insolent　toward　my　Enishte　as　he　continued　his　endless　recital—I’d　stand　up。

Affecting　all　the　while　the　demeanor　of　an　attentive　disciple；　quite　enthralled

and　quite　lost　in　thought；　in　order　to　demonstrate　how　intent　I　was　upon　my

Enishte’s story； I’d begin pacing in the room with a preoccupied air； before

approaching　that　suspicious　black　spot　on　the　wall。

When I failed to find Shekure’s eye nesting in what I had taken to be a

peephole；　I’d　be　overe　by　disappointment；　and　then　by　a　strange　feeling　of

loneliness；　by　the　impatience　of　a　man　uncertain　where　to　turn　next。

Now and then； I’d experience such an abrupt and intense feeling that

Shekure was watching me； I’d be so absolutely convinced I was within her

gaze；　that　I’d　start　posing　like　a　man　trying　to　show　he　was　wiser；　stronger　and

more　capable　than　he　really　was　so　as　to　impress　the　woman　he　loved。　Later；

I’d fantasize that Shekure and her boys were paring me with her

husband—the　boys’　missing　father—before　my　mind　would　focus　again　upon

whichever variety of famous Veian illustrator about whose painting

techniques　my　Enishte　was　waxing　philosophic　at　the　moment。　I　longed　to　be

like these newly famed painters solely because Shekure had heard so much

about　them　from　her　father；　illustrators　who　had　earned　their　renown—not

through　suffering　martyrdom　in　cells　like　saints；　or　through　severing　the　heads

of enemy soldiers with a mighty arm and a sharp scimitar； as that absent

husband　had　done—but　on　account　of　a　manuscript　they’d　transcribed　or　a

page　they’d　illuminated。　I　trie