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sorrowful yet beautiful; clad

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in a crimson mantle。 So that this man Black; with his furrowed brows; might

understand how illustrating equaled love…of…life; I was going to explain why

the chained gang of debtors was extended across two pages; I was going to tell

him about the hidden logic of red within the picture; I was going to elucidate

the things my wife and I had laughingly discussed while admiring the piece;

such as how I’d lovingly colored—something the old masters never did—the

dog resting off to the side in precisely the same hue as the Sultan’s caftan of

atlas silk; but he asked me a very rude; discourteous question:

Would I; perchance; have any idea where unfortunate Elegant Effendi might

be?

What did he mean “unfortunate”! I didn’t say that Elegant Effendi was a

worthless plagiarist; a fool who did his gilding for money alone with nary a

hint of inspiration。 “Nay;” I said; “I do not know。”

Had I ever considered that the aggressive and fanatical followers of the

preacher from Erzurum might’ve done Elegant Effendi harm?

I maintained my posure and refrained from responding that Elegant

Effendi himself was no doubt one of their lot。 “Nay;” I said。 “Why?”

The poverty; plague; immorality and scandal we are slave to in this city of

Istanbul can only be attributed to our having d