Is it even possible to shock a man who is ready for anything, and who knows exactly what to expect from anyone?

Even so, there remained something about Raif Efendi that troubled me. There were, to my mind, a number of contradictions that the sketch did not explain. The fineness of its execution was anything but amateur. It spoke of long years of practice. There was more here than an eye that could see through to the essence of things. There was also a deft hand that could record that essence in fine and elegant detail.

The door opened. I made to return the sketch to the desk, but I was too late. As Raif Efendi crossed the room with his translation of the letter from the Hungarian firm, I offered my apology: ‘It’s a lovely sketch.’

I thought he’d be taken by surprise, and be worried that I might give him away. Nothing of the sort. With his usual vague and distant smile, he took the sketch from my hand.

‘For a time, many years ago, I was interested in art,’ he said. ‘Every once in a while, I sketch something, just to keep my hand in … silly little things, as you can see … just to kill time …’

Crumpling up the sketch, he tossed it into the wastepaper basket.

‘The secretaries typed this up very fast,’ he murmured. ‘There are probably some mistakes in it, but if I sit down now to read it through, I’ll make Hamdi Bey even angrier … And he’d be right … Best if I take it to him now.’

With that, he left the room. I followed him with my eyes. ‘And he’d be right,’ I said under my breath. ‘And he’d be right.’

From that day on, I took an intense interest in everything Raif Efendi did, no matter how trivial or absurd. Eager to know more about his true identity, I seized every opportunity to speak to him. He gave no indication of having noticed how much more sociable I’d become. Courteous though he was, he remained, nevertheless, aloof. While on the surface we seemed to be making friends, he never opened himself up to me. Especially after I had met his family, and saw at first hand the duties this family placed on him, I became even more curious about him. The closer I got to him, the more puzzles he threw in my path.

It was during one of his customary illnesses that I made my first visit to his house. Hamdi was about to send off a porter with a letter that needed translating by the next day.

‘Give it to me,’ I said. ‘It will give me a chance to say hello.’

‘Good idea … And while you’re there, try and find out what’s wrong with him. He’s really stretching it this time!’

This had, in fact, been one of his longer spells of sickness. He’d been out of the office for more than a week. One of the porters told me where to go: a house in the İsmetpaşa district. It was the middle of winter. I made my way through the streets as night began to fall, passing through narrow streets whose broken pavements seemed a world away from Ankara’s asphalt boulevards. There was one hill, one valley, after another. After a very long walk, having reached what seemed to be the edge of the city, I turned left.