「What about the one in my Enishte』s book?」

We also agreed that it was wrong for the Sultan to allow the master miniaturists to work at home. We recalled the marvelous warm halva that came to us from the palace kitchen on early winter evenings after we』d worked with aching eyes by the light of oil lamps and candles. Laughing and with tears in our eyes, we remembered how the elderly and senile master gilder, who was stricken with chronic trembling and could take up neither pen nor paper, on his monthly workshop visits brought fried dough-balls in heavy syrup that his daughter had made for us apprentices. We talked about the exquisite pages rendered by the dearly departed Black Memi, Head Illuminator before Master Osman, discovered in his room, which remained empty for days after his funeral, within the portfolio found beneath the light mattress he』d spread out and use for catnaps in the afternoons.

「All fables are everybody』s fables,」 said Black.

「We』ve known Elegant Effendi since childhood. He』s very orderly, quiet, ordinary and colorless, like his gilding. It was as if the man standing before me then was dumber, more naive, more devout, yet more superficial than the Elegant we knew.」

What I saw from ground level filled my thoughts: The road inclining slightly upward, the wall, the arch, the roof of the workshop, the sky…this is how the picture receded.

Nevertheless, what Black threatened to do didn』t please the other two. What if it became evident that somebody else was guilty and Our Sultan learned they blinded me for no reason whatsoever? They were terrified both of Black』s closeness to Master Osman and his insolence toward him. They tried to pull back the needle which Black, in blind rage, persisted in holding before my eyes.

As she recounted, I thought about where my unfortunate father was. Learning that the murderer had received his due punishment at first put my fears to rest. And revenge lent me a feeling of comfort and justice. At that instant, I wondered intensely whether my now-dead father could experience this feeling; suddenly, it seemed to me that the entire world was like a palace with countless rooms whose doors opened into one another. We were able to pass from one room to the next only by exercising our memories and imaginations, but most of us, in our laziness, rarely exercised these capacities, and forever remained in the same room.

We recalled how we』d started our workshop apprenticeships in the same year, the strange sadness of being torn away from our mothers to suddenly begin a new life, the pain of beatings we received from the first day, the joy of the first gifts from the Head Treasurer, and the days we went back home, running

fountain?」 When no one went to his aid, he』d say, 「It』d be a good turn, my children, a pious deed!」 The color of his irises had faded and they were nearly the same color as the whites of his eyes.

「Yet this will bring even greater trouble upon us,」 said my beloved Butterfly.

There were rumors, spreading from the officers of the Imperial Guard to the division of miniaturists, claiming that the mystery about the murderer of Elegant Effendi and late Enishte was solved: He was one of us who』d labored over that book.

「He』s fled to India on the ship that departed from Galleon Harbor,」 he said and avoided my eyes, knowing that he hadn』t properly accomplished his task.

「We,」 Black was referring to Stork and himself, 「will search the dervish house for the last picture which was stolen by the accursed man who murdered my Enishte. Did you ever see that last picture?」

1300–1922: The Ottoman Empire, a Sunni Muslim power, ruled southeastern Europe, the Middle East and North Africa. At its greatest extent, the empire reached the gates of Vienna and Persia.

We helped Black down from the horse. We brought him upstairs, and settled him into the bed in my

The heavy door of the workshop was closed. There was nobody at the entrance or under the arched portico above. I was able to look up only momentarily at the shuttered small windows from which, as apprentices stifled by boredom, we used to stare at the trees, before I was accosted.

They rested the dagger against my throat, and I saw at once how this gave Black a pleasure that he could not conceal. They slapped me. Was the dagger cutting my skin? They slapped me again.

「You searched and searched but you couldn』t find my hidden treasure,」 I said.

「If you tell us before the blood clots in your eyes, in the morning you can look upon the world to your heart』s content one last time,」 said Black. 「See, the rain has eased.」

「Aye,」 said Stork, 「going blind and fleeing to nonexistent countries.」

How very ridiculous. I firmly closed my lips, as if the truth would escape if I opened my mouth. Part of me also thought that there was nothing left for me to do. If they came to an agreement among themselves and turned me over to the Head Treasurer as the murderer, they』d end up saving their own hides. My only hope lay with Master Osman, who might point out another suspect or another clue; but then, could I be certain what Black said about him was correct? He could kill me here and now, and later place the onus on me, couldn』t he?

Although I tried at length to persuade them that it would work quite against us to quarrel, it was to no avail. They had no intention of listening to me. They were panicked. If they could only decide quickly, before morning, right or wrong, which of their lot was guilty, they were convinced they could save themselves, be delivered from torture and that everything having to do with the workshop would persist for years to come as it always had.

