IsawthemobaheErzurumishadbegunslayinguswittyminiaturists.

    Blackwasalsointhecrowdwatgtheattack.Isawhimholdingadaggerapaniedbyagroupofodd-lookihewell-khertheclothierandotherwomencarryingclothsacks.Ihadaofleeafterseeiablishmentcruellywreckedandthecoffeehouse-goersbeatenmercilesslyastheytriedtoleave.Later,anothermob,perhapstheJanissaries,arrived.TheErzurumisstheirtorchesandfled.

    Therewasnobodyatthedarkentrahecoffeehouse,andnoonewaslooking.Iwalkedinside.Everythingwasinshambles.Isteppedoteredcups,plates,glassesandbowls.Anoillamphangingfromanailhighonthewallhadn’tdiedoutduriurmoilbutonlyillumihesootmarksontheceiling,leavingindarkhefloorstrewnwiththeboardsofwreckedwoodbenches,brokenlowtablesandotherdebris.

    Staglongcushionsatopoher,Ireachedupandgrabbedholdoftheoillamp.Withinitscircleoflight,Inoticedbodieslyingonthefloor.WhenIsawthatonefacewascoveredinblood,Iturnedaway,aothehesedbodywasmoaning,anduponseeingmylamp,madeachildlikenoise.

    SomeoneelseefirstIwasalarmed,thoughIcouldsewasBlack.Thebothofusleanedoverthethirdbodysprawledonthefloor.AsIloweredthelamptohishead,hatwe’dsuspected:They’dkilledthestoryteller.

    Therewasnotraceofbloodonhisface,whichlikeawoman’s,buthis,browandrouge-coveredmouthwerebattered,andjudgingbyhisneck,coveredinbruises,he’dbeenthrottled.Hishandswerecastbackwardoverhisheadoherside.Itwasn’tdifficulttofigureoutthatohemheldtheoldman’sarmsbehindhisbackwhiletheothersbeathiminthefacebeforestranglinghim.Iwonder,hadtheysaid,“Cutouthistongu