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第39章

my name is red-我的名字叫红-第39章

小说: my name is red-我的名字叫红 字数: 每页4000字

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packed some lightweight; but expensive; silk handkerchiefs; money purses and 
embroidered  washcloths  especially  for  those  ladies  who  called  for  me  not  to 
make a purchase but to gossip。 I lifted the tote。 My goodness; this is much too 
heavy; it’ll break my back。 I put it down and opened it。 As I stared at it; trying 
to determine what to leave out; I heard knocking at the door。 Nesim opened it 
and called to me。 
It was that concubine Hayriye; all flushed and blushing。 She held a letter in 
her hand。 
“Shekure  sent  it;”  she  hissed。  This  slave  was  so  flustered  that  you’d  think 
she was the one who’d fallen in love and wanted to get married。 
With  dead  seriousness;  I  grabbed  the  letter。  I  warned  the  idiot  to  return 
home without being seen by anyone and she left。 Nesim cast a questioning eye 
at me。 I took up the larger; yet lighter decoy satchel I carried whenever I was 
out delivering my letters。 
“Shekure;  the  daughter  of  Master  Enishte;  is  burning  with  love;”  I  said。 
“She’s gone clear out of her mind; the poor girl。” 
I  cackled  and  stepped  outside;  but  then  was  gripped  by  pangs  of 
embarrassment。 If truth be told; I longed to shed a tear for Shekure’s sorrows 
instead of making light of her dalliances。 How beautiful she is; that dark…eyed 
melancholy girl of mine! 
I   ever   so   quickly   strode   past   the   run…down   homes   of   our   Jewish 
neighborhood;  which  looked  even  more  deserted  and  pitiful  in  the  morning 
cold。 Much later; when I caught sight of that blind beggar who always took up 
his  spot  on  the  corner  of  Hasan’s  street;  I  shouted  as  loud  as  I  could; 
“Clothierrr!” 
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“Fat witch;” he said。 “Even if you hadn’t shouted I would’ve recognized you 
by your footsteps。” 
“You  good…for…nothing  blind  man;”  I  said。  “You  ill…fated  Tatar!  Blind  men 
like you are scourges forsaken by Allah。 May He give you the punishment you 
deserve。” 
In  the  past;  such  exchanges  wouldn’t  have  angered  me。  I  wouldn’t  have 
taken them seriously。 Hasan’s father opened the door。 He was an Abkhazian; a 
noble gentleman and polite。 
“Let’s  have  a  look;  then;  what  have  you  brought  with  you  this  time?”  he 
said。 
“Is that slothful son of yours still asleep?” 
“How could he be sleeping? He’s waiting; expecting news from you。” 
This house is so dark that each time I visit; I feel as if I’ve entered a tomb。 
Shekure never asks what they’re up to; but I always make a point of carping 
about the place so she won’t even consider returning to this crypt。 It’s hard to 
imagine that lovely Shekure was once mistress of this house and that she lived 
here with her rascally boys。 Within; it smelled of sleep and death。 I entered the 
next room; moving farther into the blackness。 
You couldn’t see your hand before your face。 I didn’t even have the chance 
to present the letter to Hasan。 He appeared out of the darkness and snatched it 
from my hand。 As I always did; I left him alone to read the letter and satisfy his 
curiosity。 He soon raised his head from the page。 
“Isn’t there anything else?” he said。 He knew there was nothing else。 “This 
is a brief note;” he said and read 
 
Black  Effendi;  you  pay  visits  to  our  home;  and  spend  your  days  here。  Yet  I’ve 
heard that you haven’t written even a single line of my father’s book。 Don’t get 
your hopes up without first pleting that manuscript。 
 
Letter in hand; he glared accusingly into my eyes; as if all this was my fault。 
I’m not fond of these silences in this house。 
“There’s  no  longer  any  word  of  her  being  married;  of  her  husband 
returning from the front;” he said。 “Why?” 
“How should I know why?” I said。 “I’m not the one who writes the letters。” 
144 
 
