All of you, I know, are wondering what Shekure penned in that letter I presented to Black. As this was also a curiosity of mine, I learned everything there was to know. If you would, then, pretend you're flipping back through the pages of the story and let me tell you what occurred before I delivered that letter.
Now, it's getting on toward evening, I've retired to our house in the quaint little Jewish quarter at the mouth of the Golden Horn with my husband Nesim, two old people huffing and puffing, trying to keep warm by feeding logs into the stove. Pay no mind to my calling myself "old." When I load my wares—items cheap and precious alike, certain to lure the ladies, rings, earrings, necklaces and baubles—into the folds of silk handkerchiefs, gloves, sheets and the colorful shirt cloth sent over in Portuguese ships, when I shoulder that bundle, Esther's a ladle and Istanbul's a kettle, and there's nary a street I don't visit. There isn't a word of gossip or letter that I haven't carried from one door to the next, and I've played matchmaker to half the maidens of Istanbul, but I didn't begin this recital to brag. As I was saying, we were taking our ease in the evening, and "rap, rap" someone was at the door. I went and opened it to discover Hayriye, that idiot slave girl, standing before me. She held a letter in her hand. I couldn't tell whether it was from the cold or from excitement, but she was trembling as she explained Shekure's wishes.
At first, I assumed this letter was to be taken to Hasan, that's why I was so astonished. You know about pretty Shekure's husband, band, the one who never returned from the war—if you ask me, he's long since had his hide pierced. Well you see, that never-toreturn soldier-husband also has an eager, lovesick brother by the name of Hasan. So imagine my surprise when I saw that Shekure's letter wasn't meant for Hasan, but for someone else. What did the letter say? Esther was mad with curiosity, and in the end, I did succeed in reading it.
But alas, we don't know each other that well, do we? To be honest, I was overcome with embarrassment and worry. How I read the letter you'll never know. Maybe you'll shame and belittle me for my meddling—as if you yourselves aren't as nosy as barbers. I'll just relate to you what I learned from reading the letter. This is what sweet Shekure had written:
Black Effendi, you're a visitor to my house thanks to your close relations with my father. But don't expect a nod from me. Much has happened since you left. I was wed, and have two strong and spirited sons. One of them is Orhan, he's the one whom you saw just now come to the workshop. While I've been awaiting the return of my husband these four years, little else has entered my thoughts. I might feel lonely, hopeless and weak living with my two children and an elderly father. I miss the strength and protection of a man, but let no one assume he might take advantage of my situation. Therefore, it would please me if you ceased calling on us. You did embarrass me once before, and afterward, I had to endure much suffering to regain my honor in my father's eyes! Along with this letter, I'm also returning the picture you painted and sent to me when you were an impulsive youth with his wits not yet about him. I do this so you won't harbor any false hopes or misread any signs. It's a mistake to believe that one could fall in love gazing at a picture. It'd be best if you stopped coming to our house completely.
My poor Shekure, you're neither a nobleman nor a pasha with a fancy seal to stamp your letter! At the bottom of the page, she signed the first letter of her name, which looked like a small, frightened bird. Nothing more.
I said "seal." You're probably wondering how I open and close these wax-sealed letters. But in fact the letters aren't sealed at all. "That Esther is an illiterate Jew," my dear Shekure had assumed. "She'll never understand my writing." True, I can't read what's written, but I can always have someone else read it. And as for what's not written, I can quite readily "read" that myself. Confused, are you?
Let me put it this way, so even the most thick-headed of you will understand:
A letter doesn't communicate by words alone. A letter, just like a book, can be read by smelling it, touching it and fondling it. Thereby, intelligent folk will say, "Go on then, read what the letter tells you!" whereas the dull-witted will say, "Go on then, read what he's written!" Listen, now, to what else Shekure said:
Though I've sent this letter in secret, by relying on Esther, who's made letter-delivery a matter of commerce and custom, I'm signifying that I don't intend to conceal that much at all.
That I've folded it up like a French pastry implies secrecy and mystery, true. But the letter isn't sealed and there's a huge picture enclosed. The apparent implication is, "Pray, keep our secret at all costs," which more befits an invitation to love than a letter of rebuke.
Furthermore, the smell of the letter confirms this interpretation. The fragrance was faint enough to be ambiguous—did she intentionally perfume the letter?—yet alluring enough to fire readers' curiosity—is this the aroma of attar or the smell of her hand? And a fragrance, which was enough to enrapture the poor man who read the letter to me, will surely have the same effect on Black.
I am Esther, who knows neither how to read nor write, but this I do know: Although the flow of the script and the handwriting seems to say "Alas, I am rushed, I am writing carelessly and without paying serious attention," these letters that twitter elegantly as if caught in a gentle breeze convey the exact opposite message. Even her phrase "just now come" when referring to Orhan, implying that the letter was written at that very moment, betrays a ploy no less obvious than care taken in each line.
The picture sent along with the letter depicts pretty Shirin gazing at handsome Hüsrev's image and falling in love, as told in the story that even I, Esther the Jewess, know well. All the lovelorn ladies of Istanbul adore this story, but never have I known someone to send an illustration relating to it.
It happens all the time to you fortunate literate people: A maiden who can't read begs you to read a love letter she's received. The letter is so surprising, exciting and disturbing that its owner, though embarrassed at your becoming privy to her most intimate affairs, ashamed and distraught, asks you all the same to read it once more. You read it again. In the end, you've read the letter so many times that both of you have memorized it. Before long, she'll take the letter in her hands and ask, "Did he make that statement there?" and "Did he say that here?" As you point to the appropriate places, she'll pore over those passages, still unable to make sense of the words there. As she stares at the curvy letters of the words, sometimes I am so moved I forget that I myself can't read or write and feel the urge to embrace those illiterate maidens whose tears fall to the page.
Then there are those truly accursed letter-readers; pray, don't you turn out to be like one of them: When the maiden takes the letter in her own hands to touch it again, desiring to look at it without understanding which words were spoken where, these beasts will say to her, "What are you trying to do? You can't read, what more do you want to look at?" Some of them won't even return the letter, treating it henceforth as if it belonged to them. At times, the task of accosting them and retrieving the letter falls to me, Esther. That's the kind of good woman I am. If Esther likes you, she'll come to your aid as well.
