My Name is Red (18 page)

My poor little fatherless boy was still crying, and all at once, this upset me greatly. I, too, was on the verge of tears. We hugged each other. He hiccuped occasionally. Did this slap merit so much crying? I stroked his hair.

This is how it all began: The previous day, as you know, I’d told my father in passing that I’d dreamed my husband had died. Actually, as happened quite frequently over these four years during which my husband never returned from battling the Persians, I dreamed of him fleetingly, and there was also a corpse, but was he the corpse? This was a mystery to me.

Dreams are always used as a means to other ends. In Portugal, from where Esther’s grandmother had emigrated, it seems dreams were used as an excuse to prove heretics met with the Devil and made love. For example, even if Esther’s forebears denied their Jewishness by declaring, “We’ve become Catholics like you,” the Jesuit torturers of the Portuguese Church, unconvinced, would torture them, forcing them to describe the jinns and demons of their dreams, as well as burdening them with dreams they never had. Then they’d force the Jews to confess these dreams so in the end they could burn them at the stake. In this way, dreams could be manipulated over there, to show that people were having sex with the Devil and to accuse and condemn Jews.

Dreams are good for three things:

ALIF: You want something but you just can’t ask for it. So you’ll say that you’ve dreamed about it. In this manner, you can ask for what you want without actually asking for it.

BA: You want to harm someone. For example, you want to slander a woman. So, you’ll say that such-and-such woman is committing adultery or that such-and-such pasha is pilfering wine by the jug. I dreamed it, you’ll say. In this fashion, even if they don’t believe you, the mere mention of the sinful deed is almost never forgotten.

DJIM: You want something, but you don’t even know what it is. So, you’ll describe a confusing dream. Your friends or family will immediately interpret the dream and tell you what you need or what they can do for you. For example, they’ll say: You need a husband, a child, a house…

The dreams we recount are never the ones we actually see in our sleep. When people say they’ve “seen it,” they simply describe the dream that is “dreamed” during the day, and there’s always an underlying purpose. Only an idiot would describe his actual nighttime dreams exactly as he’s had them. If you do, everyone will make fun of you or, as always, interpret the dream as a bad omen. No one takes real dreams seriously, including those who dream them. Or, pray tell, do you?

Through a dream that I half-heartedly recounted, I hinted that my husband might truly be dead. Though my father at first wouldn’t accept this as an indication of the truth, after returning from the funeral, he was suddenly persuaded by the evidence of the dream, and concluded that my husband was indeed dead. Thus, everyone not only believed that my husband, who was virtually immortal these past four years, had died in a dream, they couldn’t have been more certain of his death had it been officially announced. It was only then that the boys truly realized that they’d been left fatherless. It was then that they truly began to grieve.

“Do you ever have dreams?” I asked Shevket.

“Yes,” he said smiling. “My father doesn’t return home, and I end up marrying you.”

His narrow nose, dark eyes and broad shoulders resemble me more than his father. Occasionally, I feel guilty that I wasn’t able to pass on to my children their father’s high, broad forehead.

“Go on then, play ”swordsman“ with your brother.”

“Can we use father’s old sword?”

“Yes.”

For some time, I gazed at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the boys’ swords striking each other, as I struggled to quell the fear and anxiety that was brewing within me. I went down to the kitchen and said to Hayriye: “My father’s been asking for fish soup for quite some time now. Maybe I ought to send you to Galleon Harbor. Why don’t you take a few strips of that dried fruit pulp that Shevket likes out of its hiding place and let the kids have some.”

While Shevket was eating in the kitchen, Orhan and I went upstairs. I lifted him onto my lap and kissed his neck.

“You’re covered in sweat,” I said. “What happened here?”

“Shevket hit me with our uncle’s red sword.”

“It’s bruised,” I said and touched the spot. “Does it hurt? How thoughtless our Shevket is. Listen to what I have to say. You’re very smart and sensitive. I have a request to make of you. If you do what I say, I’ll tell you a secret that I won’t tell Shevket or anyone else.”

“What is it?”

“Do you see this piece of paper? You’re to go to your grandfather, and without letting him see, you’re to place this in Black Effendi’s hand. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Will you do it?”

