“My tooth is loose；” said Orhan。
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At the same time； another part of my mind was concentrating on what was
transpiring between my father and Black。
The blue door of the workshop was open； and I could easily hear them：
“After beholding the portraits of the Veian masters； we realize with
horror；” said my father； “that； in painting； eyes can no longer simply be holes
in a face； always the same； but must be just like our own eyes； which reflect
light like a mirror and absorb it like a well。 Lips can no longer be a crack in the
middle of faces flat as paper； but must be nodes of expression—each a
different shade of red—fully expressing our joys； sorrows and spirits with their
slightest contraction or relaxation。 Our noses can no longer be a kind of wall
that divides our faces； but rather； living and curious instruments with a form
unique to each of us。”
Was Black as surprised as I was that my father referred to those infidel
gentlemen who had their pictures made as “we”？ When I looked through the
peephole； I found Black’s face to be so pale that I was momentarily alarmed。
My dark beloved； my troubled hero； were you unable to sleep for thinking of
me the whole night？ Is that why the blush has left your face？
Perhaps you aren’t aware that Black is a tall； thin and handsome man。 He
has a broad