ceagain.Ashesaidwhenhefirstdrewhison,hewouldn’tsearchmyentirehouse,onlymyatelier.Indeed,couldn’tIcealmywife—theonlythingIwaohide—intheroomfromwhichshewasnowspyingonus?

    “There’safinalpicturethatbelohebookmyEnishtewashavingmade,”hesaid.“Whoeverkilledhimalsostolethatpicture.”

    “Itwasdifferentfromtheothers,”Isaidimmediately.“YourEnishte,mayherestinpeace,mademedrawatreeinoneerofthepage.Inthebackgroundsomewhere…andinthemiddleofthepage,inthefround,wastobesomeone’spicture,probablyaportraitofOurSultan.Thatspace,quitelargeifImightadd,wasawaitingitspicture.Becausetheobjethebackgrouobesmaller,asintheEuropeanstyle,hewaomakethetreesmaller.Asthepicturedeveloped,itgavetheimpressionofbeingaviewofthisworldfromawindow,nothinglikeanillustrationatall.ItwasthenIprehehatinapicturemadewiththeperspectivalmethodsoftheFranks,thebordersandgildingtooktheplaceofawindowframe.”

    “ElegantEffendiwasresponsibleforthebordersandthegilding.”

    “Ifthat’swhatyou’reasking,IalreadytoldyouIdidn’tmurderhim.”

    “Amurdererneveradmitstohiscrime,”hesaidquickly,thenaskedmewhatIwasdoingatthecoffeehouseduringtheraid.

    HeplacedtheoillampjustbesidethecushionuponwhichIwasseated,inawaythatwouldilluminate

    myfacealongwithmypapersandthepagesIwasilluminating.Hehimselfwasscurryingabouttheroomlikeashadowinthedark.

    BesidestellinghimwhatI’vetoldyou,thatIactuallywasaninfrequentvisitortothecoffeehouseandjusthappeobepassingby,IalsorepeatedthatImadetwoofthepictureswhichwerehungonthewallthere—a