my name is red-我的名字叫红-第82部分
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even worse； to witness her agony and secretly rejoice in their own better
situations； thus； she engaged in no pleasantries with her guests； but went
straight to the heart of the matter forgoing any flowery small talk。 Why had
Esther e this afternoon； just as Kalbiye was about to take a consoling nap
with her grief？ Well aware she’d take no interest in the latest silks from China
or handkerchiefs from Bursa； I didn’t even pretend to open my bundle； but
came right to the point and described teary…eyed Shekure’s concern。 “It has
heightened Shekure’s misery to think that she has somehow hurt your
feelings； with whom she shares the same sorrow；” I said。
Arrogantly； Kalbiye confirmed that she hadn’t asked after Shekure’s well…
being； hadn’t visited to express her condolences or mourn with her； nor could
she bring herself to prepare and send any halva。 Behind her pride； there also
lurked a glee that she couldn’t conceal： The delight that her resentment had
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been recognized。 It was from this point of entry that your sharp…witted Esther
attempted to discover the reasons for and circumstances of Kalbiye’s anger。
It didn’t take long for Kalbiye to admit that she’d been upset with the late
Enishte Effendi due to the illustrated manuscript he was preparing。 She said
her husband； may he rest in peace； hadn’t agreed to work on the book for the
sake of a handful of extra silver coins； but because Enishte Effendi convinced
him the project was authorized by the Sultan。 However； when her late
husband became aware that the illuminations Enishte Effendi hired him to
gild were slowly evolving from simple ornamented pages into full…blown
illustrations； pictures moreover that bore the marks of Frankish blasphemy；
atheism and even heresy； he grew uneasy and began to lose sight of right and
wrong。 Being a much more reasonable and prudent person than Elegant
Effendi； she cautiously added that all these doubts arose gradually rather than
at once； and since poor Elegant Effendi never found anything that would be
considered blatant sacrilege； he was able to dismiss his worries as unfounded。
Besides； he forted himself by never missing a sermon given by Nusret Hoja
of Erzurum； and if he skipped one of his five daily prayers it unsettled him。
Just as he knew that certain scoundrels at the workshop ridiculed his plete
devotion to the faith； so he understood very well that their brazen jokes arose
out of envy of his talent and artistry。
A large； glimmering tear slid from Kalbiye’s gleaming eye down her cheek；
and at the first opportunity； your good…hearted Esther decided to find Kalbiye
a better husband than the one she’d recently lost。
“My late husband didn’t often share these concerns of his with me；”
Kalbiye said cautiously。 “Based on whatever I could remember and piece
together I’ve concluded that everything happened on account of the
illustrations that took him to Enishte Effendi’s house on his very last night。”
This was some manner of apology。 In response； I reminded her how her fate
and Shekure’s； not to mention their enemies； were the same if one considered
that Enishte Effendi had perhaps been killed by the same “scoundrel。” The two
large…headed fatherless waifs staring at me from the corner suggested another
similarity between the two women。 But my merciless matchmaker’s logic
quickly reminded me that Shekure’s situation was much more beautiful； rich
and mysterious。 I let Kalbiye know exactly what I felt：
“Shekure told me to tell you that if she has wronged you； she’s sorry；” I
said。 “She wants to say that she loves you as a sister and as a woman who
shares her fate。 She wants you to think about this and help her。 When the late
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Elegant Effendi left here on his last night； did he mention he’d be seeing
anyone besides Enishte Effendi？ Did you ever consider that he might’ve been
going to meet somebody else？”
“This was found on his person；” she said。
She removed a folded piece of paper from a lidded wicker box； which
contained embroidery needles； pieces of cloth and a large walnut。
When I took up the crumpled piece of rough paper and examined it； I saw a
variety of shapes drawn in ink that had run and smudged in the well water。 I’d
just determined what the forms were when Kalbiye voiced my thoughts。
“Horses；” she said。 “But late Elegant Effendi only did gilding work。 He never
drew horses。 And no one would’ve ever asked him to render a horse。”
Your elderly Esther was looking at the horses which had been quickly
sketched； but she couldn’t quite make anything of them。
“If I were to take this piece of paper to Shekure； she’d be quite pleased；” I
said。
“If Shekure desires to see these sketches； let her e get them herself；” said
Kalbiye with no small hint of conceit。
268
I AM CALLED BLACK
Maybe you’ve understood by now that for men like myself； that is； melancholy
men for whom love； agony； happiness and misery are just excuses for
maintaining eternal loneliness； life offers neither great joy nor great sadness。
I’m not saying we can’t relate to other souls overwhelmed by these feelings；
on the contrary； we sympathize with them。 What we cannot fathom is the odd
disquiet our souls sink into at such times。 This silent turmoil dims our
intellects and dampens our hearts； usurping the place reserved for the true joy
and sadness we ought to experience。
I had buried her father； thank God； hurried home from the funeral； and in a
gesture of condolence； embraced my wife； Shekure； then suddenly； in a fit of
tears she collapsed onto a large cushion with her children； who were glaring at
me with spite； and I didn’t know what to do。 Her misery coincided with my
victory。 In one fell swoop； I had wed the dream of my youth； freed myself from
her father who belittled me； and bee master of the house。 Who would
ever believe the sincerity of my tears？ But believe me； it wasn’t like that。 I truly
wanted to grieve； but couldn’t： Enishte had always been more of a father to
me than my real father。 But since the meddlesome preacher who’d performed
Enishte’s final ablution never stopped babbling； the rumor that my Enishte
died under mysterious circumstances spread among the neighbors during the
funeral—as I could sense standing in the courtyard of the mosque。 I didn’t
want my inability to cry to be interpreted negatively； I don’t have to tell you
how real the fear of being branded “stonehearted” is。
You know how some sympathetic aunt will always attest that “he’s crying
on the inside” to prevent someone like me from being banished from the
group。 I did in fact cry on the inside as I tried to hide in a corner from the
busybody neighbors and distant relatives with their astonishing abilities to
summon a downpour of tears； I thought about being the master of the house
and whether I should somehow take charge of the situation； but just then
there came a knock at the door。 A moment of panic。 Was it Hasan？ Regardless；
I wanted to save myself from this hell of whimpering at whatever cost。
It was a royal page； summoning me to the palace。 I was stunned。
As I exited the courtyard； I found a mud…covered silver coin on the ground。
Was I afraid to go to the palace？ Yes； but I was also happy to be outside in the
cold among the horses； dogs； trees and people。 I thought I’d befriend the
pageboy like those hopeless daydreamers who； believing they might sweeten
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the world’s cruelty before facing the executioner； attempt a lighthearted
conversation with the dungeon guard about this and that； the beauties of life；
the ducks afloat on the pond； or the strangeness of a cloud in the sky； but alas
he disappointed me； proving a rather moro
