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40
I AM ESTHER
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 Jeouth 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; 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…to…return 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
overe 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:
41
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
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