the　cursed　and　ominous　barking　of　the　pesky　dogs　roaming　past　the　courtyard

gate—I　was　alarmed；　to　put　it　mildly。

“Hayriye；”　I　shouted。　“Shevket；　Orhan…”

I　felt　a　cold　draft。　My　father’s　brazier　must　be　burning；　I　ought　to　sit　with

him　and　warm　up。　As　I　went　to　be　with　him；　holding　an　oil　lamp　aloft；　my

thoughts　weren’t　with　Black　any　longer；　but　with　the　children。

I　crossed　the　wide　hall　diagonally；　wondering　if　I　should　set　water　to　boil　on

the　downstairs　brazier　for　the　gray　mullet　soup。　I　entered　the　room　with　the

blue　door。　Everything　was　in　shambles。　Without　thinking；　I　was　about　to　say；

“What　has　my　father　done？”

Then　I　saw　him　on　the　floor。

I screamed； overe with horror。 Then I screamed again。 Gazing at my

father’s　body；　I　fell　silent。

Listen；　I　can　tell　by　your　tight…lipped　and　cold…blooded　reaction　that　you’ve

known　for　some　time　what’s　happened　in　this　room。　If　not　everything；　then

quite a lot。 What you’re wondering about now is my reaction to what I’ve

seen； what I feel。 As readers sometimes do when studying a picture； you’re

trying to discern the pain of the hero and thinking about the events in the

story　leading　up　to　this　agonizing　moment。　And　then；　having　considered　my

reaction； you’ll take pleasure in trying to imagine； not my pain； but what

you’d　feel　in　m