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disappear without being seen by anybody in this horrible state。 With some
difficulty； they mounted him on a horse。
During our trip back； as we passed through side streets clinging to our
bundles； the children were at first too frightened to look Black in the face。 But
from astride the slowly ambling horse； Black was still able to describe how he
foiled the schemes of the wretched murderer who’d killed their grandfather
and how he challenged him to a sword fight。 I could see that the children had
warmed up to him somewhat； and I prayed to Allah： Please； don’t let him die！
When we reached the house； Orhan shouted； “We’re home！” with such joy
I had the intuition that Azrael； the Angel of Death； pitied us and Allah would
grant Black more time。 But I knew from experience that one could never tell
when exalted Allah would take one’s soul； and I wasn’t overly hopeful。
We helped Black down from the horse。 We brought him upstairs； and
settled him into the bed in my father’s room； the one with the blue door。
Hayriye boiled water and brought it upstairs。 Hayriye and I undressed him；
tearing his clothes and cutting them with scissors； removing the bloodied shirt
stuck to his flesh； his sash； his shoes and his underclothes。 When we opened
the shutters； the soft winter sunlight playing on the branches in the garden
filled the room； reflected off the ewers； pots； glue boxes； inkwells； pieces of
glass and penknives； and illuminated Black’s deathly pale skin； and his flesh…
and sour…cherry…colored wounds。
I soaked pieces of bedding in hot water and rubbed them with soap。 Then I
wiped clean Black’s body； carefully as though cleaning a valuable antique
carpet； and affectionately and eagerly as though caring for one of my boys。
Without pressing on the bruises that covered his face； without jarring the cut
in his nostril； I cleansed the horrible wound on his shoulder as a doctor might。
As I’d do when bathing the children when they were babies； I cooed to him in
a singsong voice。 There were cuts on his chest and arms as well。 The fingers of
his left hand were purple from being bitten。 The rags I used to wipe his body
were soon bloodsoaked。 I touched his chest； I felt the softness of his abdomen
with my hand； I looked at his cock for a long time。 The sounds of the children
were ing from the courtyard below。 Why did some poets call this thing a
“reed pen”？
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I could hear Esther enter the kitchen with that joyous voice and mysterious
air she adopted when she brought news； and I went down to greet her。
She was so excited she began without embracing or kissing me： Olive’s
severed head was found in front of the workshop； the pictures proving his guilt
in the crimes and his satchel had also been recovered。 He was intending to flee
to Hindustan； but had decided first to call at the workshop one last time。
There were witnesses to the ordeal： Hasan； encountering Olive； had drawn
his red sword and cut off Olive’s head in a single stroke。
As she recounted； I thought about where my unfortunate father was。
Learning that the murderer had received his due punishment at first put my
fears to rest。 And revenge lent me a feeling of fort and justice。 At that
instant； I wondered intensely whether my now…dead father could experience
this feeling； suddenly； it seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace
with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another。 We were able to
pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and
imaginations； but most of us； in our laziness； rarely exercised these capacities；
and forever remained in the same room。
“Don’t cry； my dear；” said Esther。 “You see； in the end everything has
turned out fine。”
I gave her four gold coins。 She took them； one at a time； into her mouth
and bit down upon them crudely with eagerness and longing。
“Coins counterfeited by the Veians are everywhere；” she said； smiling。
As soon as she’d left； I warned Hayriye not to let the children upstairs。 I
went up to the room where Black lay； locked the door behind me and cuddled
up eagerly next to Black’s naked body。 Then； more out of curiosity than desire；
more out of care than fear； I did what Black wanted me to do in the house of
the Hanged Jew the night my poor father was killed。
I can’t say I pletely understood why Persian poets； who for centuries
had likened that male tool to a reed pen； also pared the mouths of us
women to inkwells； or what lay behind such parisons whose origins had
been forgotten through rote repetition—was it the smallness of the mouth？
The arcane silence of the inkwell？ Was it that God Himself was an illuminator？
Love； however； must be understood； not through the logic of a woman like me
who continually racks her brain to protect herself； but through its illogic。
So； let me tell you a secret： There； in that room that smelled of death； it
wasn’t the object in my mouth that delighted me。 What delighted me then；
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lying there with the entire world throbbing between my lips； was the happy
twittering of my sons cursing and roughhousing with each other in the
courtyard。
While my mouth was thus occupied； my eyes could make out Black looking
at me in a pletely different way。 He said he’d never again forget my face
and my mouth。 As with some of my father’s old books； his skin smelled of
moldy paper； and the scent of the Treasury’s dust and cloth had saturated his
hair。 As I let myself go and caressed his wounds； his cuts and swellings； he
groaned like a child； moving further and further away from death； and it was
then I understood I would bee even more attached to him。 Like a solemn
ship that gains speed as its sails swell with wind； our gradually quickening
lovemaking took us boldly into unfamiliar seas。
I could tell by the way he was able to navigate these waters； even on his
deathbed； that Black had plied these seas many times before with who knows
what manner of indecent women。 While I was confused as to whether the
forearm I kissed was my own or his； whether I was sucking my own finger or
an entire life； he stared out of one half…opened eye； nearly intoxicated by his
wounds and pleasure； checking where the world was taking him； and from
time to time； he would hold my head delicately in his hands； and stare at my
face astounded； now looking as if at a picture； now as if at a Mingerian whore。
At the peak of pleasure； he cried out like the legendary heroes cut clear in
half with a single stroke of the sword in fabled pictures that immortalized the
clash of Persian and Turanian armies； the fact that this cry could be heard
throughout the neighborhood frightened me。 Like a genuine master
miniaturist at the moment of greatest inspiration； holding his reed under the
direct guidance of Allah； yet still able to take into consideration the form and
position of the entire page； Black continued to direct our place in the
world from a corner of his mind even through his highest excitement。
“You can tell them you were spreading salve onto my wounds；” he said
breathlessly。
These words not only constituted the color of our love—which settled into
a bottleneck between life and death； prohibition and paradise； hopelessness
and shame—they also were the excuse for our love。 For the next twenty…six
years； until my beloved husband Black collapsed next to the well one morning
to die of a bad heart； each afternoon； as the sunlight filtered into the room
through the slats of the shutters； and for the first few years； to the sounds of
Shevket and Orhan playing； we made love； always referring to it as “spreading
salve onto wounds。” This was how my jealous sons； wh