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through which you could see my grandfather’s workshop； and if its door were
open； the wide hallway and my grandfather’s bedroom across the hall by the
staircase—if； of course； his bedroom door were open。
“I was with grandfather；” I said。 “Mother； what are you doing in here？”
“Didn’t I tell you that your grandfather had a guest and that you weren’t to
bother them？” She scolded me； but not very loud； because she didn’t want the
guest to hear。 “What were they doing？” she asked afterward； in a sweet voice。
“They were seated。 Not with the paints though。 Grandfather spoke； the
other listened。”
“In what manner was he seated？”
I dropped to the floor and imitated the guest： “I’m a very serious man
now； Mother； look。 I’m listening to my grandfather with knit eyebrows； as if I
were listening to the birth epic being recited。 I’m nodding my head in time
now； very seriously like that guest。”
“Go downstairs；” my mother said； “call for Hayriye at once。”
32
She sat down and began writing on a small piece of paper on the writing
board she’d taken up。
“Mother； what are you writing？”
“Be quick； now。 Didn’t I tell you to go downstairs and call for Hayriye？”
I went down to the kitchen。 My brother； Shevket； was back。 Hayriye had put
before him a plate of the pilaf meant for the guest。
“Traitor；” my brother said。 “You just went off and left me with the Master。 I
did all the folding for the bindings myself。 My fingers are bruised purple。”
“Hayriye； my mother wants to see you。”
“When I’m done here； I’m going to give you such a beating；” my brother
said。 “You’ll pay for your laziness and treachery。”
When Hayriye left； my brother stood and came after me threateningly； even
before he’d finished his pilaf。 I couldn’t get away in time。 He grabbed my arm
at the wrist and began twisting it。
“Stop； Shevket； don’t； you’re hurting me。”
“Are you ever going to shirk your duties again and leave？”
“No； I won’t ever leave。”
“Swear to it。”
“I swear。”
“Swear on the Koran。”
“…on the Koran。”
He didn’t let go of my arm。 He dragged me to the large copper tray that we
used as a table for eating and forced me to my knees。 He was strong enough to
eat his pilaf as he continued to twist my arm。
“Quit torturing your brother； tyrant；” said Hayriye。 She covered herself and
was heading outside。 “Leave him be。”
“Mind your own affairs； slave girl；” my brother said。 He was still twisting
my arm。 “Where are you off to？”
“To buy lemons；” Hayriye said。
“You’re a liar；” my brother said。 “The cupboard is full of lemons。”
As he had eased up on my arm； I was suddenly able to free myself。 I kicked
him and grabbed a candleholder by its base； but he pounced on me；
33
smothering me。 He knocked the candleholder away； and the copper tray fell
over。
“You two scourges of God！” my mother said。 She kept her voice lowered so
the guest wouldn’t hear。 How had she passed before the open door of the
workshop； through the hallway； and e downstairs without being seen by
Black？
She separated us。 “You two just continue to disgrace me； don’t you？”
“Orhan lied to the master binder；” Shevket said。 “He left me there to do all
the work。”
“Hush！” my mother said； slapping him。
She’d hit him softly。 My brother didn’t cry。 “I want my father；” he said。
“When he returns he’s going to take up Uncle Hasan’s ruby…handled sword；
and we’re going to move back with Uncle Hasan。”
“Shut up！” said my mother。 She suddenly became so angry that she
grabbed Shevket by the arm and dragged him through the kitchen； passed the
stairs to the room that faced the far shady side of the courtyard。 I followed
them。 My mother opened the door。 When she saw me； she said； “Inside； the
both of you。”
“But I haven’t done anything；” I said。 I entered anyway。 Mother closed the
door behind us。 Though it wasn’t pitch…black inside—a faint light fell through
the space between the shutters facing the pomegranate tree in the courtyard—
I was scared。
“Open the door； Mother；” I said。 “I’m cold。”
“Quit whimpering； you coward；” Shevket said。 “She’ll open it soon
enough。”
Mother opened the door。 “Are you going to behave until the visitor leaves？”
she said。 “All right then； you’ll sit in the kitchen by the stove until Black takes
his leave； and you’re not to go upstairs； do you understand？”
