I wondered whether Shekure’s father was aware of the letters we exchanged. If I were to consider her tone, which bespoke a timid maiden quite afraid of her father, I’d have to conclude that not a single word about me had passed between them. Yet, I sensed that this was not the case. The slyness in Esther’s looks, Shekure’s enchanting appearance at the window, the decisiveness with which my Enishte sent me to his illustrators and his despair when he ordered me to come this morning—all of it made me quite uneasy.

In the morning, as soon as my Enishte asked me to sit before him, he began to describe the portraits he saw in Venice. As the ambassador of Our Sultan, Refuge of the World, he’d visited quite a number of palazzos, churches and the houses of prosperous men. Over a period of days, he stood before thousands of portraits. He saw thousands of framed faces depicted on stretched canvas or wood or painted directly onto walls. “Each one was different from the next. They were distinctive, unique human faces!” he said. He was intoxicated by their variety, their colors, the pleasantness—even severity—of the soft light that seemed to fall on them and the meaning emanating from their eyes.

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