o heard gossip to the effect
that a woman like myself could only marry a husband whom she felt was
beneath her； and how as much as Black’s wound was the cause of his
discontent； it was also the secret source of our shared happiness。
As with all gossip； there is perhaps an element of truth in this as well。
However deprived and destitute I felt at not being able to pass down the
streets of Istanbul mounted tall on an exceptionally beautiful horse；
surrounded by slaves； lady servants and attendants—what Esther always
thought I deserved—I also occasionally longed for a brave and spirited
husband who held his head high and looked at the world with a sense of
victory。
Whatever the cause； Black always remained melancholy。 Because I knew
that his sadness had nothing to do with his shoulder； I believed that
somewhere in a secret corner of his soul he was possessed by a jinn of sorrow
that dampened his mood even during our most exhilarating moments of
lovemaking。 To appease that jinn； at times he’d drink wine； at times stare at
illustrations in books and take an interest in art； at times he’d even spend his
days and nights with miniaturists chasing after pretty boys。 There were periods
when he entertained himself in the pany of painters； calligraphers and
poets in orgies of puns； double entendres； innuendos； metaphors and games of
flattery； and there were periods when he forgot everything and surrendered
himself to secretarial duties and a governmental clerkship under Hunched