I』d hardly taken two steps toward him when Black dutifully pounced upon me. In one hand I held my satchel containing my clothes and gold coins, and under my other arm, the portfolio filled with pictures. Taking care to protect my belongings, I failed to protect myself. I couldn』t prevent him from grabbing the forearm of the hand that held the dagger. But luck did not shine upon him, either; he tripped slightly over a low worktable and momentarily lost his balance. Instead of taking control of my arm, he ended up hanging by it. Kicking him with all my might and biting his fingers, I freed myself. He howled, fearing for his life. Then, I stepped on the same hand, causing him great pain. Brandishing the dagger before the other two, I shouted:「Halt!」

「Quickly, tell us,」 said Black. 「How did you meet up with Elegant Effendi that night? Then we』ll unhand you.」

gold pieces that I』ve spent my entire life collecting. I thought about how we』d be searched again on account of this wretched murderer—and I was right. If that last picture were with me, it would be here.」

I』ve taken this comparison from Abu Said of Kirman who included the stories of the old masters of Shiraz and Herat in his History of the sons of Tamerlane. Thirty years ago, Jihan Shah, ruler of the Blacksheep, came to the East where he routed the small armies and ravaged the lands of the Timurid khans and shahs who were fighting among themselves. With his victorious Turkmen hordes, he passed through the whole of Persia into the East; finally, at Astarabad, he defeated Ibrahim, the grandson of Shah Ruh who was Tamerlane』s son; he then took Gorgan and sent his armies against the fortress of Herat. According to the historian from Kirman, this devastation, not only to Persia, but to the heretofore undefeated power of the House of Tamerlane, which had ruled over half the world from Hindustan to Byzantium for half a century, caused such a tempest of destruction that pandemonium reigned over the men and women in the besieged fortress of Herat. The historian Abu Said reminds the reader with perverse pleasure how Jihan Shah of the Blacksheep mercilessly killed everyone who was a descendant of Tamerlane in the fortresses he conquered; how he selectively culled women from the harems of shahs and princes and added them to his own harem; and how he pitilessly separated miniaturist from miniaturist and cruelly forced most of them to serve as apprentices to his own master illuminators. At this point in his History, he turns his attentions from the shah and his warriors who tried to repel the enemy from the crenellated towers of the fortress, to the miniaturists among their pens and paints in the workshop awaiting the terrifying culmination of the siege whose outcome was long evident. He lists the names of the artists, declaring one after another how they were world-renowned and would never be forgotten, and these illuminators, all of whom, like the women of the shah』s harem, have since been forgotten, embraced each other and wept, unable to do anything but recall their former days of bliss.

「I, too, grow anxious,」 I said. 「For I have heard such rumors as well.」

He had a shrill voice that clawed at one』s ears. He said that the bloody ruby-handled dagger in my hand belonged to him and that his nephew, Shevket, and Shekure had conspired to steal it from his house. This was apparently proof enough that I was one of Black』s men who raided his house at night to abduct Shekure. This arrogant, shrill-voiced, irate man also knew Black』s artist friends and that they would return to the workshop. He brandished a long sword that shimmered brightly with a strange red and indicated that he had a number of accounts that, for whatever reason, he meant to settle with me. I considered telling him that there was some misunderstanding, but I saw the incredible anger on his face. I could read in his expression that he was about to launch a sudden murderous assault on me. How I would』ve liked to say, 「I beg of you, stop.」

One of them sat on my knees. Another on my right arm.

There were witnesses to the ordeal: Hasan, encountering Olive, had drawn his red sword and cut off Olive』s head in a single stroke.

「This is nothing but the will of Satan.」

I knew I』d been beheaded from the two odd steps taken by my poor body which had left me behind in its confusion, from the stupid manner in which my hand waved the dagger and from the way my lonely body collapsed, blood spraying from the neck like a fountain. My poor feet, which continued to move as though still walking, kicked uselessly like the legs of a dying horse.

At this point I knew I couldn』t go on and I told them so. 「If you were in my shoes, you would』ve considered the salvation of your artist brethren and done the same thing,」 I said confidently.

1370–1405: Reign of the Turkic ruler Tamerlane. Subdued the areas that the Blacksheep ruled in Persia. Tamerlane conquered areas from Mongolia to the Mediterranean including parts of Russia, India, Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq and Anatolia (where he defeated the Ottoman Sultan Bayazid I in 1402).

Black pressed a knee into each of my shoulders; he firmly situated his weight between my stomach and chest, and sat on me. I was completely immobilized. All of us were stunned and breathing hard. This is what I remembered:My late uncle had a rogue son two years older than me—I hope he』s been caught in the act of raiding caravans and has long since been beheaded. This jealous beast, realizing I knew more than he and was also more intelligent and refined, would find any excuse to pick a fight, or else he』d insist that we wrestle, and after quickly pinning me, he』d hold me down with his knees on my shoulders in this same way; he』d stare into my eyes, the way Black was now doing, and let a string of saliva hang down, slowly directing it toward my eyes as it gained mass, and he』d be greatly entertained as I tried to avoid it by turning my head to the right and to the left.

1566–74: The reign of Ottoman Sultan Selim II. Peace treaties signed with Austria and Persia.

would never again turn and see them, or the rest of the world. I forgot about them and let my thoughts take me away.

「Nothing seems to have changed.」

「During the nights I spent here staring at this picture by the light of an oil lamp, I felt for the first time that God had forsaken me and only Satan would befriend me in my isolation,」 I said. 「I know that even if I were truly the center of the world—and each time I looked at the picture this is precisely what I wanted—despite the splendor of the red that ruled the painting, despite being surrounded by all of these things I loved, including my dervish companions and the woman who resembled beautiful Shekure, I』d still be lonely. I』m not afraid of possessing character and individuality, nor do I fear others bowing down and worshiping me; on the contrary, this is what I desire.」

「I didn』t make that one either.」

1603–17: The reign of Ottoman Sultan Ahmet I, who destroyed the large clock with statuary sent to the sultan as a present by Queen Elizabeth I.

