who have tired of me and are smiling： Death is no laughing matter。
The master miniaturist who made me now roams the streets endlessly each
night in fits of regret； like certain Chinese masters； he believes he’s bee
what he has drawn。
142
I AM ESTHER
Ladies from the neighborhoods of Redminaret and Blackcat had ordered
purple and red quilting from the town of Bilejik； so； early in the morning； I
loaded up my makeshift satchel—the large cloth that I’d fill up and tie into a
bundle。 I removed the green Chinese silk that had recently arrived by way of
the Portuguese trader but wasn’t selling； substituting the more alluring blue。
And given the persistent snows of this endless winter； I carefully folded plenty
of colorful socks； thick sashes and heavy vests； all of wool； arranging them in
the center of the bundle： When I spread open my blanket a bouquet of color
would bloom to make even the most indifferent woman’s heart leap。 Next； I
packed some lightweight； but expensive； silk handkerchiefs； money purses and
embroidered washcloths especially for those ladies who called for me not to
make a purchase but to gossip。 I lifted the tote。 My goodness； this is much too
heavy； it’ll break my back。 I put it down and opened it。 As I stared at it； trying
to determine what to leave out； I heard knocking at the door。 Nesim opened it
and called to me。
It was that concubine Hayriye； all flushed and blushing。 She held a letter in
her hand。
“Shekure sent it；” she hissed。 This slave was so flustered that you’d think
she was the one who’d fallen in love and wanted to g