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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；