My son Orhan, who』s foolish enough to be logical in all matters, reminds me on the one hand that the time-halting masters of Herat could never depict me as I am, and on the other hand, that the Frankish masters who perpetually painted mother-with-child portraits could never stop time. He』s been insisting for years that my picture of bliss could never be painted anyhow.

But he』d already acted.

and beloved to you all, he doesn』t see that he associates all of you with himself and each of you with the others. He didn』t want you each to have a style of your own, he wanted the royal atelier as a whole to have a style. Because of the awesome shadow he cast over all of you, you forgot what came from within, the imperfections, the elements and differences that fell outside the confines of standard forms. Only when you painted for other books and other pages, which Master Osman』s eyes would never see, did you draw the horse that had lain within you all those years.」

Even so, as my screaming persisted, their nervousness increased. I could no longer feel any pain. All I could think was that my eyes had been pierced with a needle.

My father』s book, sadly, remained unfinished. From where Hasan scattered the completed pages on the ground, they were transferred to the Treasury; there, an efficient and fastidious librarian had them bound together with other unrelated illustrations belonging to the workshop, and thus they were separated into several bound albums. Hasan fled Istanbul, and disappeared, never to be heard from again. Shevket and Orhan never forgot that it wasn』t Black but their Uncle Hasan who was the one who killed my father』s murderer.

I thought for a moment that he would hit me, and in that instant, I also knew beautiful Shekure』s new husband really had nothing to complain about in the murder of his Enishte. He wouldn』t strike me, and even if he did, it made no difference to me any longer.

「The first one I made was Satan. It was of the variety of underground demon common to the old masters in the workshops of the Whitesheep. The storyteller and I were of the same Sufi path; that』s why I made the two dervishes. I was the one who suggested to Enishte that he include them in his book, convincing him that there was a special place for these dervishes in the lands of the Ottomans.」

「This deed,」 I said, recognizing that I couldn』t use the word 「murder,」 「I committed this deed not only for us, to save us, but for the salvation of the entire workshop. Elegant Effendi knew he posed a powerful threat. I prayed to Almighty God, begging him to give me a sign showing me how despicable this scoundrel really was. My prayers were answered when I offered Elegant money. God had shown me how wretched he really was. These gold pieces came to mind, but by divine inspiration, I lied. I said the gold pieces weren』t here in the lodge, but I』d hidden them elsewhere. We went out. I walked him through empty streets and out-of-the-way neighborhoods without any consideration for where we were going. I had no idea what I would do, and in short, I was afraid. At the end of our wandering, after we』d come to a street we』d passed earlier, our brother Elegant Effendi the gilder, who devoted his entire life to form and repetition, grew suspicious. But God provided me with an empty lot ravaged by fire, and nearby, a dry well.」

「After surrendering Elegant Effendi to the Angels of Allah,」 I said thoughtfully, 「what the dearly departed expressed to me in his last moments started to gnaw at me like a worm. Having caused me to bloody my hands, the final painting loomed larger in my mind, and so, resolving to see it, I went to your Enishte, who no longer summoned any of us to his house. Not only did he refuse to reveal the painting, he behaved as if nothing were the matter. There was, he sniffled, neither a painting nor anything else so mysterious that it called for murder! To preempt further humiliation, and to get his attention, I thereupon confessed that I was the one who killed Elegant Effendi and tossed him into a well. Yes, then he took me more seriously, but he continued to humiliate me all the same. How could a man who humiliates his son be a father? Great Master Osman would become irate with us, he』d beat us, but he never once humiliated us. Oh my brothers, we』ve made a grave mistake by betraying him.」

nothing but evil.「 He was convinced the preacher hoja from Erzurum would hear the rumors that in the final picture we』d veered from the orders of Our Sultan, who』d never forgive this transgression. Convincing him everything was clear skies and sunshine was nearly impossible. He』d tell all to the preacher』s dull congregation, exaggerating Enishte』s absurdities, the anxieties about affronts to the religion and rendering the Devil in a favorable light, and they』d naturally believe every slanderous word. I don』t have to tell you how, not only the artisans, but the entire society of craftsmen have grown jealous of us since we』ve become the intense focus of Our Sultan』s attention. Now all of them will gleefully dechｔｔｐs://reａｄ•9９ｃｓｗ•ｃomlare in unison 」the miniaturists are mired in heresy.「 Furthermore, the cooperation between Enishte and Elegant Effendi would prove this slander true. I say 」slander「 because I don』t believe in what my brother Elegant said about the book and the last picture. Even then, I would hear nothing against your late Enishte. I found it quite appropriate that Our Sultan turn his favors from Master Osman to Enishte Effendi, and I even believed, if not to the same degree, what Enishte described to me at length about the Frankish masters and their artistry. I used to believe quite sincerely that we Ottoman artists could comfortably take from this or that aspect of the Frankish methods as much as our hearts desired or as much as could be seen during a visit abroad—without bartering with the Devil or bringing any great harm upon us. Life was easy; your Enishte, may he rest in peace, had succeeded Master Osman, and was a new father to me in this new life.」

「Everybody secretly desires to have a style,」 said Black smartly. 「Everybody also desires to have his portrait made, just as Our Sultan did.」

「We can safely take refuge here for days.」

1501–1736: The Safavid Empire ruled in Persia. The establishment of Shia Islam as the state religion helped unify the empire. The seat of the empire was at first located in Tabriz, then moved to Kazvin, and later, to Isfahan. The first Safavid ruler, Shah Ismail (reigned 1501–24), subdued the areas that the Whitesheep ruled in Azerbaijan and Persia. Persia weakened appreciably during the rule of Shah Tahmasp I (reigned 1524–76).

