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；