tances　spread　among　the　neighbors　during　the

funeral—as I could sense standing in the courtyard of the mosque。 I didn’t

want　my　inability　to　cry　to　be　interpreted　negatively；　I　don’t　have　to　tell　you

how　real　the　fear　of　being　branded　“stonehearted”　is。

You　know　how　some　sympathetic　aunt　will　always　attest　that　“he’s　crying

on the inside” to prevent someone like me from being banished from the

group。　I　did　in　fact　cry　on　the　inside　as　I　tried　to　hide　in　a　corner　from　the

busybody neighbors and distant relatives with their astonishing abilities to

summon　a　downpour　of　tears；　I　thought　about　being　the　master　of　the　house

and whether I should somehow take charge of the situation； but just then

there　came　a　knock　at　the　door。　A　moment　of　panic。　Was　it　Hasan？　Regardless；

I　wanted　to　save　myself　from　this　hell　of　whimpering　at　whatever　cost。

It　was　a　royal　page；　summoning　me　to　the　palace。　I　was　stunned。

As　I　exited　the　courtyard；　I　found　a　mud…covered　silver　coin　on　the　ground。

Was　I　afraid　to　go　to　the　palace？　Yes；　but　I　was　also　happy　to　be　outside　in　the

cold among the horses； dogs； trees and people。 I thought I’d befriend the

pageboy like those hopeless daydreamers who； believing they might sweeten

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the world’s cruelty before facing the executioner； attempt a lighthearted