Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

“Don’t you fret in the slightest, my dearest Shekure,” I said as emotion welled up within me. “You’re truly intelligent, you’re very beautiful. One day you’ll sleep in the same bed with your handsome husband, you’ll cuddle with him, and having forgotten all your worries, you’ll be happy. I can read this in your eyes.”

Such affection rose within me that my eyes filled with tears.

“Fine, but which one will become my husband?”

“Isn’t that wise heart of yours giving you an answer?”

“It’s because I don’t understand what my heart is saying that I’m dispirited.”

For a moment it occurred to me that Shekure didn’t trust me at all, that she was masterfully concealing her distrust in order to learn what I knew, that she was trying to arouse my pity. When I saw she wouldn’t be writing a response to the letters at present, I grabbed my sack, entered the courtyard and slipped away-but not before saying something I told all my maids, even those who were cross-eyed:

“Fear not, my dear, if you keep those beautiful eyes of yours peeled, no misfortune, no misfortune at all will befall you.”

If truth be told, it used to be that each time Esther the clothier paid a visit, I’d fantasize that a man stricken with love would finally be roused to write a letter that could stir the heart of an intelligent woman like myself-beautiful, well-bred and widowed, yet with her honor still intact-and set it pounding. And to discover that the letter was from one of the usual suitors, would, at the very least, fortify my resolve and forbearance to await my husband’s return. But these days, every time Esther leaves, I become confused and feel all the more wretched.

I listened to the sounds of my world. From the kitchen came the bubbling sound of boiling water and the smell of lemons and onions. Hayriye was boiling zucchini. Shevket and Orhan were frolicking and playing “swordsman” in the courtyard beneath the pomegranate tree, I heard their shouts. My father was sitting silently in the next room. I opened and read Hasan’s letter and was reassured that there was no cause for alarm. Still, I grew a little more frightened of him, and congratulated myself for withstanding his efforts to make love to me when we shared the same house. Next, I read Black’s letter, holding it gently as if it were some delicate and sensitive bird, and my thoughts became muddled. I didn’t read the letters again. The sun broke through the clouds and it occurred to me that if I’d entered Hasan’s bedchamber one night and made love with him, no one, except Allah, would’ve been the wiser. He did resemble my missing husband; it’d be the same thing. Sometimes a strange thought like this entered my head. As the sun quickly warmed me, I could feel my body: my skin, my neck, even my nipples. Orhan slipped inside as the sunlight struck me through the open door.

“Mama, what are you reading?” he said.

All right then, remember how I said that I didn’t reread the letters Esther had just delivered? I lied. I was in the midst of reading them again. This time, I truly did fold them up and tuck them away in my blouse.

“Come here, you, onto my lap,” I said to Orhan. He did so. “Oh my, you’re so heavy. May God protect you, you’ve gotten quite big,” I said and kissed him. “You’re as cold as ice…”

“You’re so warm, Mama,” he interrupted, leaning back onto my bosom.

We were leaning tight against each other, enjoying sitting that way in silence. I smelled the nape of his neck and kissed him. I hugged him even more tightly. We were still.

“I’m feeling ticklish,” he said later.

“Tell me then,” I said in my serious voice. “If the Sultan of the Jinns came and said he’d grant you a wish, what would you want most of all?”

“I’d want Shevket to go away.”

“What besides? Would you want to have a father?”

“No, when I grow up I’m going to marry you myself.”

It wasn’t aging, losing one’s beauty or even being bereft of husband and money that was the worst of all calamities, what was truly horrible was not having anyone to be jealous of you. I lowered Orhan’s warming body from my lap. Thinking that a wicked woman like myself ought to wed someone with a good soul, I went up to see my father.

“His Excellency Our Sultan will reward you after seeing for Himself that His book has been completed,” I said. “You’ll go to Venice again.”

“I cannot be certain,” said my father. “This murder has distressed me. Our enemies are apparently quite powerful.”

“I know, as well, that my own situation has emboldened them, giving rise to misunderstandings and unfounded hopes.”

“How do you mean?”

“I ought to be wed as soon as possible.”

“What?” said my father. “To whom? But you are married. Where did this notion come from?” he asked. “Who’s asked for your hand? Even if we were to find a reasonable and appealing prospect,” said my reasonable father, “I doubt we’d be able to take him, not like that, you understand.” He summed up my unfortunate situation as follows: “You’re aware that there are weighty and complicated matters we must settle before you can marry again.” After a protracted silence, he added, “Is it that you want to leave me, my dear daughter?”

“Last night I dreamed that my husband had died,” I said. I didn’t cry the way a woman who’d actually seen such a dream would have.

“Like those who know how to read a picture, one should know how to read a dream.”

“Would you consider it appropriate for me to describe my dream?”

There was a pause: We smiled at each other, quickly inferring-as intelligent people do-all possible conclusions from the matter at hand.

“By interpreting your dream, I might be convinced of his death, yet your father-in-law, your brother-in-law and the judge, who is obligated to listen to them, will demand more proof.”

“Two years have passed since I returned here with the children and my in-laws haven’t been able to force me back…”

“Because they very well realize that they have their own misdeeds to answer for,” said my father. “This doesn’t mean that they’ll be willing to let you petition for a divorce.”

“If we were followers of the Maliki or the Hanbeli sects,” I said, “the judge, acknowledging that four years have passed, would grant me a divorce in addition to securing a support allowance for me. But since we are, many thanks to Allah, Hanefis, this option is not open to us.”

“Don’t mention the Üsküdar judge’s Shafüte stand-in to me. That’s not a sound venture.”

“All the women of Istanbul whose husbands are missing at the front go to him with their witnesses to get divorced. Since he’s a Shafüte, he simply asks, ”Is your husband missing?“ ”How long has he been missing?“ ”Are you having trouble making ends meet?“ ”Are these your witnesses?“ and immediately grants the divorce.”

“My dear Shekure, who’s planted such schemes in your head?” he said. “Who’s stripped you of your reason?”

“After I’m divorced once and for all, if there is a man who can truly strip me of my reason, you will, of course, tell me who that might be and I shall never question your decision about my husband.”

My shrewd father, realizing that his daughter was as shrewd as he, began to blink. My father would blink rapidly like this for three reasons: 1. because he was in a tight spot and his mind was racing to find a clever way out; 2. because he was on the verge of tears of hopelessness and sorrow; 3. because he was in a tight spot, cunningly combining reasons 1 and 2 to give the impression that he might soon cry out of sorrow.