Oh, how wonderful it is to cry along with the rest of them! While the men were at the funeral of my dear Shekure』s father, the women, kith and kin, spouses and friends, gathered in the house and shed their tears, and I, too, beat my chest in m a with them. Now wailing in unison with the pretty maiden beside me, leaning on her and swaying bad forth; n in a pletely different frame of mind, I was deeply touched by my own woes and pitiful life. If I could cry like this just once a week, I thought, I might fet how I had to roam the streets all day just to make ends meet, fet being mocked for my weight and my Jewishness and be reborn an even more chattermouth Esther.
I like social gatherings because I eat to my heart』s tent, and, at the same time, fet that I』m the black sheep of the crowd. I love the baklava, mint dy, marzipan bread and fruit leather of holidays; the pilaf with meat and the tea-cup pastries of circumcision ceremonies; drinking sour-cherry sherbet at celebrations held by the Sultan in the Hippodrome; eating everything at weddings; and tossing down the sesame, honey or variously flavored dolence halvas sent by the neighbors at wakes.
I quietly slipped into the hallut on my shoes a downstairs. Before I turned into the kit, I grew curious about an odd noise ing through the half-open door of the room o the stable. I took a few steps in that dire and glanced io discover that Shevket and Orhan had tied up the son of one of the women mourners and were in the midst of painting his face with their late grandfather』s paints and brushes. 「If you try to escape, we』ll hit you like this,」 Shevket said and slapped the boy.
「My dear child, play nid gentle now, don』t hurt each other, all right?」 I said in a voice as velvety as I could muster.
「Mind your own affairs!」 Shevket shouted.
I noticed the small, frightened, blond-haired sister of the boy they were tormenting standing beside them, and for whatever reason, I felt for her pletely. Fet about it, now, Esther!
I, Hayriye peered at me suspiciously.
「I』ve cried myself dry, Hayriye,」 I said. 「Fod』s sake, pour me a glass of water.」
She did so, silently. Before I drank it, I stared into her eyes, swollen from weeping.
「Poor Enishte Effendi, they say he was already dead before Shekure』s wedding,」 I ented. 「People』s mouths aren』t like bags that be ched up, some even claim there was foul play involved.」
In an exaggerated gesture, she looked down at her toes. Then she lifted her head and without looking at me said, 「May God protect us from baseless slander.」
Her first gesture firmed what I』d said, and moreover the ce of her words veyed that they were spoken under duress—to hide the truth.
「What』s going on?」 I asked abruptly, whispering as if I were her fidant.
Indecisive Hayriye had of course uood that there was no hope of claiming any authority over Shekure after Enishte Effendi』s death. And a short while ago, she was the one m with the most heartfelt tears.
「What』s to bee of me, now?」 she said.
「Shekure holds you in high regard,」 I said in my habit of giving news. Lifting up the lids of the pots of halva lined up between the large clay jar of grape molasses and the pickle jar, sneaking a fingerful from one or simply leaning over to smell another, I asked who』d sent each of them.
Hayriye was rattling off who』d sent which pot: 「This one』s from Kas 1m Effendi of Kayseri; this ohe assistant from the m