d very hard to imagine the magnificent pictures
created by these celebrated illustrators； who were； as my Enishte explained；
inspired by the power of the world’s mystery and its visible blackness。 I tried
so hard to visualize them—those masterpieces my Enishte had seen and was
now attempting to describe to one who had never laid eyes on them—that；
finally； when my imagination failed me； I felt only more dejected and
demeaned。
I looked up to discover that Shevket was before me again。 He approached
me decisively； and I assumed—as was customary for the oldest male child
among certain Arab tribes in Transoxiana and among Circassian tribes in the
Caucasus mountains—that he would not only kiss a guest’s hand at the
beginning of a visit； but also when that guest left。 Caught off guard； I
presented my hand for him to kiss。 At that moment； from somewhere not too
far away； I heard her laughter。 Was she laughing at me？ I became flustered and
to remedy the situation； I grabbed Shevket and kissed him on both cheeks as
though this were what was really expected of me。 Then I smiled at my Enishte
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as though to apologize for interrupting him and to assure him that I meant no
disrespect； while carefully drawing the child near to check whether he bore his
mother’s scent。 By the time I understood that the boy had placed a crumpled
scrap of paper into my hand； he’d long since turned his back and walked some
distance toward the door。
I clutched the scrap of paper in my fist like a jewel。 And when I understood
that this was a note from Shekure； out of elat