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 roses. Say that you are not going back, my little one."

Again I shook my head. "When I left there, my Ali Baba, I bought my return-ticket. I wear it like an amulet around my neck. I am going back as soon as my presence is no longer needed here."

He let his oars drop. "You are going back?" he asked with awe. "But why?"

I looked at him, and beyond him at old Byzantium—once Greek, now full of minarets and mosques and all they stood for. A red Turkish flag floated idly against the indigo sky.

Why was I going back to that vast new country so diametrically different from his own? Could I explain to him?

No, I could not, any more than I could have explained, years ago, to my little Turkish Kiamelé the meaning of my grand-uncle's gift on my fifth birthday.

"Why are you going back?" Ali Baba insisted.

No, I could not tell him: he could not understand.

His flag was the Crescent, mine was the Cross.