“What’s the secret?”

“Just take him the paper,” I said. I once again kissed his neck, which smelled fragrantly. And while we’re on the subject of fragrance, it’s been so very long since Hayriye has taken these boys to the public bath. They haven’t gone since Shevket’s thing began to rise in front of the women there. “I’ll tell you the secret later.” I kissed him. “You’re very bright and very pretty. Shevket’s a nuisance. He’d even have the audacity to lift a hand against his mother.”

“I’m not going to deliver this,” he said. “I’m afraid of Black Effendi. He’s the one who killed my father.”

“Shevket told you this, didn’t he?” I said. “Quick, go downstairs and tell him to come here.”

Orhan could see the rage in my face. Terrified, he slid off my lap and ran out of the room. Maybe he was even slightly pleased that Shevket was in trouble. A while later, both of them returned flushed and blushing. Shevket was holding a strip of dried fruit in one hand and a sword in the other.

“You’ve told your brother that Black was the one who killed your father,” I said. “I don’t ever want you to say such a thing in this house again. You should both show respect and affection to Black. Do we understand each other? I won’t allow you to live your entire lives without a father.”

“I don’t want him. I’d rather return to our house, where Uncle Hasan lives, and wait for my father,” Shevket said brazenly.

This made me so irate that I slapped him. He hadn’t put the sword down; it fell from his hand.

“I want my father,” he said through his tears.

But I was crying more than he was.

“You have no father anymore, he won’t be coming back,” I said tearfully. “You’re fatherless, don’t you understand, you bastards.” I was crying so much that I was afraid they’d heard me from within.

“We aren’t bastards,” said Shevket, crying.

We all cried long and hard. Weeping softened my heart and I sensed that I was crying because it made me a better person. In our communal fit of tears, we embraced each other and lay upon the roll-up mattress. Shevket had snuggled his head down between my breasts as if to nap. Sometimes, he’d cuddle up with me like this, as if we were stuck together, but I could sense that he wasn’t sleeping. I might’ve dozed off with them, except that my mind was preoccupied with what was going on downstairs. I could smell the sweet aroma of boiling oranges. I abruptly sat up in bed and made such a sound that the boys awoke.

“Go downstairs, have Hayriye fill your stomachs.”

I was alone in the room. Snow had begun to fall outside. I begged for Allah’s help. Then I opened the Koran, and after once again reading the section in the “Family of Imran” chapter which stated that those who were killed in battle, who were killed on the path of Allah, would join Him, I put myself at ease with regard to my deceased husband. Had my father shown Black Our Sultan’s as yet unfinished portrait? My father claimed that this portrait would be so lifelike that whoever beheld it would avert his eyes out of fear, as happened to those who tried to look directly into Our Glorious Sultan’s eyes.

I called for Orhan, and without lifting him onto my lap, kissed him at length on the forehead, crown and cheeks. “Now then, without being scared, and without letting your grandfather see, you’re to give this paper to Black. Do you understand?”

“My tooth is loose.”

“When you get back, if you want, I’ll pull it out,” I said. “You’re to sidle up to him. He’ll be at a loss for what to do and he’ll hug you. Then you’ll secretly place the paper into his hand. Am I understood?”

“I’m afraid.”

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. If it weren’t for Black, do you know who wants to become your father in his stead? Uncle Hasan! Do you want Uncle Hasan to become your father?”

“No.”

“All right then, let’s see you go, my pretty and smart Orhan,” I said. “If not, watch out, I’ll be really angry…And if you cry, I’ll get even angrier.”

I folded my letter several times, then stuck it into his small hand now stretched out in hopelessness and resignation. Allah, come to my aid so that these fatherless children aren’t left to fend for themselves. I escorted him to the door, holding his hand. At the threshold he looked at me fearfully one last time.

I watched him through the peephole as he took his uncertain steps toward the sofa, approached my father and Black, stopped, and momentarily hesitated-unsure what to do. He glanced back at the peephole looking for me. He began to cry. But with one final effort he succeeded in surrendering himself to Black’s lap. Black, clever enough to have earned the right to be father to my children, didn’t panic to find Orhan crying unaccountably on his lap and he checked to see if there was anything in the boy’s hands.

