“Yes　they　will！”　I　said。　“None　of　the　children　in　that　city　have　a　mother　or　a

father。 Hayriye； go downstairs and check the doors again。 We’ll probably be

asleep　by　the　middle　of　the　story。”

“I　won’t　fall　asleep；”　said　Orhan。

“Where　is　Black　going　to　sleep　tonight？”　said　Shevket。

“In the workshop；” I said。 “Snuggle up tight to your mother so we can

warm　up　nicely　under　the　quilt。　Whose　icy　little　feet　are　these？”

“Mine；”　said　Shevket。　“Where　will　Hayriye　sleep？”

I’d begun telling the story； and as always； Orhan fell asleep first； after

which　I　lowered　my　voice。

“After　I　fall　asleep；　you’re　not　going　to　leave　the　bed；　right；　Mama？”　said

Shevket。

“No；　I　won’t　leave。”

I　really　didn’t　intend　to　leave。　After　Shevket　fell　asleep；　I　was　musing　about

how　pleasurable　it　was　to　fall　asleep　cuddled　up　with　my　sons　on　the　night　of

my　second　wedding—with　my　handsome；　intelligent　and　desirous　husband　in

the　next　room。　I’d　dozed　off　with　such　thoughts；　but　my　sleep　was　fitful。　Later；

this　is　what　I　remembered　about　that　strange　restless　realm　between　dreaming

and wakefulness： First I settled accounts with my deceased father’s angry

spirit；　then　I　fled　the　specter　of　that　disgraceful　murderer　who　wanted　to　send

me　off　to　be　with　my　father。　As　he　pursued　me；　the　unyielding　murderer；　even

more　terrif