My Name is Red

I AM ESTHER

Ladies from the neighborhoods of Redminaret and Blackcat had ordered purple and red quilting from the town of Bilejik; so, early in the morning, I loaded up my makeshift satchel-the large cloth that I’d fill up and tie into a bundle. I removed the green Chinese silk that had recently arrived by way of the Portuguese trader but wasn’t selling, substituting the more alluring blue. And given the persistent snows of this endless winter, I carefully folded plenty of colorful socks, thick sashes and heavy vests, all of wool, arranging them in the center of the bundle: When I spread open my blanket a bouquet of color would bloom to make even the most indifferent woman’s heart leap. Next, I packed some lightweight, but expensive, silk handkerchiefs, money purses and embroidered washcloths especially for those ladies who called for me not to make a purchase but to gossip. I lifted the tote. My goodness, this is much too heavy, it’ll break my back. I put it down and opened it. As I stared at it, trying to determine what to leave out, I heard knocking at the door. Nesim opened it and called to me.

It was that concubine Hayriye, all flushed and blushing. She held a letter in her hand.

“Shekure sent it,” she hissed. This slave was so flustered that you’d think she was the one who’d fallen in love and wanted to get married.

With dead seriousness, I grabbed the letter. I warned the idiot to return home without being seen by anyone and she left. Nesim cast a questioning eye at me. I took up the larger, yet lighter decoy satchel I carried whenever I was out delivering my letters.

“Shekure, the daughter of Master Enishte, is burning with love,” I said. “She’s gone clear out of her mind, the poor girl.”

I cackled and stepped outside, but then was gripped by pangs of embarrassment. If truth be told, I longed to shed a tear for Shekure’s sorrows instead of making light of her dalliances. How beautiful she is, that dark-eyed melancholy girl of mine!

I ever so quickly strode past the run-down homes of our Jewish neighborhood, which looked even more deserted and pitiful in the morning cold. Much later, when I caught sight of that blind beggar who always took up his spot on the corner of Hasan’s street, I shouted as loud as I could, “Clothierrr!”

“Fat witch,” he said. “Even if you hadn’t shouted I would’ve recognized you by your footsteps.”

“You good-for-nothing blind man,” I said. “You ill-fated Tatar! Blind men like you are scourges forsaken by Allah. May He give you the punishment you deserve.”

In the past, such exchanges wouldn’t have angered me. I wouldn’t have taken them seriously. Hasan’s father opened the door. He was an Abkhazian, a noble gentleman and polite.

“Let’s have a look, then, what have you brought with you this time?” he said.

“Is that slothful son of yours still asleep?”

“How could he be sleeping? He’s waiting, expecting news from you.”

This house is so dark that each time I visit, I feel as if I’ve entered a tomb. Shekure never asks what they’re up to, but I always make a point of carping about the place so she won’t even consider returning to this crypt. It’s hard to imagine that lovely Shekure was once mistress of this house and that she lived here with her rascally boys. Within, it smelled of sleep and death. I entered the next room, moving farther into the blackness.

You couldn’t see your hand before your face. I didn’t even have the chance to present the letter to Hasan. He appeared out of the darkness and snatched it from my hand. As I always did, I left him alone to read the letter and satisfy his curiosity. He soon raised his head from the page.

“Isn’t there anything else?” he said. He knew there was nothing else. “This is a brief note,” he said and read

Black Effendi, you pay visits to our home, and spend your days here. Yet I’ve heard that you haven’t written even a single line of my father’s book. Don’t get your hopes up without first completing that manuscript.

Letter in hand, he glared accusingly into my eyes, as if all this was my fault. I’m not fond of these silences in this house.

“There’s no longer any word of her being married, of her husband returning from the front,” he said. “Why?”

“How should I know why?” I said. “I’m not the one who writes the letters.”

“Sometimes I wonder even about that,” he said, handing back the letter along with fifteen silver.

“Some men grow stingier the more they earn. You’re not that way,” I said.

There was such an enchanting, intelligent side to this man that despite all his dark and evil traits, one could see why Shekure would still accept his letters.

“What is this book of Shekure’s father?”

“You know! Our Sultan is funding the whole project they say.”

“Miniaturists are murdering each other over the pictures in that book,” he said. “Is it for the money or-God forbid-because the book desecrates our religion? They say one glance at its pages is enough to bring on blindness.”

He said all this, smiling in such a way that I knew I shouldn’t take any of it seriously. Even if it were a matter to take to heart, at the very least, there was nothing for him to take seriously about me taking the matter seriously. Like many of the men who depended on my services as a letter courier and mediator, Hasan lashed out at me when his pride was hurt. I, as part of my job, pretended to be upset to hearten him. Maidens, on the contrary, hugged me and cried when their feelings were hurt.

