decided once and for all to take Cyprus from the Veians。 Sheikhulislam
Ebussuut Effendi; recalling that this island was once designated a
missariat for Mecca and Medina; issued a fatwa which more or less stated
that it was inappropriate for an island which had helped sustain holy sites to
remain under Christian infidel control。 In turn; the difficult task of informing
the Veians of this unforeseen decision; that they must surrender their
island; fell to me。 As a result; I was able to tour the cathedrals of Venice。
Though I marveled at their bridges and palazzos; I was most enchanted by the
pictures hanging in Veian homes。 Nevertheless; in the midst of this
bewilderment; trusting in the hospitality displayed by the Veians; I
delivered the menacing correspondence; informing them in a haughty;
supercilious fashion that Our Sultan desired Cyprus。 The Veians were so
angry that in their congress; which had been hastily convened; it was decided
that even to discuss such a letter was unacceptable。 Furious mobs had forced
me to confine myself to the Doge’s palazzo。 And when some rogues managed
to get past the guards and doorkeepers and had set to strangling me; two of
106
the Doge’s personal musketeers succeeded in escorting me out one of the
secret passageways to an exit that opened onto the canal。 There; in a fog not
unlike this one; I thought for an instant that the tall and pale gondolier
dressed in white; who’d taken me by the arm; was none other than Death。 I
caught sight of my reflection in his eyes。
Longingly; I dreamed of finishing my book in secret and returning to
Venice。 I approached the grave; which had been carefully covered with dirt: At
this moment; angels are interrogating him above; asking him whether he is
male or female; his religion and whom he recognizes as his prophet。 The
possibility of my own death came to mind。
A crow alighted beside me。 I gazed lovingly into Black’s eyes and asked him
to take my arm and acpany me on the way back。 I told him I expected him
at the house early the next morning to continue working on the book。 I had
indeed imagined my own death; and realized; once again; that the book must
be pleted; whatever the cost。
107
I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
They threw cold; muddy earth onto the battered and disfigured corpse of ill…
fated Elegant Effendi and I wept more than any of them。 I shouted; “I want to
die with him!” and “Let me share his grave!” and they held me by the waist so
I wouldn’t fall in。 I gasped for air and they pressed their palms to my forehead;