wrecked　wood　benches；　broken　low　tables　and　other　debris。

Stacking　long　cushions　atop　one　another；　I　reached　up　and　grabbed　hold　of

the oil lamp。 Within its circle of light； I noticed bodies lying on the floor。

When　I　saw　that　one　face　was　covered　in　blood；　I　turned　away；　and　went　to　the

next。 The second body was moaning； and upon seeing my lamp； made a

childlike　noise。

Someone　else　entered。　At　first　I　was　alarmed；　though　I　could　sense　it　was

Black。 The both of us leaned over the third body sprawled on the floor。 As I

lowered　the　lamp　to　his　head；　we　saw　what　we’d　suspected：　They’d　killed　the

storyteller。

There　was　no　trace　of　blood　on　his　face；　which　was　made　up　like　a　woman’s；

but　his　chin；　brow　and　rouge…covered　mouth　were　battered；　and　judging　by　his

neck； covered in bruises； he’d been throttled。 His hands were cast backward

over　his　head　on　either　side。　It　wasn’t　difficult　to　figure　out　that　one　of　them

held　the　old　man’s　arms　behind　his　back　while　the　others　beat　him　in　the　face

before　strangling　him。　I　wonder；　had　they　said；　“Cut　out　his　tongue　so　he　never

again slanders his Excellency the Preacher Hoja Effendi；” and then set about

doing　so？

“Bring the lamp here；” said Black。 Near the stove； the light of the lamp

struck broken coffee grinders； sieves； scales and pieces of broken coffee cups

lying　in　the　mud　of　spilled　coffee。　In　the　corner　where　the　storyteller　hung　his

pictures each night； Black was searching for the performer’s props； sash；

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magician’s　handkerchief　and　popping　stick。　Black　said　he　was