I　wept；　I　could　sense　that　each　of　the　others　was

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overe　by　feelings　of　fraternity；　devastation　and　sorrow。　From　now　on；　the

European　style　would　be　preeminent　in　Our　Sultan’s　workshop；　the　styles　and

books　to　which　we’d　devoted　our　entire　lives　would　slowly　be　forgotten—yes；

in　fact；　the　whole　venture　would　e　to　an　end；　and　if　the　Erzurumis　didn’t

throttle us and finish us off； the Sultan’s torturers would leave us

maimed…But as I cried； sobbed and sighed—even though I continued to

listen　to　the　sad　patter　of　the　rain—a　part　of　my　mind　sensed　that　these　were

not the things I was actually crying about。 To what extent were the others

aware of this？ I felt vaguely guilty for my tears； which were at once genuine

and　false。

Butterfly　came　up　beside　me；　placed　his　arm　upon　my　shoulder；　stroked　my

hair； kissed my cheek and forted me with honeyed words。 This show of

friendship　made　me　cry　with　even　more　sincerity　and　guilt。　I　couldn’t　see　his

face but； for some reason； I incorrectly thought he too was crying。 We sat

down。

We recalled how we’d started our workshop apprenticeships in the same

year； the strange sadness of being torn away from our mothers to suddenly

begin　a　new　life；　the　pain　of　beatings　we　received　from　the　first　day；　the　joy　of