“So tomorrow I’ll come in the late afternoon,” I told them, “when the efendi will be here as well. Don’t expect me any earlier.”
The next day, mounting one of the horses which are for public hire by the Old Bridge, and not sparing the sunburned and naked-legged driver who, wet with perspiration, ran along the road next to the tail of the fast and obedient horse, I arrived at the house much earlier than I had promised. For this reason, I was not surprised to encounter the absence of the welcoming sounds of the Turkish lady behind her net-screened window. However, when the door opened and I saw in front of me a young Turkish boy stupidly looking at me, and not the pale face of Kiamíl, making his low bow, with that eternal, melancholy smile, I felt strangely disorientated. Apart from the chi