“You’re an intelligent woman,” said Hasan in order to soothe my pride, which he believed he’d injured. “Deliver this posthaste. I’m curious about that fool’s response.”

For a moment, I felt like saying, “Black is not so foolish.” In such situations, making rival suitors jealous of each other will earn Esther the matchmaker more money. But I was afraid he’d have a sudden tantrum.

“You know the Tatar beggar at the end of the street?” I said. “He’s very vulgar, that one.”

To avoid getting into it with the blind man, I walked down the other end of the street and thus happened to pass through the Chicken Market early in the morning. Why don’t Muslims eat the heads and feet of chickens? Because they’re so strange! My grandmother, may she rest in peace, would tell me how chicken feet were so inexpensive when her family arrived here from Portugal that she’d boil them for food.

At Kemeraralık, I saw a woman on horseback with her slaves, sitting bolt upright like a man. She was proud as proud could be, maybe the wife of a pasha or his rich daughter. I sighed. If Shekure’s father hadn’t been so absentmindedly devoted to books, if her husband had returned from the Safavid war with his plunder, Shekure might’ve lived like this haughty woman. More than anyone, she deserved it.

When I turned onto Black’s street, my heart quickened. Did I want Shekure to marry this man? I’ve succeeded both in keeping Shekure involved with Hasan and, at the same time, in keeping them apart. But what about this Black? He seems to have both feet on the ground in all respects except with regard to his love for Shekure.

“Clothierrrrr!”

There’s nothing I’d trade for the pleasure of delivering letters to lovers addled by loneliness or the lack of wife or husband. Even if they’re certain of receiving the worst news, when they’re about to read the letter, a shudder of hope overcomes them.

By not mentioning anything about her husband’s return, by tying her warning “Don’t get your hopes up” to one condition alone, Shekure had, of course, given Black more than just cause to be hopeful. With great pleasure, I watched him read the letter. He was so happy he was distraught, afraid even. When he withdrew to write his response, I, being a sensible clothes peddler, spread open my decoy “delivery” satchel and withdrew from it a dark money purse, which I attempted to sell to Black’s nosy landlady.

“This is made of the best Persian velvet,” I said.

“My son died at war in Persia,” she said. “Whose letters do you deliver to Black?”

I could read from her face that she was making plans to set up her own wiry daughter, or who knows whose daughter, with lionhearted Black. “No one’s,” I said. “A poor relative of his who’s on his deathbed in the Bayrampasha sickhouse and needs money.”

“Oh my,” she said, unconvinced, “who is the unfortunate man?”

“How did your son die in the war?” I asked stubbornly.

We began to glare at each other with hostility. She was a widow and all alone. Her life must’ve been quite difficult. If you ever happen to become a clothier-cum-messenger like Esther, you’ll soon learn that only wealth, might and legendary romances stir people’s curiosity. Everything else is but worry, separation, jealousy, loneliness, enmity, tears, gossip and never-ending poverty. Such things never change, just like the objects that furnish a home: a faded old kilim, a ladle and small copper pan resting on an empty baking sheet, tongs and an ash box resting beside the stove, two worn chests-one small, one large-a turban stand maintained to conceal the widow’s solitary life and an old sword to scare thieves off.

Black hastily returned with his money purse. “Clothier woman,” he said, making himself heard to the meddling landlady rather than myself. “Take this and bring it to our suffering patient. If he has any response for me, I’ll be waiting. You can find me at Master Enishte’s house, where I’ll spend the rest of the day.”

There’s no need for all of these games. No cause for a young brave-heart like Black to hide his amatory maneuvers, the signals he receives, the handkerchiefs and letters he sends in pursuit of a maiden. Or does he truly have his eye on his landlady’s daughter? At times, I didn’t trust Black at all and was afraid that he was deceiving Shekure terribly. How is it that, despite spending his entire day with Shekure in the same house, he’s incapable of giving her a sign?

Once I was outside, I opened the purse. It contained twelve silver coins and a letter. I was so curious about the letter that I nearly ran to Hasan. Vegetable-sellers had spread out cabbage, carrots and the rest in front of their shops. But I didn’t even have it in me to touch the plump leeks that were crying out to me to fondle them.

I turned onto the side street, and saw that the blind Tatar was there waiting to heckle me again. “Tuh,” I spat in his direction; that was all. Why doesn’t this biting cold freeze these vagrants to death?

