My Name is Red

I, SHEKURE

I dreamed that my father was telling me incomprehensible things, and it was so terrifying that I woke up. Shevket and Orhan were clinging tightly to me on either side, and their warmth made me sweat. Shevket had his hand on my stomach. Orhan was resting his sweaty head on my bosom. Somehow, I was able to get out of bed and leave the room without waking them.

I crossed the wide hallway and silently opened Black’s door. In the light cast by my candle, I couldn’t see him, only the edge of his white mattress which lay like a shrouded body in the middle of the dark, cold room. The candlelight seemed unable to reach the mattress.

When I brought my hand even closer, the reddish-orange light of the candle struck Black’s weary, unshaven face and naked shoulders. I drew near to him. Just as Orhan did, he slept curled up like a pill bug, and he wore the expression of a sleeping maiden.

“This is my husband,” I said to myself. He seemed so distant, so much a stranger, that I was filled with sorrow. If I’d had a dagger with me, I would’ve murdered him-no, I didn’t actually want to do such a thing; I was only wondering, the way children do, how it’d be if I killed him. I didn’t believe he’d lived for years through thoughts of me, neither in his innocent childlike expression.

Prodding his shoulder with the edge of my bare foot, I woke him. When he saw me, he was startled more than enchanted and excited, if only for a moment, just as I’d hoped. Before he’d completely come to his senses, I said:

“I dreamed I saw my father. He confided something horrible to me: You were the one who killed him…”

“Weren’t we together when your father was murdered?”

“I’m aware of this,” I said. “But you knew that my father would be at home all alone.”

“I did not. You were the one who sent the children out with Hayriye. Only Hayriye, and perhaps Esther, knew about it. And as for whoever else might’ve known, you’d have a better idea than I.”

“There are times I feel an inner voice is about to tell me why everything has gone so badly, the secret of all of our misfortune. I open my mouth so that voice might speak, but as in a dream, I make no sound. You’re no longer the good and naive Black of my childhood.”

“That naive Black was driven away by you and your father.”

“If you’ve married me to take revenge on my father, you’ve accomplished your goal. Maybe this is why the children don’t like you.”

“I know,” he said without sorrow. “Before going to bed you were downstairs for a while. They were chanting ”Black, Black, my ass’s crack,“ loud enough so I could hear.”

“You should’ve given them a beating,” I said, at first half-wishing he’d done so. Then I added in a panic, “If you raise a hand against them, I’ll kill you.”

“Get into bed,” he said. “Or you’ll freeze to death.”

“Maybe I’ll never get into your bed. Maybe we’ve made a mistake by getting married. They say our ceremony has no legitimacy before the law. Do you know I heard Hasan’s footsteps before I fell asleep? It’s not surprising, when I was living in the house of my late husband, I heard Hasan’s footsteps for years. The children like him. And he’s merciless, that one. He has a red sword, take care to guard yourself against it.”

I saw something so weary and so stern in Black’s eyes that I knew I wouldn’t be able to scare him.

“Of the two of us, you’re the one with more hope and the one with more sadness,” I said. “I’m just struggling not to be unhappy and to protect my children, whereas you’re stubbornly trying to prove yourself. It’s not because you love me.”

He went on at length about how much he loved me, how he always thought only of me in desolate caravansaries, on barren mountains and during snowy nights. If he hadn’t said these things, I would’ve awakened the children and returned to my former husband’s house. Because I had the urge, I said the following:

“Sometimes it seems that my former husband might return at any time. It’s not that I fear being caught in the middle of the night with you or being caught by the children, I’m afraid that as soon as we embrace he’ll come knocking on the door.”

We heard the wailing of cats fighting for their lives just outside the courtyard gate. This was followed by a long silence. I thought I might sob. I could neither set my candle holder down on the end table nor turn around and head to my room to be with my sons. I told myself that I wouldn’t leave this room until I was absolutely convinced that Black had nothing whatsoever to do with my father’s death.

“You belittle us,” I said to Black. “You’ve grown haughty since you married me. You clearly looked down on us because my husband was missing, and now that my father’s been killed you find us even more pitiful.”

“My respected Shekure,” he said cautiously. It pleased me that he’d begun this way. “You yourself know that none of this is true. I’d do anything for you.”

“Then get out of bed, and wait with me on your feet.”

Why had I said that I was waiting?

“I cannot,” he said, and in embarrassment, gestured to the quilt and his nightgown.

He was right, but it annoyed me anyway that he wasn’t heeding my request.

“Before my father was murdered, you entered this house cowering like a cat who’d spilled milk,” I said. “But now when you address me as ”My respected Shekure“ it seems empty-as though you want us to know it is.”

I was trembling, not out of anger, but because of the icy cold that seized my legs, back and neck.

“Get into bed and be my wife,” he said.

“How will the villain who killed my father ever be found?” I said. “If it’s going to take some time before he’s found, it’s not right for me to stay in this house with you.”

“Thanks to you and Esther, Master Osman has focused all his attention on the horses.”

“Master Osman was the sworn enemy of my father, may he rest in peace. Now my poor father can see from above that you’re depending on Master Osman to find his murderer. It must be causing him great agony.”

He abruptly leapt out of bed and came toward me. I couldn’t even move. But contrary to what I expected, he just snuffed out my candle with his hand and stood there. We were in pitch blackness.

“Your father can no longer see us,” he whispered. “We’re both alone. Tell me now, Shekure: You gave me the impression, when I returned after twelve years, that you’d be able to love me, that you’d be able to make room in your heart for me. Then we married. Since then you’ve been running away from loving me.”

“I had to marry you,” I whispered.

There, in the dark, without pity, I sensed how my words were driving into his flesh like nails-as the poet Fuzuli had once put it.

“If I could love you, I would’ve loved you when I was a child,” I whispered again.

“Tell me then, fair beauty of the darkness,” he said. “You must’ve spied on all those miniaturists who frequented your house and come to know them. In your opinion, which one is the murderer?”

I was pleased that he could still keep this good humor. He was, after all, my husband.

“I’m cold.”

Did I actually say this, I can’t remember. We began to kiss. Embracing him in the dark, still holding the candle in one hand, I took his velvety tongue into my mouth, and my tears, my hair, my nightgown, my trembling and even his body were full of wonder. Warming my nose against his hot cheek was also pleasant; but this timid Shekure restrained herself. As I was kissing him, I didn’t let myself go or drop the candle, but thought of my father, who was watching me, and of my former husband, and my children asleep in bed.

“There’s somebody in the house,” I shouted. I pushed Black away and went out into the hall.