I looked up to discover that Shevket was before me again. He approached me decisively, and I assumed-as was customary for the oldest male child among certain Arab tribes in Transoxiana and among Circassian tribes in the Caucasus mountains-that he would not only kiss a guest’s hand at the beginning of a visit, but also when that guest left. Caught off guard, I presented my hand for him to kiss. At that moment, from somewhere not too far away, I heard her laughter. Was she laughing at me? I became flustered and to remedy the situation, I grabbed Shevket and kissed him on both cheeks as though this were what was really expected of me. Then I smiled at my Enishte as though to apologize for interrupting him and to assure him that I meant no disrespect, while carefully drawing the child near to check whether he bore his mother’s scent. By the time I understood that the boy had placed a crumpled scrap of paper into my hand, he’d long since turned his back and walked some distance toward the door.

I clutched the scrap of paper in my fist like a jewel. And when I understood that this was a note from Shekure, out of elation I could scarcely keep from grinning stupidly at my Enishte. Wasn’t this proof enough that Shekure passionately desired me? Suddenly, I imagined us engaged in a mad frenzy of lovemaking. So profoundly convinced was I that this incredible event I’d conjured was imminent that my manhood inappropriately began to rise-there in the presence of my Enishte. Had Shekure witnessed this? I focused intently on what my Enishte was explaining in order to redirect my concentration.

Much later, while my Enishte came near to show me another illustrated plate from his book, I discreetly unfolded the note, which smelled of honeysuckle, only to discover that she’d left it completely blank. I couldn’t believe my eyes and senselessly turned the paper over and over, examining it.

“A window,” said my Enishte. “Using perspectival techniques is like regarding the world from a window-what is that you are holding?”

“It’s nothing, Enishte Effendi,” I said. When he looked away, I brought the crumpled paper to my nose and deeply inhaled its scent.

After an afternoon meal, as I did not want to use my Enishte’s chamber pot, I excused myself and went to the outhouse in the yard. It was bitter cold. I had quickly seen to my concern without freezing my buttocks too much when I saw that Shevket had slyly and silently appeared before me, blocking my way like a brigand. In his hands he held his grandfather’s full and steaming chamber pot. He entered the outhouse after me and emptied the pot. He exited and fixed his pretty eyes on mine as he puffed out his plump cheeks, still holding the empty pot.

“Have you ever seen a dead cat?” he asked. His nose was exactly like his mother’s. Was she watching us? I looked around. The shutters were closed on the enchanted second-floor window in which I’d first seen Shekure after so many years.

“Nay.”

“Shall I show you the dead cat in the house of the Hanged Jew?”

He went out to the street without waiting for my response. I followed him. We walked forty or fifty paces along the muddy and icy path before entering an unkempt garden. Here, it smelled of wet and rotting leaves, and faintly of mold. With the confidence of a child who knew the place well, taking firm, rhythmic steps, he entered through the door of a yellow house, which stood before us almost hidden behind somber fig and almond trees.

The house was completely empty, but it was dry and warm, as if somebody were living there.

“Whose house is this?” I asked.

“The Jews”. When the man died, his wife and kids went to the Jewish quarter over by the fruit-sellers’ quay. They’re having Esther the clothier sell the house.“ He went into a corner of the room and returned. ”The cat’s gone, it’s disappeared,“ he said.

“Where would a dead cat go?”

“My grandfather says the dead wander.”

“Not the dead themselves,” I said. “Their spirits wander.”

“How do you know?” he said. He was holding the chamber pot tightly against his lap in all seriousness.

“I just know. Do you always come here?”

“My mother comes here with Esther. The living dead, risen from the grave, come here at night, but I’m not afraid of this place. Have you ever killed a man?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Not many. Two.”

“With a sword?”

“With a sword.”

“Do their souls wander?”

“I don’t know. According to what’s written in books, they must wander.”

“Uncle Hasan has a red sword. It’s so sharp it’ll cut you if you just touch it. And he has a dagger with a ruby-studded handle. Are you the one who killed my father?”

I nodded indicating neither “yes” nor “no.” “How do you know that your father is dead?”

“My mother said so yesterday. He won’t be returning. She saw him in her dream.”

If presented with the opportunity, we would choose to do in the name of a greater goal whatever awful thing we’ve already prepared to do for the sake of our own miserable gains, for the lust that burns within us or for the love that breaks our hearts; and so, I resolved once more to become the father of these forsaken children, and, when I returned to the house, I listened more intently to Shevket’s grandfather as he described the book whose text and illustrations I had to complete.

Let me begin with the illustrations that my Enishte had shown me, the horse for example. On this page there were no human figures and the area around the horse was empty; even so, I couldn’t say it was simply and exclusively the painting of a horse. Yes, the horse was there, yet it was apparent that the rider had stepped off to the side, or who knows, perhaps he was on the verge of emerging from behind the bush drawn in the Kazvin style. This was immediately apparent from the saddle upon the horse, which bore the marks and embellishments of nobility: Maybe, a man with his sword at the ready was about to appear beside the steed.

It was obvious that Enishte commissioned this horse from a master illustrator whom he’d secretly summoned from the workshop. Because the illustrator, arriving at night, could draw a horse-ingrained in his mind like a stencil-only if it were the extension of a story, that’s exactly how he’d begin: by rote. As he was drawing the horse, which he’d seen thousands of times in scenes of love and war, my Enishte, inspired by the methods of the Venetian masters, had probably instructed the illustrator; for example, he might have said, “Forget about the rider, draw a tree there. But draw it in the background, on a smaller scale.”

The illustrator, who came at night, would sit before his work desk together with my Enishte, eagerly drawing by candlelight an odd, unconventional picture that didn’t resemble any of the usual scenes to which he was accustomed and had memorized. Of course, my Enishte paid him handsomely for each drawing, but frankly, this peculiar method of drawing also had its charms. However, as with my Enishte, after a while, the illustrator could no longer determine which story the illustration was intended to enhance and complete. What my Enishte expected of me was that I examine these illustrations made in half-Venetian, half-Persian mode and write a story suitable to accompany them on the opposite page. If I hoped to get Shekure, I absolutely had to write these stories, but all that came to mind were the stories the storyteller told at the coffeehouse.