「It is nothing that could be accepted by Our Sultan, illuminators like us bound to the old masters or by Muslims bound to their faith,」 I said and fell silent.

Black inquired as to how many pictures I』d drawn for Enishte』s book.

Black and Esther told me on different occasions how the clock, as well as being the focus of endless astonishment on the part of Istanbul』s riffraff and dull-witted mobs, was understandably a source of discomfort to the pious and to Our Sultan because it symbolized the power of the infidel. In a time when rumors of this sort abounded, Sultan Ahmed, the subsequent sovereign, woke up in the middle of the night under Allah』s instigation, seized His mace and descended from the harem to the Private Garden where He shattered the clock and its statues to pieces. Those who brought us the news and the rumors explained how as Our Sultan slept, He saw the sacred face of Our Exalted Prophet bathed in holy light and how the Apostle of God warned Him: If Our Sultan allowed his subjects to be awed by pictures and, worse yet, by objects that mimicked Mankind and thus competed with Allah』s creations, the sovereign would be diverging from divine will. They also added that Our Sultan had taken up His mace while still dreaming. This was more or less how Our Sultan dictated the event to His faithful historian. He had this book, entitled The Quintessence of Histories, prepared by calligraphers, upon whom He lavished purses full of gold, though He forbade its illustration by miniaturists.

this world; and thus, I』d imbued the painting with a terrifying aura of mystery.

「How did he respond?」

The shade and the heat are not equal, nor are the living and the dead.「

「It was due to the love and beatings he gave all of you in your childhood. Because he was both father

I thought my tears would quickly abate, but unable to restrain myself, I began to cry in great sobs. As I wept, I could sense that each of the others was overcome by feelings of fraternity, devastation and sorrow. From now on, the European style would be preeminent in Our Sultan』s workshop; the styles and books to which we』d devoted our entire lives would slowly be forgotten—yes, in fact, the whole venture would come to an end, and if the Erzurumis didn』t throttle us and finish us off, the Sultan』s torturers would leave us maimed…But as I cried, sobbed and sighed—even though I continued to listen to the sad patter of the rain—a part of my mind sensed that these were not the things I was actually crying about. To what extent were the others aware of this? I felt vaguely guilty for my tears, which were at once genuine and false.

「When I asked him this very question, he opened his eyes wide in surprise as if to say, You mean you don』t know? It was then I thought how our friend had aged, as have we all. He said unfortunate Enishte had brazenly used the perspectival method in the last picture. In this picture, objects weren』t depicted according to their importance in Allah』s mind, but as they appeared to the naked eye—the way the Franks painted. This was the first transgression. The second was depicting Our Sultan, the Caliph of Islam, the same size as a dog. The third transgression also involved rendering Satan the same size, and in an endearing light. But what surpassed them all—a natural result of introducing this Frankish understanding into our painting—was drawing Our Sultan』s picture as large as life and his face in all its detail! Just like the idolators do…Or just like the 」portraits』 that Christians, who couldn』t save themselves from their inherent idolatrous tendencies, painted upon their church walls and worshiped. Elegant Effendi, who learned of portraits from your Enishte, knew this quite well, and believed correctly that portraiture was the greatest of sins, and would be the downfall of Muslim painting. As we hadn』t gone to the coffeehouse, where, he claimed, our exalted Preacher Effendi and our religion were being maligned, he explained all this to me while we walked down the street. Occasionally, he』d stop, as though seeking help, ask me whether all of this was indeed correct, whether there wasn』t any recourse

Next, we recalled legendary Rüstem, who unknowingly killed his son Suhrab, commander of the enemy army that Rüstem had battled for three days. There was something that touched us all in the way Rüstem beat his breast in tearful anguish when he saw the armband he had given the boy』s mother years ago and recognized as his own son the enemy whose chest he』d ravished with thrusts of the sword.

In place of Master Osman, who died two years after going blind, Stork became Head Illuminator. Butterfly, who was also quite in awe of my late father』s talents, devoted the rest of his life to drawing ornamental designs for carpets, cloths and tents. The young assistant masters of the workshop gave

「No Muslim would ever feel such torment and regret for inadvertently committing a sin,」 I said. 「A good Muslim knows God is just and reasonable enough to consider the intent of His servants. Only pea-brained ignoramuses believe they』ll go to Hell for eating pork unawares. Anyway, a genuine Muslim knows the fear of damnation serves to frighten others, not himself. This is what Elegant Effendi was doing, you see, he wanted to scare me. It was your Enishte who taught him that he might do such a thing; and it was then I knew that this was indeed the case. Now, tell me in complete honesty, my dear illuminator brethren, has the blood begun to clot in my eyes, have my eyes lost their color?」

This endless waiting suddenly assumed such bitter and tedious proportions, I wanted nothing more than to quit this time.

pity. The raiding of the coffeehouse merely rubs salt into our wounds, because half the blame for this incident will fall to us miniaturists, who』ve slandered the respected preacher.」

Of course, it wasn』t artistry but beautiful Shekure that was his sole source of happiness. I removed the bloodstained dagger from Black』s bleeding nose and raised it over his head like the sword of an executioner preparing to behead a condemned man.

