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