and
illustration of the illuminated manuscript； which I’ve described as “secret。” On
one occasion； the Sultan forced the great Master Osman to copy a portrait of
His Highness； which had been missioned from a Veian。 I know Master
Osman holds me responsible for having to imitate that painter； for having to
make that strange painting； which he did with disgust； referring to the
experience as “torture。” His wrath was justified。
Standing in the middle of the staircase for a while； I looked at the sky。
When I was convinced that I’d been left quite behind； I continued down the
icy stairs。 I’d barely descended—ever so slowly—two steps when a man took
me by the arm and embraced me： Black。
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“The air is freezing；” he said。 “You must be cold。”
I hadn’t the slightest doubt that this was the one who’d muddled
Shekure’s mind。 The self…confidence with which he took my arm was proof
enough。 There was something in his demeanor that announced； “I’ve worked
for twelve years and have truly grown up。” When we came to the bottom of
the stairs； I told him that I’d expect an account later of what he’d learned at
the workshop。
“You go ahead； my child；” I said。 “Go ahead and catch up to the
congregation。”
He was taken aback； but didn’t let on。 The way he let go of my arm with
reservation and walked ahead of me pleased me； even。 If I gave Shekure to him；
would he agree to live in the same house with us？
We’d left the city through the Edirne Gate。 I saw the coffin on the verge of
disappearing into the fog along with the crowd of illustrators； calligraphers
and apprentices shouldering it as they quickly descended the hill toward the
Golden Horn。 They were walking so fast； they’d alr