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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