he
world from a corner of his mind even through his highest excitement。
“You can tell them you were spreading salve onto my wounds；” he said
breathlessly。
These words not only constituted the color of our love—which settled into
a bottleneck between life and death； prohibition and paradise； hopelessness
and shame—they also were the excuse for our love。 For the next twenty…six
years； until my beloved husband Black collapsed next to the well one morning
to die of a bad heart； each afternoon； as the sunlight filtered into the room
through the slats of the shutters； and for the first few years； to the sounds of
Shevket and Orhan playing； we made love； always referring to it as “spreading
salve onto wounds。” This was how my jealous sons； whom I didn’t want to
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suffer beatings at the jealous whims of a rough and melancholy father； were
able to continue sleeping in the same bed with me for years。 All sensible
women know how it’s much nicer to sleep curled up with one’s children than
with a melancholy husband who’s been beaten down by life。
We； my children and I； were happy； but Black couldn’t be。 The most obvious
reason for this was the wound on his shoulder and neck that never pletely
healed； my beloved husband was left “crippled；” as I heard him described by
others。 But this didn’t disrupt his life； other than in its appearance。 There were
even times when I heard other women； who’d seen my husband from a
distance； describe him as handsome。 But Black’s right shoulder was lower than
the left and his neck remained oddly cocked。 I als