d　very　hard　to　imagine　the　magnificent　pictures

created by these celebrated illustrators； who were； as my Enishte explained；

inspired　by　the　power　of　the　world’s　mystery　and　its　visible　blackness。　I　tried

so　hard　to　visualize　them—those　masterpieces　my　Enishte　had　seen　and　was

now attempting to describe to one who had never laid eyes on them—that；

finally； when my imagination failed me； I felt only more dejected and

demeaned。

I　looked　up　to　discover　that　Shevket　was　before　me　again。　He　approached

me decisively； and I assumed—as was customary for the oldest male child

among　certain　Arab　tribes　in　Transoxiana　and　among　Circassian　tribes　in　the

Caucasus mountains—that he would not only kiss a guest’s hand at the

beginning of a visit； but also when that guest left。 Caught off guard； I

presented　my　hand　for　him　to　kiss。　At　that　moment；　from　somewhere　not　too

far　away；　I　heard　her　laughter。　Was　she　laughing　at　me？　I　became　flustered　and

to　remedy　the　situation；　I　grabbed　Shevket　and　kissed　him　on　both　cheeks　as

though　this　were　what　was　really　expected　of　me。　Then　I　smiled　at　my　Enishte

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as　though　to　apologize　for　interrupting　him　and　to　assure　him　that　I　meant　no

disrespect；　while　carefully　drawing　the　child　near　to　check　whether　he　bore　his

mother’s　scent。　By　the　time　I　understood　that　the　boy　had　placed　a　crumpled

scrap　of　paper　into　my　hand；　he’d　long　since　turned　his　back　and　walked　some

distance　toward　the　door。

I　clutched　the　scrap　of　paper　in　my　fist　like　a　jewel。　And　when　I　understood

that this was a note from Shekure； out of elat