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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