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avoid disturbing the spirit of the Hanged Jew; I cried out:
“What are we to do now?”
“I don’t know;” she said; minding the rules of “love chess。” Walking
through the old garden; she left delicate footprints in the snow—certain to be
erased by the whiteness—and disappeared quietly。
170
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
Doubtless; you too have experienced what I’m about to describe: At times;
while walking through the infinite and winding streets of Istanbul; while
spooning a bite of vegetable stew into my mouth at a public kitchen or
squinting with fixed attention on the curved design of a reed…style border
illumination; I feel I’m living the present as if it were the past。 That is; when
I’m walking down a street whitewashed with snow; I’ll have the urge to say
that I was walking down it。
The extraordinary events I will relate occurred at once in the present and in
the past。 It was evening; the twilight gave way to blackness and a very faint
snow fell as I walked down the street where Enishte Effendi lived。
Unlike other evenings; I’d e here knowing precisely what I wanted。 On
other evenings; my legs would take me here as I absentmindedly thought
about other things: how I’d told my mother I earned seven hundred silver
pieces for a single book; about the covers of Herat volumes with ungilded
ornamental rosettes dating from the time of Tamerlane; about the continued
shock of learning that others still painted under my name or about my
tomfoolery and transgressions。 This time; however;