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from her coy expression alone that a short time after I’d abandoned Istanbul；
Shekure had forgotten about me； like everyone else had。 She’d told me this
blatant lie to mend my broken heart； if only a little； and I considered it a sign
of her good intentions； which demanded my gratitude。 I began to explain how
during my travels I couldn’t get her out of my thoughts； how at night her
image haunted me like a specter。 This was the most secret； most profound
agony I’d suffered and I assumed I’d never be able to share it with another；
the agony was quite real； but as I realized with surprise at that instant； it
wasn’t the least bit sincere。
So that my feelings and desires might be rightfully understood； I must
presently lay bare the meaning of this distinction between truth and sincerity
that I’ve e to know for the first time： How expressing one’s reality in
words； as truthful as they might be； goads one to insincerity。 Perhaps； the best
example might be made of us miniaturists； who’ve grown edgy of late due to
the murderer in our midst。 Consider a perfect painting—the image of a horse；
for instance—no matter how well it represents a real horse； the horse
meticulously conceived by Allah or the horses of the great master miniaturists；
it might still fail to match the sincerity of the talented miniaturist who drew
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it。 The sincerity of the miniaturist； or of us humble servants of Allah； doesn’t
emerge in moments of talent and perfection； on the contrary； it emerges
through slips of the tongue； mistakes； fatigue and frustration。 I say this for the
sake of those young ladies who will bee disillusioned when they see that
there was no difference between the strong desire I felt for Shekure at that
moment—as she too could tell—and； say； the dizzying lust I’d felt for a
delicately featured； copper…plexioned； burgundy…mouthed Kazvin beauty
during my travels。 With her profound God…given savvy and jinnlike intuition；
Shekure understood both my being able to withstand twelve years of pure
torture for love’s sake as well as my behaving like a miserable thrall of lust
who thought of nothing but the quick satisfaction of his dark desires the first
time we were alone。 Nizami had pared the mouth of that beauty of
beauties； Shirin； to an inkwell filled with pearls。
When the eager dogs began barking with renewed fervor； a restless Shekure
said； “I ought to go now。” It was at that moment we both realized that the
house of the Jew’s ghost had indeed bee quite dark； although there was
still time before nightfall。 My body sprung up of its own volition； to hug her
once again； but like a wounded sparrow； she quickly hopped away。
“Am I still beautiful？ Answer me quickly。”
I told her。 How beautifully she listened to me； believing and agreeing with
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
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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。
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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。
Unli