“Sometimes, when I hear the story of the dogs, starving on that island in the Sea of Marmara, it fills me with bitterness. What we humans do to animals is terrible. And to do such a thing in this city, in Istanbul, is a special sacrilege. In the Greek city of Byzantium, ancestor even of Constantinople, which is ancestor to our Istanbul, the Greek colonists worshipped Hecate. She is the goddess of crossroads and gateways. And dogs are Hecate’s sacred animal. So perhaps there is something to the idea of the curse killing those dogs brought down upon the Ottoman Empire.”

The man sipped his tea. “This feeling I have, of disgust and hatred, when I hear of what was done to the dogs— in some people, this feeling is multiplied a hundredfold. In some people, this feeling of disgust at what humans are doing to the world becomes everything for them. They cannot stop thinking of such things—of the terrible cruelties we continue to inflict on the animals unlucky enough to share this planet with us. They feel the need to intervene: to do something to stop the suffering. They have to act: their rage will not allow them any other course of action.

“I imagine if you had this feeling inside you, all the time, you might become capable of many violent, unspeakable things. And if you had wealthy backers, people with the highest connections and a religious zeal for your work, you might be capable of extending your attacks across many borders. If you were such a person, with such connections, you might come to believe that killing was simply a path to a better world. That animals were worth more than people. That people could be murdered to protect animals.”

He paused.

“Do you believe that, Rustem?”

“No. That makes no sense. People are also animals. Even if their lives are worth no more than the lives of animals, certainly they are not worth less.”

“There are those who would call you a cynic, saying a thing like that,” the man said. “But I do not. I understand what you mean. I think we are alike, you and I.”

Meeting the man’s eyes across the table, Rustem believed it was true. There was a likeness between them. A sympathy.

“You are free to go, Rustem.”

“I am?”

“You are. Just walk out through the yellow door behind you. There is a short hallway, then six steps down that lead to another yellow door. That door opens to the street. By the way—remember where that door is. Should you ever need us, come ring the bell. And when the time comes, do what is right.”

Outside, the day was overcast. Rustem was in a neighborhood high up the horn: an area of transition, where many of the old wooden houses were abandoned. A manually driven bulldozer stood in the middle of the street, covered in a torn blue tarpaulin.