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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
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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 e 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。
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I AM CALLED BLACK
Silent and unseen； under cover of early morning darkness； I left like a guilty
houseguest and walked tirelessly through the muddy backstreets。 At Bayazid； I
performed my ablution in the courtyard； entered the mosque and prayed。
Inside； there was no one but the Imam Effendi and an old man who could
sleep as he prayed—a talent only rarely achieved after a lifetime of practice。
You know how there are moments in our sleepy dreams and sad memories
when we feel Allah has taken notice of us and we pray with the hopeful
anticipation of one who’s managed to thrust a petition into the Sultan’s
hand： Thus did I beg Allah to grant me a cheerful home filled with loving
people。
When I’d reached Master Osman’s house； I knew that within a week’s time
he’d gradually usurped my late Enishte’s place in my thoughts。 He was more
contrary and more distant； but his belief in manuscript illumination was more
profound。 He resembled an introspective elderly dervish more than the great
master who’d kicked up tempests of fear； awe and love among the
miniaturists for so many years。
As we traveled from the master’s house to the palace—he mounted on a
horse and hunched slightly； I on foot and likewise hunched forward—we
must’ve recalled the elderly dervish and aspiring disciple in those cheap
illustrations that acpany old fables。
At the palace； we found the mander of the Imperial Guard and his men
even more eager and ready than we。 Our Sultan was certain that once we’d
looked at the three masters’ horse drawings this morning we could； in a trice；
determine who among them was the accursed murderer； and so； He’d ordered
that the criminal be quickly put to torture without even allowing him to
answer the accusation。 We were taken not to the executioners’ fountain where
everyone could see and take warning； but to that small slapdash house in the
sheltered seclusion of the Sultan’s Private Garden； which was preferred for
interrogation； torture and strangling。
A youth； who seemed too elegant and polite to be one of the mander’s
men； authoritatively placed three sheets of paper on a worktable。
Master Osman took out his magnifying lens and my heart began to pound。
Like an eagle gliding elegantly over a tract of land； his eye； which he
maintained at a constant distance from the lens； passed ever so slowly over the
three marvelous horse illustrations。 And like that eagle catching sight of the
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baby gazelle which would be its prey； he slowed over each of the horses’ noses
and focused on it intently and calmly。
“It’s not here；” he said coldly after a time。
“What isn’t here？” asked the mander。
I’d assumed the great master would work with deliberation； scrutinizing
every aspect of the horses from mane to hoof。
“The damned painter hasn’t left a single trace；” said Master Osman。 “We
won’t be able to determine who illustrated the chestnut horse from these
pictures。”
Taking up the magnifying lens he’d put aside； I looked at the horses’
nostrils： The master was correct； there was nothing in the three horses
resembling the peculiar nostrils of the chestnut horse drawn for my Enishte’s
manuscript。 Just then； my attention turned to the torturers waiting outside
with an implement whose purpose I couldn’t fathom。 As I was trying to
observe them through the half…opened door； I saw somebody scuttle quickly
backward as if possessed by a jinn； seeking shelter behind one of the mulberry
trees。
At that moment； like an ethereal light that illuminated the leaden morning；
His Excellency Our Sultan； the Foundation of the World； entered the room。
Master Osman confessed to Him that he hadn’t been able to determine
anything from the illustrations。 Nevertheless； he couldn’t refrain from drawi