「Is that all?」 asked Black.

1520–66: Süleyman the Magnificent and the Golden Age of Ottoman Culture. The reign of Ottoman Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent. Important conquests expanded the empire to the east and the west, including the first seige of Vienna (1529) and the capture of Baghdad from the Safavids (1535).

「They won』t fade right away,」 said Black with determination. 「Believe me, Master Osman could still identify the horses with cut-open nostrils after his eyes had been pierced.」

Yet my arm acted of its own accord, heedless of my words. I drove the dagger down upon Black with all my might.

She was so excited she began without embracing or kissing me: Olive』s severed head was found in front of the workshop; the pictures proving his guilt in the crimes and his satchel had also been recovered. He was intending to flee to Hindustan, but had decided first to call at the workshop one last time.

Black removed an object from his sash: a needle with a sharpened point. In an instant, he brought it to my face and made a gesture as if to plunge it into my eyes.

C. 1141–1209: The Persian poet Nizami lived. He wrote the romantic epic the Quintet, comprised of the following stories, all of which have inspired miniaturist painters: The Treasury of Mysteries, Hüsrev and Shirin, Leyla and Mejnun, The Seven Beauties and The Book of Alexander the Great.

At the peak of pleasure, he cried out like the legendary heroes cut clear in half with a single stroke of the sword in fabled pictures that immortalized the clash of Persian and Turanian armies; the fact that this cry could be heard throughout the neighborhood frightened me. Like a genuine master miniaturist at the moment of greatest inspiration, holding his reed under the direct guidance of Allah, yet still able to take into consideration the form and composition of the entire page, Black continued to direct our place in the world from a corner of his mind even through his highest excitement.

「If I so desired, I could cut off your head this instant,」 I said, announcing what was already apparent. 「But I』m prepared to spare you for the sake of Shekure』s children and her happiness. Be good to her and don』t act crudely and ignorantly toward her. Promise me!」

I can』t say I completely understood why Persian poets, who for centuries had likened that male tool to a reed pen, also compared the mouths of us women to inkwells, or what lay behind such comparisons whose origins had been forgotten through rote repetition—was it the smallness of the mouth? The arcane silence of the inkwell? Was it that God Himself was an illuminator? Love, however, must be understood, not through the logic of a woman like me who continually racks her brain to protect herself, but through its illogic.

The satchel dropped. In one smooth motion, without losing speed, the sword cut first through my hand and then clear through my neck, lopping off my head.

The rain continued its patter on the roof of the dervish lodge and I paced back and forth. Suddenly I said the following:「Either our father, Master Osman, will betray and kill us, or we shall betray and kill him.」

1583: The Persian miniaturist Velijan (Olive), about ten years after coming to Istanbul, is commissioned to work for the Ottoman court.

「Was Master Osman able to explain why, for years, I drew hundreds of horses with regular nostrils in Our Sultan』s books?」 I asked.

1556–1605: Reign of Akbar, Emperor of Hindustan, a descendant of Tamerlane and Genghis Khan. He established miniaturists』 workshops in Agra.

He began to beat me angrily, as if I』d enraged him by answering his kiss with a kiss. But the others restrained him. They experienced a moment of indecision. Black was upset that there was a scuffle among them. It was as if they weren』t angry with me, but with the direction in which their lives were headed, and as a result, they wanted to take their revenge against the entire world.

My statement made him more eager. He and Stork began their search of the premises, turning the whole place upside down. A few times, simply to make their work easier, I went to them. In one of the dervish cells with a leaky ceiling, I pointed out the hole in the floor so they wouldn』t fall and could search it if they so desired. I gave them the large key to the small room in which the sheikh lived thirty years ago, before the adherents of this lodge joined up with the Bektashis and dispersed. They entered eagerly, but when they saw that an entire wall was missing and the room was open to the rain, they didn』t even bother to search it.

I sensed that he would die upon arriving home and I pitied him. Not because he would die alone, but because he』d never known any true happiness. I could see from the sorrow and determination in his eyes that he wished not to be in this strange house, and that he actually wanted to disappear without being seen by anybody in this horrible state. With some difficulty, they mounted him on a horse.

