He threatened me； cried like a baby and in his haste and fluster； never allowed
time for a true and noble love to be born。 I knew I could never wed him。
One night； when he tried to force the door of the room where I slept with
the children； I rose immediately； and without a thought that I might frighten
them； screamed at the top of my lungs that evil jinns had entered the house。
This fit of jinn…panic and screaming awakened my father…in…law and thereby
exposed Hasan； whose excited violence was still visible； to his father。 Amid my
ridiculous howls and inane rantings about jinns； the staid old man to his
embarrassment acknowledged the awful truth： His son was besotted and had
inappropriately approached his brother’s wife； a mother of two。 My father…in…
law made no reply when I said I wouldn’t sleep a wink till morning； keeping
watch at the door to protect my children against “the jinns。” The following
day； I announced that I’d be returning to my father’s home with my children
for an extended stay to care for him in his time of illness； thus did Hasan
accept his defeat。 I returned to my father’s house； taking with me as
mementos of my married life the clock with bells plundered from Hungarian
lands by my husband （who’d never succumbed to the temptation to sell it）；
the whip made from the sinews of the most explosive of Arab steeds； the
Tabriz…made ivory chess set whose pieces the children used to play war and the
silver candlesticks （booty from the Battle of Nahjivan）； which I’d fought so
desperately to keep when money was short。
As I expected； quitting my absent husband’s house turned Hasan’s
obsessive and disrespectful love into a hopeless inferno。 Knowing full well that
his father wouldn’t stand behind him； instead of threatening me； he sought
my pity by sending me love letters in whose corners he drew forlorn birds；
teary…eyed lions and sad gazelles。 I won’t hide from you the fact that I’ve
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recently begun to read them anew； those letters that reveal Hasan’s rich
imagination； of which I wasn’t aware when we lived together under the same
roof—assuming he didn’t enlist one of his more artistic or poetic friends to
write and embellish them。 In his last letter； Hasan pledged that I would no
longer be a slave to housework； and that he’d made a lot of money。 This
disclosure in his sweet； respectful and humorous tone； pounded by the
endless fights and demands of the children； and my father’s plaints；
turned my head into a veritable kettledrum。 Indeed； it was in order to heave a
sigh of relief to the world that I’d opened the shutters of that window。
Before Hayriye set the dinner table； I prepared a draught of bitters from the
best Arabian date palm flower； I mixed in a spoonful of honey and a little
lemon juice； then quietly entered my father’s pany as he was reading the
Book of the Soul； and like a spirit myself； placed it before him without making
my presence known； as he preferred。
“Is it snowing？” he asked in such a faint and melancholy voice that I
understood at once this would be the last snowfall my poor father would ever
see。
53
I AM A TREE
I am a tree and I am quite lonely。 I weep in the rain。 For the sake of Allah；
listen to what I have to say。 Drink down your coffee so your sleep abandons
you and your eyes open wide。 Stare at me as you would at jinns and let me
explain to you why I’m so alone。
1。 They allege that I’ve been hastily sketched onto nonsized； rough paper so
the picture of a tree might hang behind the master storyteller。 True enough。 At
this moment； there are no other slender trees beside me； no seven…leaf steppe
plants； no dark billowing rock formations which at times resemble Satan or a
man and no coiling Chinese clouds。 Just the ground； the sky； myself and the
horizon。 But my story is much more plicated。
2。 As a tree； I need not be part of a book。 As the picture of a tree； however；
I’m disturbed that I’m not a page within some manuscript。 Since I’m not
representing something in a book； what es to mind is that my picture will
be nailed to a wall and the likes of pagans and infidels will prostrate
themselves before me in worship。 May the followers of Erzurumi Hoja not
hear that I secretly take pride in this thought—but then I’m overe with
the utmost fear and embarrassment。
3。 The essential reason for my loneliness is that I don’t even know where I
belong。 I was supposed to be part of a story； but I fell from there like a leaf in
autumn。 Let me tell you about it：
Falling from My Story Like a Leaf Falls in Fall
Forty years ago； the Persian Shah Tahmasp； who was the archenemy of the
Ottomans as well as the world’s greatest patron…king of the art of painting；
began to grow senile and lost his enthusiasm for wine； music； poetry and
painting； furthermore； he quit drinking coffee； and naturally； his brain
stopped working。 Full of the suspicions of a long…faced； dark…spirited old
geezer； he transferred his capital from Tabriz； which was then Persian territory；
to Kazvin so it would be farther from the Ottoman armies。 One day when he
had grown even older； he was possessed by a jinn； had a nervous fit； and
begging God’s forgiveness； pletely swore off wine； handsome young boys
54
and painting； which is proof enough that after this great shah lost his taste for
coffee； he also lost his mind。
This was why the divinely inspired bookbinders； calligraphers； gilders and
miniaturists； who created the greatest masterpieces in the world over a
twenty…year period in Tabriz； scattered like a covey of partridges to other cities。
Shah Tahmasp’s nephew and son…in…law； Sultan Ibrahim Mirza； invited the
most gifted among them to Mashhad； where he served as provincial governor；
and settled them in his miniaturists’ workshop to copy out a marvelous
illuminated and illustrated manuscript of all seven fables of the Seven Thrones
of Jami—the greatest poet in Herat during the reign of Tamerlane。 Shah
Tahmasp； who both admired and envied his intelligent and handsome nephew；
and regretted having given his daughter to him； was consumed by jealousy
when he heard about this magnificent book and angrily ousted his nephew
from the post of Governor of Mashhad； banishing him to the city of Kain；
before sending him off to the smaller town of Sebzivar in a renewed fit of
anger。 The calligraphers and illuminators of Mashhad thereupon dispersed to
other cities and regions； to the book…arts workshops of other sultans and
princes。
Miraculously； however； Sultan Ibrahim Mirza’s marvelous volume did not
remain unfinished； for in his service he had a devoted librarian。 This man
would travel on horseback all the way to Shiraz where the best master gilders
lived； then he’d take a couple pages to Isfahan seeking the most elegant
calligraphers of Nestalik script； afterward he’d cross great mountains till he’d
made it all the way to Bukhara where he’d arrange the picture’s position
and have the figures drawn by the great master painter who worked under the
Uzbek Khan； next he’d go down to Herat to mission one of its half…blind
old masters to paint from memory the sinuous curves of plants and leaves；
visiting another calligrapher in Herat； he’d direct him to inscribe； in gold Rika
script； the sign above a door within the picture； finally； he’d be off again to the
south； to Kain； where displaying the half…page he had finished during his six
months of traveling； he’d receive the praises of Sultan Ibrahim Mirza。
At this pace； it was clear that the book would never be pleted； so
mounted Tatar couriers were hired。 In addition to the manuscript leaf； which
was to receive artwork and scripted text； each horseman was given a letter
describing the desired work in question to the artist。 Thus； messengers
carrying manuscript pages passed over the roads of Persia； Khorasan； the Uzbek
territory and Transoxania。 The creation of the book sped up with the fleet
messengers。 At times； on a snowy night； Chapter 11 and 29； for example；
55
would cross paths in a caravansary wherein the howlings of wolves could be
heard； and as they struck up a friendly conversation； they’d discover that they
were working on the same book project and would try to determine between
themselves where and in which fable the prospective pages； retrieved from
their rooms for this purpose； actually belonged。
I was meant to be among the pages of this illustrated manuscript that I
sadly heard was pleted today。 Unfortunately； on a