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things at the most inopportune times when we went merrily and playfully to
the public baths each week； once told me that a person never knows exactly
what she herself is thinking。 This is what I know： Sometimes I’ll say something
and realize upon uttering it that it is of my own thinking； but no sooner do I
arrive at that realization than I’m convinced the very opposite is true。
I was sorry when poor Elegant Effendi； one of the miniaturists my father
often invited to the house—and I won’t pretend I haven’t spied on each of
them—went missing； much like my unfortunate husband。 “Elegant” was the
ugliest among them and the most impoverished of spirit。
I closed the shutters； left the room and went down to the kitchen。
“Mother； Shevket didn’t listen to you；” Orhan said。 “While Black was
taking his horse out of the stable； Shevket left the kitchen and spied on him
from the peephole。”
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“What of it！” Shevket said； waving his hand in the air。 “Mother spied on
him from the hole in the closet。”
“Hayriye；” I said。 “Fry some bread in a little butter and serve it to them
with marzipan and sugar。”
Orhan jumped up and down with joy though Shevket was silent。 But as I
walked back upstairs； they both caught up to me； screaming； pushing and
shoving by me excitedly。 “Be slow； slow down；” I said with a laugh。 “You
rascals。” I patted them on their delicate backs。
How wonderful it is to be home with children as evening approaches！ My
father had quietly given himself over to a book。
“Your guest has departed；” I said。 “I hope he didn’t trouble you much？”
“On the contrary；” he said。 “He entertained me。 He’s as respectful as ever
of his Enishte。”
“Good。”
“But now he’s also measured and calculating。”
He’d said that less to observe my reaction than to close the subject in a
manner that made light of Black。 On any other occasion； I would’ve answered
him with a sharp tongue； as I am wont to do。 This time； though； I just thought
of Black making ground on his white horse； and I shuddered。
I’m not sure how it happened； but later in the room with the closet； Orhan
and I found ourselves hugging each other。 Shevket joined us； there was a brief
skirmish between them。 As they tussled we all rolled over onto the floor。 I
kissed them on the backs of their necks and their hair； I pressed them to my
bosom and felt their weight on my breasts。
“Ahhh；” I said。 “Your hair stinks。 I’m going to send you to the baths
tomorrow with Hayriye。”
“I don’t want to go to the baths with Hayriye anymore；” Shevket said。
“Why？ Are you too grown…up？” I said。
“Mother； why did you wear your fine purple blouse？” Shevket said。
I went into the other room and removed my purple blouse。 I pulled on the
faded green one that I usually wear。 As I was changing； I felt cold and shivered；
but I could sense that my skin was aflame； my body vibrant and alive。 I’d
rubbed a bit of rouge onto my cheeks； which probably smudged while I was
rolling around with the children； but I evened it out by licking my palm and
rubbing my cheeks。 Are you aware that my relatives； the women whom I meet
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at the baths and everyone who sees me； swear that I look more like a sixteen…
year…old maiden than a twenty…four…year…old mother of two past her prime？
Believe them； truly believe them； or I shan’t tell you any more。
Don’t be surprised that I’m talking to you。 For years I’ve bed through
the pictures in my father’s books looking for images of women and great
beauties。 They do exist； if few and far between； and always look shy；
embarrassed； gazing only at one another； as if apologetically。 Never do they
raise their heads； stand straight and face the people of the world as soldiers
and sultans would。 Only in cheap； hastily illustrated books by careless artists
are the eyes of some women trained not on the ground or on some thing in
the illustration—oh； I don’t know； let’s say a lover or a goblet—but directly at
the reader。 I’ve long wondered about that reader。
I shudder in delight when I think of two…hundred…year…old books； dating
back to the time of Tamerlane； volumes for which acquisitive giaours gleefully
relinquish gold pieces and which they carry all the way back to their own
countries： Perhaps one day someone from a distant land will listen to this
story of mine。 Isn’t this what lies behind the desire to be inscribed in the
pages of a book？ Isn’t it just for the sake of this delight that sultans and viziers
proffer bags of gold to have their histories written？ When I feel this delight；
just like those beautiful women with one eye on the life within the book and
one eye on the life outside； I； too； long to speak with you who are observing
me from who knows which distant time and place。 I’m an attractive and
intelligent woman； and it pleases me that I’m being watched。 And if I happen
to tell a lie or two from time to time； it’s so you don’t e to any false
conclusions about me。
Maybe you’ve noticed that my father adores me。 He had three sons before
me； but God took them one by one and left me； his daughter。 My father dotes
on me； though I married a man not of his choosing。 I went to a spahi cavalry
soldier whom I’d noticed and fancied。 If it were left to my father； my husband
would not only be the greatest of scholars； he’d also have an appreciation for
painting and art； be possessed of power and authority； and be as rich as Karun；
the wealthiest of men in the Koran。 The inkling of such a man couldn’t even be
found in the pages of my father’s books； and so I would’ve been forced to pine
away at home forever。
My husband’s handsomeness was legendary； and I gave him the nod
through intermediates。 He found the opportunity to appear before me as I was
returning from the public baths。 His eyes were as brilliant as fire； and I
immediately fell in love。 He was a dark…haired； fair…skinned； green…eyed man
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with strong arms； but at heart； he was innocent and quiet like a sleepy child。
Nevertheless； it seemed； to me at least； that he also had the tang of blood
about him； perhaps because he expended all his strength slaying men in battle
and amassing booty； even though at home he was as gentle and quiet as a lady。
This man—whom my father looked upon as a penniless soldier； and hence；
disapproved of—was later allowed to marry me because I threatened to kill
myself otherwise。 And after they gave him a military fief worth ten thousand
silver coins； a reward for his heroism in battle after battle wherein he
performed the greatest acts of bravery； truly； everyone envied us。
Four years ago when he failed to return with the rest of the army from
warring against the Safavids I wasn’t worried at first。 For the more experience
he had on the battlefield； the more adept and clever he became in creating
opportunities for himself； in bringing home greater spoils； in winning larger
fiefs； and in enlisting more soldiers of his own。 There were witnesses who said
he fled to the mountains with his own men after he became separated from a
division of the army。 In the beginning； I suspected a scheme and hoped he’d
return； but after two years； I slowly grew accustomed to his absence； and when
I realized how many lonely women like me with missing soldier…husbands
there were in Istanbul； I resigned myself to my fate。
At night； in our beds； we’d hug our children and mope and cry。 To quiet
their tears； I’d tell them hopeful lies； for example； that so…and…so had proof
their father would return before spring。 Afterward； when my lie would
circulate； changing and spreading until it found its way back to me； I’d be the
first to