「I pity beautiful Shekure because she had no alternative but to marry you,」 I said. 「If I hadn』t been forced to kill Elegant Effendi to save you all from ruin, she would』ve married me and been happy. Indeed, I was the one who most fully understood the tales and talents of the Europeans as her father recounted them to us. So, listen carefully to the last of what I will tell you: There is no longer any place here in Istanbul for us master miniaturists who wish to live by skill and honor alone. Yes, this is what I』ve realized. If we』re reduced to imitating the Frankish masters, as the late Enishte and Our Sultan desired, we will be restrained, if not by the Ezurumis and those like Elegant Effendi, then by the justified cowardice within us, and we won』t be able to continue. If we fall sway to the Devil and continue, betraying everything that has come before in a futile attempt to attain a style and European character, we will still fail—just as I failed in making this self-portrait despite all my proficiency and knowledge. This primitive picture I』ve made, without even achieving a fair resemblance of myself, revealed to me what we』ve know all along without admitting it: The proficiency of the Franks will take centuries to attain. Had Enishte Effendi』s book been completed and sent to them, the Venetian masters would』ve smirked, and their ridicule would』ve reached the Venetian Doge—that is all. They』d have quipped that the Ottomans have given up being Ottoman and would no longer fear us. How wonderful it would be if we could persist on the path of the old masters! But no one wants this, neither His Excellency Our Sultan, nor Black Effendi—who is melancholy because he has no portrait of his precious Shekure. In that case, sit yourselves down and do nothing but ape the Europeans century after century! Proudly sign your names to your imitation paintings. The old masters of Herat tried to depict the world the way God saw it, and to conceal their individuality they never signed their names. You, however, are condemned to signing your names to conceal your lack of individuality. But there is an alternative. Each of you has perhaps been summoned, and if so, you』re hiding it from me: Akbar, Sultan of Hindustan, is strewing about money and blandishments, trying to gather in his court the most talented artists in the world. It』s quite apparent that the book to be completed for the thousandth year of Islam will not be prepared here in Istanbul, but in the workshops of Agra.」

I was not yet blind. Thank goodness I could still see them watching me in terror and sorrow, I could still see their shadows moving aimlessly on the ceiling of the lodge. This at once pleased and alarmed me. 「Unhand me,」 I screamed. 「Unhand me so I can see everything once more, I implore you.」

As soon as she』d left, I warned Hayriye not to let the children upstairs. I went up to the room where Black lay, locked the door behind me and cuddled up eagerly next to Black』s naked body. Then, more out of curiosity than desire, more out of care than fear, I did what Black wanted me to do in the house of the Hanged Jew the night my poor father was killed.

Butterfly came up beside me, placed his arm upon my shoulder, stroked my hair, kissed my cheek and comforted me with honeyed words. This show of friendship made me cry with even more sincerity and guilt. I couldn』t see his face but, for some reason, I incorrectly thought he too was crying. We sat down.

So, let me tell you a secret: There, in that room that smelled of death, it wasn』t the object in my mouth that delighted me. What delighted me then, lying there with the entire world throbbing between my lips, was the happy twittering of my sons cursing and roughhousing with each other in the courtyard.

laughed to himself, chortling and mumbling 「patience, patience, patience」 when he dribbled paint; the septuagenarian master gilder who spent hour upon hour talking to the binder』s apprentices downstairs and claimed that red ink applied to the forehead stopped aging; the ornery master who relied on an unsuspecting apprentice or even randomly stopped anyone passing by to test the consistency of paint upon their fingernails after his own nails were completely filled; and the portly artist who made us laugh as he caressed his beard with the furry rabbit』s foot used to collect the excess flecks of gold dust used in gilding? Where were they all?

In the hopes that he might pen this story, which is beyond depiction, I』ve told it to my son Orhan. Without hesitation I gave him the letters Hasan and Black sent me, along with the rough horse illustrations with the smeared ink, which were found on poor Elegant Effendi. Above all, don』t be taken in by Orhan if he』s drawn Black more absentminded than he is, made our lives harder than they are, Shevket worse and me prettier and harsher than I am. For the sake of a delightful and convincing story, there isn』t a lie Orhan wouldn』t deign to tell.

A hollowness and depression descended upon us. In the pale light of the lamp, Stork and Butterfly were staring at the vulgar pictures in my sketchbook. They d九_九_藏_書isplayed an air of complete indifference; in fact, they were even happy in some horrid way. I had a strong urge to look at the picture—I could very well surmise which one it was; I rose and circled around behind them, gazing silently at the obscene picture I』d painted, thrilled as though I were recalling a now distant yet blissful memory. Black joined us. For whatever reason, that the four of us were looking at that illustration relieved me.

「But East is east and West is west,」 said Black.

While my mouth was thus occupied, my eyes could make out Black looking at me in a completely different way. He said he』d never again forget my face and my mouth. As with some of my father』s old books, his skin smelled of moldy paper, and the scent of the Treasury』s dust and cloth had saturated his hair. As I let myself go and caressed his wounds, his cuts and swellings, he groaned like a child, moving further and further away from death, and it was then I understood I would become even more attached to him. Like a solemn ship that gains speed as its sails swell with wind, our gradually quickening lovemaking took us boldly into unfamiliar seas.

「Based on the style of the horse, however, it』s been determined that you』re the one who drew it,」 he said. 「Furthermore, it was Master Osman who came to this conclusion.」

「Don』t cry, my dear,」 said Esther. 「You see, in the end everything has turned out fine.」

father』s room, the one with the blue door. Hayriye boiled water and brought it upstairs. Hayriye and I undressed him, tearing his clothes and cutting them with scissors, removing the bloodied shirt stuck to his flesh, his sash, his shoes and his underclothes. When we opened the shutters, the soft winter sunlight playing on the branches in the garden filled the room, reflected off the ewers, pots, glue boxes, inkwells, pieces of glass and penknives, and illuminated Black』s deathly pale skin, and his flesh- and sour-cherry-colored wounds.

「Get inside,」 I said.

I paced to and fro, my head swarmed with words, but as in a dream, my voice would not take.

