different countenance。 In this way； by the twelfth year； when I returned to my
city at the age of thirty…six； I was painfully aware that my beloved’s face had
long since escaped me。
Many of my friends and relatives had died during my twelve…year exile。 I
visited the cemetery overlooking the Golden Horn and prayed for my mother
and for the uncles who’d passed away in my absence。 The earthy smell of mud
mingled with my memories。 Someone had broken an earthenware pitcher
beside my mother’s grave。 For whatever reason； gazing at the broken pieces； I
began to cry。 Was I crying for the dead or because I was； strangely； still only at
the beginning of my life after all these years？ Or was it because I’d e to the
end of my life’s journey？ A faint snow fell。 Entranced by the flakes blowing
here and there； I became so lost in the vagaries of my life that I didn’t notice
the black dog staring at me from a dark corner of the cemetery。
My tears subsided。 I wiped my nose。 I saw the black dog wagging its tail in
friendship as I left the cemetery。 Sometime later； I settled into our
neighborhood； renting one of the houses where a relative on my father’s side
once lived。 It seems I reminded the landlady of her son who’d been killed by
Safavid Persian soldiers at the front and so she agreed to clean the house and
cook for me。
8
I set out on long and satisfying walks through the streets as if I’d settled not
in Istanbul； but temporarily in one of the Arab cities at the other end of the
world。 The streets had bee narrower； or so it seemed to me。 In certain
areas；