Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

As we entered the street, which ran behind Charshıkapı, my heart quickened with fear. The bare, wet branches of the chestnut and mulberry trees glimmered in the pale light of the half-moon. A breeze kicked up by jinns and the living dead rippled the laced edging of my satchel, whistled through the trees and carried the scent of our group to neighborhood dogs lying in wait. As they began to bark one by one, I pointed out the house to Black. We stared quietly at its dark roof and shutters. Black had the men take positions around the house: in the empty garden, on either side of the courtyard gate and behind the fig trees in back.

“In that entryway over there is a vile Tatar beggar,” I said. “He’s blind, but he’ll know who’s come and gone along this street better than the neighborhood headman does. He continually plays with himself as if he were one of the Sultan’s vulgar monkeys. Without letting your hand touch his, give him eight or ten silver pieces and he’ll tell you everything he knows.”

From a distance, I watched Black hand over the coins, then lay his sword against the throat of the beggar and begin to pressure him with questions. Next, I’m not sure how it happened, the barber’s apprentice, who I thought was simply watching the house, began to beat the Tatar with the butt of his axe. I watched for a while, thinking it wouldn’t last, but the Tatar was wailing. I ran over and pulled the beggar away before they killed him.

“He cursed my mother,” said the apprentice.

“He says that Hasan isn’t home,” Black said. “Can we trust what this blind man says?” He handed me a note that he’d quickly written. “Take this, bring it to the house, give it to Hasan, and if he’s not there, give it to his father,” he said.

“Haven’t you written anything for Shekure?” I asked as I took the note.

“If I send her a separate note, it’ll incite the men of the house even more,” Black said. “Tell her I’ve found her father’s vile murderer.”

“Is this true?”

“Just tell her.”

Chastising the Tatar, who was still crying and complaining, I quieted him down. “Don’t forget what I’ve done for you,” I said, coming to the realization that I’d drawn out the incident so I wouldn’t have to leave.

Why had I stuck my nose into this affair? Two years ago in the Edirne Gate neighborhood they’d killed a clothes peddlar-after cutting off her ears-because the maiden she’d promised to one man married another. My grandmother used to tell me that Turks would often kill a man for no reason. I longed to be with my dearest Nesim, at home having lentil soup. Even though my feet resisted, I thought about how Shekure would be there, and walked to the house. Curiosity was eating at me.

“Clothierrr! I have new Chinese silks for holiday outfits.”

I sensed the orangish light filtering out between the shutters move. The door opened. Hasan’s polite father invited me inside. The house was warm, like the houses of the rich. When Shekure, who was seated at a low dining table with her boys saw me, she rose to her feet.

“Shekure,” I said, “your husband’s here.”

“Which one?”

“The newer,” I said. “He’s surrounded the house with his band of armed men. They’re prepared to fight Hasan.”

“Hasan isn’t here,” said the polite father-in-law.

“How fortunate. Take a look at this,” I said, giving him Black’s note like a proud ambassador of the Sultan executing His merciless will.

As the gentlemanly father-in-law read the note, Shekure said, “Esther, come and let me pour you a bowl of lentil soup to warm you up.”

“I don’t like lentil soup,” I said at first. I didn’t like the way she spoke as if she were mistress of the house. But when I understood that she wanted to be alone with me, I grabbed the spoon and rushed after her.

“Tell Black that it’s all because of Shevket,” she whispered. “Last night I waited all night alone with Orhan deathly afraid of the murderer. Orhan trembled with fright until morning. My children had been separated! What kind of mother could remain apart from her child? When Black failed to come back, they told me that Our Sultan’s torturers had made him talk and that he’d a hand in my father’s death.”

“Wasn’t Black with you when your father was being killed?”

“Esther,” she said, opening her beautiful black eyes wide, “I beg of you, help me.”

“Then tell me why you’ve come back here so I might understand and help.”

“Do you think I know why I’ve returned?” she said. She seemed on the verge of tears. “Black was rough with my poor Shevket,” she said. “And when Hasan said that the children’s real father had returned, I believed him.”

But I could tell from her eyes that she was lying, and she knew I could tell. “I was duped by Hasan!” she whispered, and I sensed that she wanted me to infer from this that she loved Hasan. But did Shekure realize that she was thinking more and more about Hasan because she had married Black?

The door opened and Hayriye entered carrying freshly baked bread whose aroma was irresistible. When she caught sight of me, I could tell from her expression of displeasure that after the death of Enishte Effendi, the poor thing-she couldn’t be sold, couldn’t be dismissed-had become a legacy of misery for Shekure. The scent of fresh bread filled the room, and I understood the truth of the matter as Shekure faced the children: Whether it be their real father, Hasan or Black, her problem wasn’t finding a husband she could love, her challenge was to find a father who would love these boys, both of whom were wide-eyed with fear. Shekure was ready, with the best of intentions, to love any good husband.

“You’re seeking what you want with your heart,” I said unthinkingly, “whereas you need to be making decisions with your mind.”

“I’m prepared to go back to Black immediately with the children,” she said, “but I have certain conditions!” She fell quiet. “He must treat Shevket and Orhan well. He shan’t inquire about my reasons for coming here. Above all, he must abide by our original conditions of marriage-he’ll know what I’m talking about. He left me all alone to fend for myself last night against murderers, thieves and Hasan.”

“He hasn’t yet found your father’s murderer, but he told me to tell you he has.”

“Should I go to him?”

Before I could answer, the former father-in-law, who’d long since finished reading the note, said, “Tell Black Effendi I can’t take the responsibility of handing over my daughter-in-law without my son being present.”

“Which son?” I said for the sake of being shrewish, but softly.

“Hasan,” he said. Since he was a man of etiquette, he blushed. “My oldest son is on his way back from Persia; there are witnesses.”

“Where’s Hasan?” I asked. I ate two spoonfuls of the soup Shekure had offered me.

“He went to gather the clerks, porters and other men of the Customs Office,” he said in the childish manner of decent yet dull men who cannot lie. “After what the Erzurumis did yesterday, the Janissaries are certain to be on the streets tonight.”

“We didn’t see anything of the sort,” I said as I walked toward the door. “Is this all you have to say?”

I asked this question of the father-in-law to intimidate him, but Shekure knew full well that I was really addressing her. Was her head truly this befuddled or was she hiding something; for example, was she awaiting the return of Hasan and his men? Oddly, I sensed that I liked her indecisiveness.

“We don’t want Black,” Shevket said confidently. “And make this your last visit, fat lady.”

“But then who’ll bring around the lace tablecloths, the handkerchiefs embroidered with flowers and birds that your pretty mother likes, and your favorite red shirt cloth?” I said, leaving my bundle in the middle of the room. “Until I return, you can open it up and take a look, try on, alter and sew whatever you like.”