As Hasan silently read the letter, I could barely maintain my patience. Finally, unable to restrain myself, I suddenly said “Yes?” and he began reading aloud:

My Dearest Shekure, you’ve requested that I complete your father’s book. You can be certain that I have no other goal. I visit your house for this reason; not to pester you, as you’d earlier indicated. I’m quite aware that my love for you is my own concern. Yet, due to this love, I’m unable properly to take up my pen and write what your father-my dear Uncle-has requested for his book. Whenever I sense your presence in the house, I seize up and am of no service to your father. I’ve mulled this over extensively and there can be but one cause: After twelve years, I’ve seen your face only once, when you showed yourself at the window. Now, I quite fear losing that vision. If I could once more see you close-up, I’d have no fear of losing you, and I could easily finish your father’s book. Yesterday, Shevket brought me to the abandoned house of the Hanged Jew. No one will see us there. Today, at whatever time you see fit, I’ll go there and wait for you. Yesterday, Shevket mentioned that you dreamt your husband had died.

Hasan read the letter mockingly, in places raising his already high-pitched voice even higher like a woman’s, and in places, emulating the trembling supplication of a lover who’d lost all reason. He made light of Black’s having written his wish “to see you just once” in Persian. He added, “As soon as Black saw that Shekure had given him some hope, he quickly began to negotiate. Such haggling isn’t something a genuine lover would resort to.”

“He’s genuinely in love with Shekure,” I said naively.

“This comment proves that you’ve taken Black’s side,” he said. “If Shekure has written that she dreamt my older brother was dead, it means she accepts her husband’s death.”

“That was just a dream,” I said like an idiot.

“I know how smart and cunning Shevket is. We lived together for many years! Without his mother’s permission and prodding, he’d never have taken Black to the house of the Hanged Jew. If Shekure thinks she’s through with my older brother-with us-she’s terribly mistaken! My older brother is still alive and he’ll return from the war.”

Before he had a chance to conclude, he went into the next room where he intended to light a candle, but succeeded only in burning his hand. He let out a howl. All the while licking the burn, he finally lit the candle and placed it beside a folding worktable. He produced a reed pen from its case, dipped it into an inkwell and began furiously writing on a small piece of paper. I sensed his pleasure at my watching him, and to show that I wasn’t afraid, I smiled exaggeratedly.

“Who is this Hanged Jew, you must know?” he asked.

“Just beyond these houses there’s a yellow one. They say that Moshe Hamon, the beloved doctor of the previous Sultan and the wealthiest of men, had for years hidden his Jewish mistress from Amasya and her brother there. Years ago in Amasya, on the eve of Passover, when a Greek youth supposedly ”disappeared“ in the Jewish quarter, people claimed that he’d been strangled so unleavened bread could be made from his blood. When false witnesses were brought forward, an execution of Jews began; however, the Sultan’s beloved doctor helped this beautiful woman and her brother escape, and hid them with the permission of the Sultan. After the Sultan died, His enemies couldn’t find the beautiful woman, but they hanged her brother, who’d been living alone.”

“If Shekure doesn’t wait for my brother to come back from the front, they’ll punish her,” said Hasan, handing me the letters.

No anger or wrath could be seen on his face, just the misfortune and sorrow particular to the love-stricken. I suddenly saw in his eyes how fast love had aged him. The money he’d begun to earn working in customs hadn’t made him more youthful at all. After all his offended grimaces and threats, it dawned on me that he might once again ask me how Shekure could be won over. But he’d come so close to becoming thoroughly evil that he could no longer ask. Once one accepts evil-and rejection in love is a significant cause for doing so-cruelty follows quickly. I became afraid of my thoughts and that terrible red sword the boys talked about, which severed whatever it touched; in my desperation to leave, in a near frenzy, I stumbled outside onto the street.

This was how I fell unwitting victim to the curses of the Tatar beggar. But I immediately pulled myself together. I softly dropped a small stone I’d picked off the ground into his handkerchief and said, “There you go, mangy Tatar.”

Without laughing, I watched his hand reach hopefully for the stone he thought was a coin. Ignoring his curses, I headed toward one of my “daughters,” whom I’d married off to a good husband.

That sweet “daughter” of mine served me a piece of spinach pie, a leftover, but still crisp. For the afternoon meal she was preparing lamb stew in a sauce heavy with beaten eggs and spiced with sour plum, just the way I like it. So as not to disappoint her, I waited and ate two full ladles with fresh bread. She’d also made a nice compote of stewed grapes. Without any hesitation, I requested some rose-petal jam, a spoonful of which I stirred into the compote before topping off my meal. Afterward, I went on to deliver the letters to my melancholy Shekure.