in his nostril； I cleansed the horrible wound on his shoulder as a doctor might。 As I’d do when bathing the children when they were babies； I cooed to him in a singsong voice。 There were cuts on his chest and arms as well。 The fingers of his left hand were purple from being bitten。 The rags I used to wipe his body were soon bloodsoaked。 I touched his chest； I felt the softness of his abdomen with my hand； I looked at his cock for a long time。 The sounds of the children were ing from the courtyard below。 Why did some poets call this thing a “reed pen”？ 439 I could hear Esther enter the kitchen with that joyous voice and mysterious air she adopted when she brought news； and I went down to greet her。 She was so excited she began without embracing or kissing me： Olive’s severed head was found in front of the workshop； the pictures proving his guilt in the crimes and his satchel had also been recovered。 He was intending to flee to Hindustan； but had decided first to call at the workshop one last time。 There were witnesses to the ordeal： Hasan； encountering Olive； had drawn his red sword and cut off Olive’s head in a single stroke。 As she recounted； I thought about where my unfortunate father was。 Learning that the murderer had received his due punishment at first put my fears to rest。 And revenge lent me a feeling of fort and justice。 At that instant； I wondered intensely whether my now…dead father could experience this feeling； suddenly； it seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another。 We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and imaginations； but most of us； in our laziness； rarely exercised these capacities； and forever remained in the same room。 “Don’t cry； my dear；” said Esther。 “You see； in the end everything has turned out fine。” I gave her four gold coins。 She took them； one at a time； into her mouth and bit down upon them crudely with eagerness and longing。 “Coins counterfeited by the Veians are everywhere；” she said； smiling。 As soon as she’d left； I warned Hayriye not to let the children upstairs。 I went up to the room where Black lay； locked the door behind me and cuddled up eagerly next to Black’s naked body。 Then； more out of curiosity than desire； more out of care than fear； I did what Black wanted me to do in the house of the Hanged Jew the night my poor father was killed。 I can’t say I pletely understood why Persian poets； who for centuries had likened that male tool to a reed pen； also pared the mouths of us women to inkwells； or what lay behind such parisons whose origins had been forgotten through rote repetition—was it the smallness of the mouth？ The arcane silence of the inkwell？ Was it that God Himself was an illuminator？ Love； however； must be understood； not through the logic of a woman like me who continually racks her brain to protect herself； but through its illogic。 So； let me tell you a secret： There； in that room that smelled of death； it wasn’t the object in my mouth that delighted me。 What delighted me then； 440 lying there with the entire world throbbing between my lips； was the happy twittering of my sons cursing and roughhousing with each other in the courtyard。 While my mouth was thus occupied； my eyes could make out Black looking at me in a pletely different way。 He said he’d never again forget my face and my mouth。 As with some of my father’s old books； his skin smelled of moldy paper； and the scent of the Treasury’s dust and cloth had saturated his hair。 As I let myself go and caressed his wounds； his cuts and swellings； he groaned like a child； moving further and further away from death； and it was then I understood I would bee even more attached to him。 Like a solemn ship that gains speed as its sails swell with wind； our gradually quickening lovemaking took us boldly into unfamiliar seas。 I could tell by the way he was able to navigate these waters； even on his deathbed； that Black had plied these seas many times before with who knows what manner of indecent women。 While I was confused as to whether the forearm I kissed was my own or his； whether I was sucking my own finger or an entire life； he stared out of one half…opened eye； nearly intoxicated by his wounds and pleasure； checking where the world was taking him； and from time to time； he would hold my head delicately in his hands； and stare at my face astounded； now looking as if at a picture； now as if at a Mingerian whore。 At the peak of pleasure； he cried out like the legendary heroes cut clear in half with a single stroke of the sword in fabled pictures that immortalized the clash of Persian and Turanian armies； the fact that this cry could be heard throughout the neighborhood frightened me。 Like a genuine master miniaturist at the moment of greatest inspiration； holding his reed under the direct guidance of Allah； yet still able to take into consideration the form and position of the entire page； Black continued to direct our place in the world from a corner of his mind even through his highest excitement。 “You can tell them you were spreading salve onto my wounds；” he said breathlessly。 These words not only constituted the color of our love—which settled into a bottleneck between life and death； prohibition and paradise； hopelessness and shame—they also were the excuse for our love。 For the next twenty…six years； until my beloved husband Black collapsed next to the well one morning to die of a bad heart； each afternoon； as the sunlight filtered into the room through the slats of the shutters； and for the first few years； to the sounds of Shevket and Orhan playing； we made love； always referring to it as “spreading salve