“Sometimes  I  wonder  even  about  that;”  he  said;  handing  back  the  letter 
along with fifteen silver。 
“Some men grow stingier the more they earn。 You’re not that way;” I said。 
There was such an enchanting; intelligent side to this man that despite all 
his dark and evil traits; one could see why Shekure would still accept his letters。 
“What is this book of Shekure’s father?” 
“You know! Our Sultan is funding the whole project they say。” 
“Miniaturists are murdering each other over the pictures in that book;” he 
said。  “Is  it  for  the  money  or—God  forbid—because  the  book  desecrates  our 
religion? They say one glance at its pages is enough to bring on blindness。” 
He said all this; smiling in such a way that I knew I shouldn’t take any of it 
seriously。 Even if it were a matter to take to heart; at the very least; there was 
nothing for him to take seriously about me taking the matter seriously。 Like 
many  of  the  men  who  depended  on  my  services  as  a  letter  courier  and 
mediator; Hasan lashed out at me when his pride was hurt。 I; as part of my 
job; pretended to be upset to hearten him。 Maidens; on the contrary; hugged 
me and cried when their feelings were hurt。 
“You’re  an  intelligent  woman;”  said  Hasan  in  order  to  soothe  my  pride; 
which he believed he’d injured。 “Deliver this posthaste。 I’m curious about that 
fool’s response。” 
For a moment; I felt like saying; “Black is not so foolish。” In such situations; 
making  rival  suitors  jealous  of  each  other  will  earn  Esther  the  matchmaker 
more money。 But I was afraid he’d have a sudden tantrum。 
“You  know  the  Tatar  beggar  at  the  end  of  the  street?”  I  said。  “He’s  very 
vulgar; that one。” 
To avoid getting into it with the blind man; I walked down the other end of 
the street and thus happened to pass through the Chicken Market early in the 
morning。  Why  don’t  Muslims  eat  the  heads  and  feet  of  chickens?  Because 
they’re so strange! My grandmother; may she rest in peace; would tell me how 
chicken  feet  were  so  inexpensive  when  her  family  arrived  here  from  Portugal 
that she’d boil them for food。 
At  Kemeraral?k;  I  saw  a  woman  on  horseback  with  her  slaves;  sitting  bolt 
upright  like  a  man。  She  was  proud  as  proud  could  be;  maybe  the  wife  of  a 
pasha  or  his  rich  daughter。  I  sighed。  If  Shekure’s  father  hadn’t  been  so 
absentmindedly  devoted  to  books;  if  her  husband  had  returned  from  the 
145 
 
Safavid war with his plunder; Shekure might’ve lived like this haughty woman。 
More than anyone; she deserved it。 
When I turned onto Black’s street; my heart quickened。 Did I want Shekure 
to  marry  this  man?  I’ve  succeeded  both  in  keeping  Shekure  involved  with 
Hasan  and;  at  the  same  time;  in  keeping  them  apart。  But  what  about  this 
Black?  He  seems  to  have  both  feet  on  the  ground  in  all  respects  except  with 
regard to his love for Shekure。 
“Clothierrrrr!” 
There’s  nothing  I’d  trade  for  the  pleasure  of  delivering  letters  to  lovers 
addled by loneliness or the lack of wife or husband。 Even if they’re certain of 
receiving the worst news; when they’re about to read the letter; a shudder of 
hope overes them。 
By  not  mentioning  anything  about  her  husband’s  return;  by  tying  her 
warning “Don’t get your hopes up” to one condition alone; Shekure had; of 
course; given Black more than just cause to be hopeful。 With great pleasure; I 
watched him read the letter。 He was so happy he was distraught; afraid even。 
When he withdrew to write his response; I; being a sensible clothes peddler; 
spread open my decoy “delivery” satchel and withdrew from it a dark money 
purse; which I attempted to sell to Black’s nosy landlady。 
“This is made of the best Persian velvet;” I said。 
“My son died at war in Persia;” she said。 “Whose letters do you deliver to 
Black?” 
I  could  read  from  her  face  that  she  was  making  plans  to  set  up  her  own 
wiry  daughter;  or  who  knows  whose  daughter;  with  lionhearted  Black。  “No 
one’s;”  I  said。  “A  poor  relative  of  his  who’s  on  his  deathbed  in  the 
Bayrampasha sickhouse and needs money。” 
“Oh my;” she said; unconvinced; “who is the unfortunate man?” 
“How did your son die in the war?” I asked stubbornly。 
We  began  to  glare  at  each  other  with  hostility。  She  was  a  widow  and  all 
alone。  Her  life  must’ve  been  quite  difficult。  If  you  ever  happen  to  bee  a 
clothier…cum…messenger like Esther; you’ll soon learn that only wealth; might 
and  legendary  romances  stir  people’s  curiosity。  Everything  else  is  but  worry; 
separation; jealousy; loneliness; enmity; tears; gossip and never…ending poverty。 
Such things never change; just like the objects that furnish a home: a faded old 
kilim;  a  ladle  and  small  copper  pan  resting  on  an  empty  baking  sheet;  tongs 
and  an  ash  box  resting  beside  the  stove;  two  worn  chests—one  small;  one 
146 
 
large—a turban stand maintained to conceal the widow’s solitary life and an 
old sword to scare thieves off。 
Black  hastily  returned  with  his  money  purse。  “Clothier  woman;”  he  said; 

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