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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：
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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 e to the workshop。 While I’ve been awating 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 ing to our house pletely。
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 municate 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：
1。 Though I’ve sent this letter in secret； by relying on Esther； who’s made
letter…delivery a matter of merce and custom； I’m signifying that I don’t
intend to conceal that much at all。
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2。 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。
3。 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。
4。 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 e” 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。
5。 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
being 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
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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 retri