第101部分(第3/7 頁)

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