the cursed and ominous barking of the pesky dogs roaming past the courtyard
gate—I was alarmed； to put it mildly。
“Hayriye；” I shouted。 “Shevket； Orhan…”
I felt a cold draft。 My father’s brazier must be burning； I ought to sit with
him and warm up。 As I went to be with him； holding an oil lamp aloft； my
thoughts weren’t with Black any longer； but with the children。
I crossed the wide hall diagonally； wondering if I should set water to boil on
the downstairs brazier for the gray mullet soup。 I entered the room with the
blue door。 Everything was in shambles。 Without thinking； I was about to say；
“What has my father done？”
Then I saw him on the floor。
I screamed； overe with horror。 Then I screamed again。 Gazing at my
father’s body； I fell silent。
Listen； I can tell by your tight…lipped and cold…blooded reaction that you’ve
known for some time what’s happened in this room。 If not everything； then
quite a lot。 What you’re wondering about now is my reaction to what I’ve
seen； what I feel。 As readers sometimes do when studying a picture； you’re
trying to discern the pain of the hero and thinking about the events in the
story leading up to this agonizing moment。 And then； having considered my
reaction； you’ll take pleasure in trying to imagine； not my pain； but what
you’d feel in my place； had it been your father murdered like this。 I know this
is what you’re so craftily trying to do。
Yes； I returned home in the evening to discover that someone had killed my
father。 Yes； I tore out my hair。 Yes； as I would do in my childhood； I hugged