chests　and　boxes；　going

as　far　as　to　check　the　bottoms　of　laundry　baskets；　without　touching　anything　I

glanced　at　Olive’s　Bursa　towels；　his　ebony　b；　his　dirty　bath　hand　towel；　his

rosewater　bottles；　a　ridiculous　waist　cloth　with　an　Indian　block…print　pattern；

quilted　jackets；　a　heavy；　dirty　women’s　robe　with　a　slit；　a　dented　copper　tray；

filthy　carpets　and　other　furnishings　too　cheap　and　slovenly　for　the　money　he

earned。 Olive was either very stingy and salting his money away or he was

squandering　it　somehow…

“The　house　of　a　murderer；　precisely；”　I　said　later。　“There　isn’t　even　a　prayer

rug。” But this wasn’t what I was thinking。 I concentrated。 “These are the

belongings　of　a　man　who　doesn’t　know　how　to　be　happy…”　I　said。　Yet；　in　a

corner of my mind； I thought sadly about how misery and proximity to the

Devil　nursed　painting。

“Despite knowing what it takes to be content； a man might still be

unhappy；”　said　Black。

He　placed　before　me　a　series　of　pictures　drawn　on　coarse　Samarkand　paper；

backed　with　heavy　sheets；　which　he’d　removed　from　the　depths　of　a　chest。　We

studied the pictures： a delightful Satan all the way from Khorasan that had

emerged　from　beneath　the　ground；　a　tree；　a　beautiful　woman；　a　dog　and　the

picture of Death I myself had drawn。 These were the illustrations th