“We’ll get bored in there；” Shevket said。 “Where has Hayriye gone？”
“Quit butting into everyone’s affairs；” my mother said。
We heard a soft whinnying from one of the horses in the stable。 The horse
whinnied again。 It wasn’t our grandfather’s horse； but Black’s。 We were
overe with mirth； as if it were a fair day。 Mother smiled； wanting us to
smile as well。 Taking two steps forward； she opened the stable door that faced
us off the stairwell outside the kitchen。
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“Drrsss；” she said into the stable。
She turned around and guided us into Hayriye’s greasy…smelling and mice…
ridden kitchen。 She forced us to sit down。 “Don’t even consider standing until
our guest leaves。 And don’t fight with each other or else people will think
you’re spoiled。”
“Mother；” I said to her before she closed the kitchen door。 “I want to say
something； Mother： They’ve done our grandfather’s gilder in。”
35
I AM CALLED BLACK
When I first laid eyes on her child； I knew at once what I’d long and
mistakenly recalled about Shekure’s face。 Like Orhan’s face； hers was thin；
though her chin was longer than what I remembered。 So； then the mouth of
my beloved was surely smaller and narrower than I imagined it to be。 For a
dozen years； as I ventured from city to city； I’d widened Shekure’s mouth out
of desire and had imagined her lips to be more pert； fleshy and irresistible； like
a large； shiny cherry。
Had I taken Shekure’s portrait with me； rendered in the style of the
Veian masters； I wouldn’t have felt such loss during my long travels when I
could scarcely remember my beloved； whose face I’d left somewhere behind
me。 For if a lover’s face survives emblazoned on your heart； the world is still
your home。
Meeting Shekure’s youngest son and speaking with him； seeing his face up
close and kissing him； aroused in me a restlessness peculiar to the luckless； to
murderers and to sinners。 An inner voice urged me on； “Be quick now； go and
see her。”
For a while； I considered silently quitting my Enishte’s presence and
opening each of the doors along the wide hallway—I’d counted them out of
the corner of my eye； five dark doors； one of which； naturally； opened onto the
staircase—until I found Shekure。 But； I’d been separated from my beloved for
twelve years because I recklessly revealed what lay in my heart。 I decided to
wait discreetly； listening to my Enishte while admiring the objects that
Shekure had touched and the large pillow upon which she’d reclined who
knows how many times。
He recounted to me that the Sultan wanted to have the book pleted in
time for the thousandth…year anniversary of the Hegira。 Our Sultan； Refuge of
the World； wanted to demonstrate that in the thousandth year of the Muslim
calendar He and His state could make use of the styles of the Franks as well as
the Franks themselves。 Because He was also having a Book of Festivities made；
the Sultan granted that the master miniaturists； whom He knew were quite
busy； be permitted to sequester themselves at home to work in peace instead
of among the crowds at the workshop。 He was； of course； also aware that they
all regularly paid clandestine visits to my Enishte。
36
“You shall visit Head Illuminator Master Osman；” said my Enishte。 “Some
say he’s gone blind； others that he’s lost his senses。 I think he’s blind and
senile both。”
Despite the fact that my Enishte didn’t have the standing of a master
illustrator and that this wasn’t his field of artistic expertise at all； he did have
control over an illustrated manuscript。 This； in fact； was with the permission
and encouragement of the Sultan； a situation that； of course； strained his
relationship with the elderly Master Osman。
Thinking of my childhood； I allowed my attention to be absorbed by the
furniture and objects within the house。 From twelve years ago； I still
remembered the blue kilim from Kula covering the floor； the copper ewer； the
coffee set and tray； the copper pail and the delicate coffee cups that had e
all the way from China by way of Portugal； as my late aunt had boasted
numerous times。 These effects； like the low X…shaped reading desk inlaid with
mother…of…pearl； the stand for a turban nailed to the wall； the red velvet pillow
whose smoothness I recalled as soon as I touched it； were from