「You weren』t the one who made this horse?」 said Black like a teacher holding a switch.

Thus withered the red rose of the joy of painting and illumination that had bloomed for a century in Istanbul, nurtured by inspiration from the lands of Persia. The conflict between the methods of the old masters of Herat and the Frankish masters that paved the way for quarrels among artists and endless quandries was never resolved. For painting itself was abandoned; artists painted neither like Easterners nor Westerners. The miniaturists did not grow angry and revolt, but like old men who quietly succumb to an illness, they gradually accepted the situation with humble grief and resignation. They were neither curious about nor dreamed about the work of the great masters of Herat and Tabriz, whom they once followed with awe, or the Frankish masters, whose innovative methods they aspired to, caught indecisively between envy and hatred. Just as the doors of houses are closed of an evening and the city is left to darkness, painting was also abandoned. It was mercilessly forgotten that we』d once looked upon our world quite differently.

「Will you take out the final picture?」 Black said.

In the third year of Our Sultan』s reign, the Queen of England sent His Excellency a miraculous clock that contained a musical instrument with a bellows. An English delegation assembled this enormous clock after weeks of toil with various pieces, cogs, pictures and statuettes that they brought with them

I couldn』t sleep, however. After the morning prayers, looking out on the street through the shutters of the window in the small, dark room, I saw what I』d always seen in my happy dreams: A ghostly man, exhausted from warring and the wounds he』d received, brandishing a stick as if it were a sword, longingly approach me with familiar steps. In my dream, whenever I was on the verge of embracing this

the whole way. At first, only he talked while I listened sorrowfully, but later, when Stork and, sometime afterward, Black—who came to the workshop for a time and left it, during our early apprenticeship years—joined our mournful conversation, I forgot that I』d just been crying and began to talk and laugh freely with them.

1370–1526: The Timurid Dynasty, established by Tamerlane, fostered a brilliant revival of artistic and intellectual life, and ruled in Persia, central Asia and Transoxiana. The schools of miniature painting at Shiraz, Tabriz and Herat flourished under the Timurids. In the early fifteenth century Herat was the center of painting in the Islamic world and home to the great master Bihzad.

I screamed at Butterfly, who had stood up, and thus scared him into sitting back down. Now, confident I』d be able to escape the lodge safely, I hastened toward the door; and at the threshold, I impatiently uttered the momentous words I』d been planning to say:「My flight from Istanbul shall resemble Ibn Shakir』s flight from Baghdad under Mongol occupation.」

We reminisced about winter mornings when we would wake early, light the stove in the largest room of the workshop and mop the floors with hot water. We recalled an old 「master,」 may he rest in peace, who was so uninspired and cautious that he could draw only a single leaf of a single tree during the span of a single day and who, when he saw that we were again looking at the lush green leaves of the springtime trees through the open window rather than at the leaf he drew, without striking us, would chastise us for the hundredth time: 「Not out there, in here!」 We recalled the wailing, which could be heard throughout the entire atelier, of the scrawny apprentice who walked toward the door, satchel in hand, having been sent back home because the intensity of the work caused one of his eyes to wander. Next, we imagined how we watched (with pleasure because it wasn』t our fault) the slow spread of a deadly red seeping from a bronze inkpot that had cracked over a page three illuminators had labored on for three months (it depicted the Ottoman army on the banks of the K 1n 1k River en route to Shirvan, overcoming the threat of starvation by occupying Eresh and filling their stomachs). In a refined and respectful manner, we talked about how the three of us together made love to and together fell in love with a Circasian lady, the most beautiful of the wives of a seventy-year-old pasha who—in consideration of his conquests, strength and wealth—wanted ceiling ornamentation in his home made in imitation of the designs in Our Sultan』s hunting lodge. Then, we longingly recalled how on winter mornings we would have our lentil soup on the threshold of the yawning door so its steam wouldn』t soften the paper. We also lamented being separated from workshop friends and masters when the latter compelled us to travel to distant places to serve as journeymen. For a time, the sweetness of my dear Butterfly in his sixteenth year appeared before my eyes: He was burnishing paper to a high gloss by rubbing it quickly with a smooth seashell as the sunlight, coming through an open window on a summer』s day, struck his naked honey-colored forearms. For a moment he stopped what he was so absentmindedly doing and carefully lowered his face to the page to examine a blemish. After making a few passes over the offending spot with the burnishing shell using different motions, he returned to his former pattern, moving his hand back and forth as he stared out of the window into the distance, losing himself in daydreams. I shall never forget how before looking outside again, he briefly gazed into my eyes—as I would later do to others. This dolorous look has only one meaning, which all apprentices know quite well: Time doesn』t flow if you don』t dream.

「」Let』s go back to the coffeehouse,「 I said to Elegant, but sensed at once that he didn』t like it there, and even that it frightened him. This was how I first knew Elegant Effendi had broken from us completely and had gone his separate way after painting with us for twenty-five years. In the last eight or ten years, after he married, I』d see him at the workshop, but I didn』t even know what he was occupied with…He told me he saw the last picture, how it contained a sin so grave we』d never live it down. As a consequence, he maintained, we』d all burn in Hell. He was agitated and possessed by fear, overcome with the sense of devastation felt by a man who』d unwittingly committed heresy.」

I smiled at my brethren whose attention was focused upon my eyes, listening to me as though I lay on my deathbed. Just as a dying man would, I saw them growing increasingly blurry and moving away from me.

