ghthatShekurepassionatelydesiredme?Suddenly,Iimaginedusengagedinamadfrenzyoflovemaking.SoprofoundlyvincedwasIthatthisincredibleeventI’djuredwasimmihatmymanhoodinappropriatelybegantorise—thereinthepresenyEnishte.HadShekurewithis?IfocusedilyonwhatmyEnishtelainingioredirectmytration.

    Muchlater,whilemyEnishteeartoshowmeanotherillustratedplatefromhisbook,Idiscreetlyunfoldedthenote,whichsmelledofhoneysuckle,onlytodiscoverthatshe’dleftitpletelyblank.Icouldn’tbelievemyeyesandsenselesslyturhepaperoverandover,examiningit.

    “Awindow,”saidmyEnishte.“Usingperspectivalteiquesislikeregardingtheworldfromawindow—whatisthatyouareholding?”

    “It’snothing,EnishteEffendi,”Isaid.Whenhelookedaway,Ibroughtthecrumpledpapertomynoseanddeeplyisst.

    Afteranafternoonmeal,asIdidnotwanttousemyEnishte’schamberpot,Iexcusedmyselfaotheouthouseintheyard.Itwasbittercold.IhadquicklyseentomywithoutfreezingmybuttouchwhenIsawthatShevkethadslylyandsilentlyappearedbeforeme,blogmywaylikeabrigand.Inhishandsheheldhisgrandfather’sfullandsteamingchamberpot.Heehe

    outhouseaftermeaiedthepot.Heexitedandfixedhisprettyeyesonmineashepuffedouthisplumpcheeks,stillholdiypot.

    “Haveyoueverseenadeadcat?”heasked.Hisnosewasexactlylikehismother’s.Wasshewatgus?Ilookedaround.Theshutterswereclosedontheentedsed-floorwindowinwhichI’dfirstseenShekureaftersomanyyears.

    “Nay.”

    “ShallIshowyouthedeadthehouseoftheHangedJew?”

    Hewentouttothestreetwithoutwaitingformyresponse.Ifollowedhim.Wewalked