tified。”

All　day　long；　I　showed　him　every　picture—except　the　final　illustration　that　I

cannot； for whatever reason； finish。 I prodded him to write。 I discussed the

temperaments of the miniaturists； and I enumerated the sums of money I

meted　out　to　them。　We　discussed　“perspective”　and　whether　the　diminutive

objects　in　the　background　of　Veian　pictures　were　sacrilegious；　and　equally；

we talked about the possibility that unfortunate Elegant Effendi had been

murdered　for　excessive　ambition　and　out　of　jealousy　over　his　wealth。

As Black returned home that night； I was confident he’d e again the

next　morning　as　promised　and　that　he’d　once　again　listen　to　me　recount　the

stories that would constitute my book。 I listened to his footsteps fading

beyond　the　open　gate；　there　was　something　to　the　cold　night　that　seemed　to

make　my　sleepless　and　troubled　murderer　stronger　and　more　devilish　than　me

and　my　book。

I closed the courtyard gate tightly behind him。 I placed the old ceramic

water　basin　that　I　used　as　a　basil　planter　behind　the　gate　as　I　did　each　night。

Before　I　reduced　the　stove　to　smoldering　ashes　and　went　to　bed；　I　glanced　up

to　see　Shekure　in　a　white　gown　looking　like　a　ghost　in　the　blackness。

“Are　you　absolutely　certain　that　you　want　to　marry　him？”　I　asked。

125

“No； dear Fat