e　which

now　seemed　far　from　me；　as　a　snow　that　I　couldn’t　see　fell；　by　the　light　of　a

candle；　I　was　attempting　to　explain　through　tears　that　I　was　entirely　innocent

to　a　crotchety　old　dotard；　who’d　accused　me　of　stealing　paint。　Back　then；　just

as　now；　dogs　began　to　howl　as　if　they’d　smelled　blood。　And　I　understood　from

Enishte Effendi’s great chin； befitting an evil old man； and from his eyes；

which he was finally able to fix mercilessly into mine； that he intended to

crush me。 I recalled this tattered memory from when I was a ten…year…old

miniaturist’s apprentice like a picture whose outlines are clear but whose

colors　have　faded。　Thus　was　I　living　the　present　as　though　it　were　a　distinct　but

faded　memory。

So；　as　I　arose　and　circled　behind　Enishte　Effendi；　lifting　that　new；　huge　and

heavy　bronze　inkpot　from　among　the　familiar　glass；　porcelain　and　crystal　ones

that rested on his worktable； the hardworking miniaturist within me—that

Master　Osman　had　instilled　in　us　all—was　illustrating　what　I　did　and　what　I

saw　in　distinct　yet　faded　colors；　not　as　something　I　was　experiencing　now　but

as　if　it　were　a　memory　from　long　ago。　You　know　how　in　dreams　we　shudder　to

see　ourselves　as　if　from　the　outside；　with　the　same　sensation；　holding　the　large

yet　small…mouthed　bronze　inkpot；　I　said：

“When　I　was　a