Orhan returned beneath the startled gaze of my father, and I ran to meet him and took him onto my lap, kissing him at length. I brought him downstairs to the kitchen, and filled his mouth with the raisins he liked so much.

“Hayriye, take the boys to Galleon Harbor and buy some gray mullet suitable for soup from Kosta’s place. Take these silver coins and with the change from the fish, buy Orhan some dried yellow figs and cherries on the way back. Buy Shevket roasted chickpeas and sweetmeat sausage with walnuts. Walk them around to wherever they want to go until the evening prayers are called, but be careful they don’t catch cold.”

After they’d bundled up and left, the quiet in the house pleased me. I went upstairs and took out the little mirror that my father-in-law had made and my husband had given me as a gift. I kept it hidden away between pillowcases that smelled of lavender. I hung it up. If I looked at myself in the mirror from a distance, and moved oh so delicately, I could see my whole body. My vest of red broadcloth suited me, but I also wanted to don my mother’s purple blouse which had been part of her trousseau. I took out the long pistachio-colored robe my grandmother had embroidered with flowers, and tried it on, but it didn’t please me. As I was trying it on under the purple blouse, I felt a chill; I shuddered, and the candle flame trembled with me. Over it all, of course, I was going to wear my fox fur-lined street robe, but at the last minute I changed my mind, and silently crossing the hall, I removed the very long and loose azure-colored woolen robe that my mother had given me and put it on. Just then I heard a noise at the door and fell into a panic: Black was leaving! I quickly removed my mother’s old robe and put on the fur-lined red one: It was tight around the bustline, but I liked it. I then donned the softest and whitest veil, lowering it over my face.

Black Effendi hadn’t left yet, of course; I’d let my apprehension deceive me. If I go out now, I can tell my father that I went to buy fish with the children. I padded down the stairs like a cat.

I closed the door-click-like a ghost. I quietly passed through the courtyard and when I was out on the street, momentarily turned and looked back at the house. From behind my veil it seemed as if it wasn’t our house at all.

There was no one in the street, not even any cats. Flakes of snow danced in the air. With a shudder, I entered the abandoned garden where sunlight never fell. It smelled of rotten leaves, dampness and death; yet, when I entered the house of the Hanged Jew, I felt as though I were in my own home. They say that jinns meet here at night, light the stove and make merry. I was startled to hear my footsteps in the empty house. I waited, stock-still. I heard a sound in the garden, but then everything was overcome by silence. I heard a dog bark nearby. I recognize all the dogs in our neighborhood from their barks, but I couldn’t place this one.

During the next silence I sensed that there was somebody else in the house and I stood dead still so he wouldn’t hear my footsteps. Strangers talked as they passed on the street. I thought of Hayriye and the children. I hoped to God that they wouldn’t catch cold. In the silence that followed, I was gradually overcome by regret. Black wasn’t coming. I’d made a mistake, and I ought to return home before my pride was damaged even further. Terrified, I imagined that Hasan was watching me, and then I heard movement in the garden. The door opened.

I abruptly changed my position. I didn’t know why I did so, but when I stood to the left of the window through which a faint light from the garden was filtering, I realized that Black would be able to see me, to borrow a phrase from my father, “within the mysteries of shadow.” I covered my face with my veil and waited, listening to his footsteps.

Black passed through the doorway and saw me, then took a few more steps and stopped. We stood five paces apart and beheld each other. He looked healthier and stronger than he’d appeared through the peephole. There was a silence.

“Remove your veil,” he said in a whisper. “Please.”

“I’m married. I’m awaiting my husband’s return.”

“Remove your veil,” he said in the same tone. “Your husband won’t ever come back.”

“Have you arranged to meet me here to tell me this?”

“Nay, I’ve done so to be able to see you. I’ve been thinking of you for twelve years. Remove your veil, my darling, let me look at you just once.”

I removed it. I was pleased as he silently studied my face and stared at length into the depths of my eyes.

“Marriage and motherhood have made you even more beautiful. And your face has become entirely different than what I remembered.”