proud procession set out on its way。
As our horses began to saunter； I understood that Shekure； with her usual
cunning； had arranged this spectacle for the sake of safeguarding the nuptials。
Our procession； having announced our wedding to the entire neighborhood；
even if only at the last moment； had essentially secured everyone’s approval；
thereby neutralizing any future objections to our marriage。 Nevertheless；
announcing that we were on the verge of marriage； and having a public
wedding—as if to challenge our enemies； Shekure’s former husband and his
family—further endangered the whole affair。 Had it been left to me； I’d have
held the ceremony in secret； without telling a soul； without a wedding
celebration； I’d have preferred being her husband first and defending the
marriage afterward。
I led the parade astride my fickle white fairy…tale horse； and as we moved
through the neighborhood； I nervously watched for Hasan and his men； whom
I expected to ambush us from an alleyway or a shadowy courtyard gate。 I
noticed how young men； the elders of the neighborhood and strangers
stopped and waved from door fronts； without pletely understanding all
that was transpiring。 In the small market area we’d unintentionally entered； I
figured out that Shekure had masterfully activated her grapevine； and that her
divorce and marriage to me was quickly winning acceptance in the
221
neighborhood。 This was evident from the excitement of the fruit…and…vegetable
seller； who without leaving his colorful quinces； carrots and apples for too
long； joined us for a few strides shouting “Praise be to God； may He protect
you both；” and from the smile of the woeful shopkeeper and from the
approving glances of the baker； who was having his apprentice scrape away the
burnt residue in his pans。 Still； I was anxious； maintaining my vigil against a
sudden raid； or even a word of vulgar heckling。 For this reason； I wasn’t at all
disturbed by the motion of the crowd of money…seeking children that had
formed behind us as we left the bazaar。 I understood from the smiles of
women I glimpsed behind windows； bars and shutters that the enthusiasm of
this noisy throng of children protected and supported us。
As I gazed at the road along which we’d advanced and were now； thank
God； finally winding our way back toward the house； my heart was with
Shekure and her sorrow。 Actually； it wasn’t her misfortune in having to wed
within a day of her father’s murder that saddened me； it was that the wedding
was so unadorned and meager。 My dear Shekure was worthy of horses with
silver reins and ornamented saddles； mounted riders outfitted in sable and silk
with gold embroidery； and hundreds of carriages laden with gifts and dowry；
she deserved to lead an endless procession of pasha’s daughters； sultans and
carriages full of elderly harem women chattering about the extravagances of
days bygone。 But Shekure’s wedding lacked even the four pole bearers to hold
aloft the red silk canopy that ordinarily protected rich maidens from prying
eyes； for that matter； there wasn’t even one servant to lead the procession
bearing large wedding candles and tree…shaped decorations ornamented with
fruit； gold； silver leaf and polished stones。 More than embarrassment； I felt a
sadness that threatened to fill my eyes with tears each time the disrespectful
hand…drum and zurna players simply stopped playing when our procession got
swallowed up in crowds of market…goers or servants fetching water from the
fountain in the square because we had no one clearing the way with shouts of
“Here es the bride。” As we were nearing the house； I mustered the courage
to turn in my saddle and gaze at her； and was relieved that beneath her pink
bride’s tinsel and red veil； far from being saddened by all these pitiful
shortings； she seemed heartened to know that we’d concluded our
procession and our journey with neither accident nor mishap。 So； like all
grooms； I lowered my beautiful bride； whom I would shortly wed； from her
horse； took her by the arm； and handful by handful； slowly emptied a bag of
silver coins over her head before the gleeful crowd。 While the children who’d
followed behind our meager parade scrambled for the coins； Shekure and I
entered the courtyard and crossed the stone walkway； and as soon as we
222
entered the house； we were struck not only by the heat； but the horror of the
heavy smell of decay。
While the throng from the procession was making itself fortable in the
house； Shekure and the crowd of elders； women and children （Orhan was
glaring suspiciously at me from the corner） carried on as if nothing were
amiss； and momentarily I doubted my senses； but I knew how corpses left
under the sun after battle； their clothes tattered； boots and belts stolen； and
their faces； their eyes and lips ravaged by wolves and birds smelled。 It was a
stench that had so often filled my mouth and lungs to the point of suffocation
that I could not mistake it。
Downstairs in the kitchen； I asked Hayriye about Enishte Effendi’s body；
aware that I was speaking to her for the first time as master of the house。
“As you asked； we laid out his mattress； dressed him in his nightclothes；
dre and placed bottles of syrup beside him。 If he’s giving
off an unpleasant smell； it’s probably due to the heat from the brazier in the
room；” the woman said through tears。
One or two of her tears fell； sizzling into the pot she was using to fry the
mutton。 From the way she was crying； I supposed that Enishte Effendi had
been taking her into his bed at night。 Esther； who was quietly and proudly
sitting in a corner of the kitchen； swallowed what she was chewing and stood。
“Make her happiness your foremost concern；” she said。 “Recognize her
worth。”
In my thoughts I heard the lute I’d heard on the street the first day I’d
e to Istanbul。 More than sadness； there was vigor in its melody。 I heard the
melody of that music again later； in the half…darkened room where my Enishte
lay in his white nightgown； as the Imam Effendi married us。
Because Hayriye had furtively aired out the room beforehand and placed
the oil lamp in a corner so its light was dimmed； one could scarcely tell that
my Enishte was sick let alone dead。 Thus； he served as Shekure’s legal guardian
during the ceremony。 My friend the barber； along with a know…it…all
neighborhood elder； served as witnesses。 Before the ceremony ended with the
hopeful blessings and advice of the preacher and the prayers of all in
attendance； a nosy old man； concerned about the state of my Enishte’s health；
was about to lower his skeptical head toward the deceased； but as soon as the
preacher pleted the ceremony； I leapt from my spot； grabbed my Enishte’s
rigid hand and shouted at the top of my voice：
223
“Put your worries to rest； my sir； my dear Enishte。 I’ll do everything within
my power to care for Shekure and her children； to see they’re well clothed and
well fed； loved and untroubled。”
Next； to suggest that my Enishte was trying to whisper to me from his
sickbed； I carefully and respectfully pressed my ear to his mouth； pretending to
listen to him intently and wide…eyed； as young men do when an elder they
respect offers one or two words of advice distilled from an entire lifetime；
which they then imbibe like some magic elixir。 The Imam Effendi and the
neighborhood elder appeared to appreciate and approve of the loyalty and
eternal devotion I showed my father…in…law。 I hope that nobody still thinks I
had a hand in his murder。
I announced to the wedding guests still in the room that the