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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