This is what they call death.

I ran and opened the door.

「I wasn』t,」 I said.

My whole life, I』ve secretly very much wanted two paintings made, which I』ve never mentioned to anybody:1. My own portrait; but I knew however hard the Sultan』s miniaturists tried, they』d fail, because even if they could see my beauty, woefully, none of them would believe a woman』s face was beautiful without depicting her eyes and lips like a Chinese woman』s. Had they represented me as a Chinese beauty, the way the old masters of Herat would』ve, perhaps those who saw it and recognized me could discern my face behind the face of that Chinese beauty. But later generations, even if they realized my eyes weren』t really slanted, could never determine what my face truly looked like. How happy I』d be today, in my old age—which I live out through the comfort of my children—if I had a youthful portrait of myself!

No one was listening to me, however. Black was recounting the story of a sad Turkmen chieftain who was sent off on a twelve-year exile to China because he』d prematurely expressed his love for the daughter of the shah. Since he didn』t have a portrait of his beloved, of whom he dreamed for a dozen years, he forgot her face amid the Chinese beauties, and his lovelorn suffering was transformed into a profound trial willed by Allah.

At this time, however, I was overwhelmed by a severe restlessness; no, it wasn』t that my illuminator friends, whom I』d known since childhood, saw how I』d been greedily squirreling money away for years, how I bought and saved gold, or even that they learned about my sketchbooks and obscene pictures. In truth, I regretted having shown them all of these things in a moment of panic. Only the mysteries of a man who lived quite aimlessly could be exposed so easily.

336–323 B.C.: Alexander the Great established his empire. He conquered Persia and invaded India. His exploits as hero and monarch were legendary throughout the Islamic world even until modern times.

from England, erecting it on a slope of the Royal Private Garden facing the Golden Horn. The crowds that collected on the slopes of the Golden Horn or came in ca?ques to watch, astonished and awed, saw how the life-size statues and ornaments spun around each other purposefully when the huge clock played its noisy and terrifying music, how they danced elegantly and meaningfully by themselves in time to the melody as if they were creations of God rather than of His servants, and how the clock announced the time to all Istanbul with a chime that resembled the sounding of a bell.

「But now you won』t be able to resolve your troubles by handing me over to the torturer,」 I said. As if to poke out his eye, I brought the point of the dagger toward Black』s face. 「Give me the plume needle.」

「Don』t nourish the illusion over much that you』ll be able to escape Frankish methods,」 said Black. 「Did you know that Akbar Khan encourages all his artists to sign their work? The Jesuit priests of Portugal long ago introduced European painting and methods there. They are everywhere now.」

「Call for the children,」 he said. 「We』re going home.」

「For the rest of your lives you』ll do nothing but emulate the Franks for the sake of an individual style,」 I said. 「But precisely because you emulate the Franks you』ll never attain individual style.」

「Thanks to your Enishte, we』ve all learned the meaning of 」portrait,「」 I said. 「God willing, one day, we』ll fearlessly tell the story of our own lives the way we actually live them.」

Yet I』m so very content here! As we console ourselves with twenty-five years of memories we』re reminded not of the animosities, but of the beauties and the pleasures of painting. There』s also something in our sitting here with a sense of the impending end of the world, caressing each other with tear-filled eyes as we remember the beauty of bygone days, that recalls harem women.

I shuddered for an instant, thinking of the fates of Elegant Effendi, Enishte and our storyteller brother who was killed tonight. Were the others as frightened as I? Nobody moved for a time. Stork was still holding my book open, but seemed not to see the vulgarity I』d painted though we were all still staring at it!

「I feel like the Devil not because I』ve murdered two men, but because my portrait has been made in this fashion. I suspect that I did away with them so I could make this picture. But now the isolation I feel terrifies me. Imitating the Frankish masters without having attained their expertise makes a miniaturist even more of a slave. Now I』m desperate to escape this trap. Of course, all of you know: After all is said and done, I killed them both so the workshop might persist as it always has, and Allah certainly knows this too.」

「An artist should never succumb to hubris of any kind,」 said Butterfly, 「he should simply paint the way he sees fit rather than troubling over East or West.」

「There』s always work for the artist who wants to remain pure, there』s always a place to find shelter,」 I said.

1576: Shah Tahmasp』s Peace Offering to the Ottomans. After decades of hostility, Safavid Shah Tahmasp made a present to the Ottoman Sultan Selim II upon the death of Süleyman the Magnificent in an attempt to foster future peace. Among the gifts sent to Edirne is an exceptional copy of the Book of Kings, produced over a period of twenty-five years. The book was later transferred to the Treasury in the Topkapi Palace.

「I murdered your Enishte for two reasons. First, because he shamelessly forced the great Master Osman into aping the Venetian artist, Sebastiano. Second, because in a moment of weakness, I lowered myself to ask him whether I had a style of my own.」

「Is this affliction impossible to resist?」 I said. 「As this plague spreads, none of us will be able to stand against the methods of the Europeans.」

「What heresy?」

When they saw that one pouch contained a pair of clean woolen socks, my drawstring trousers, my red underwear, the nicest of my undershirts, my silk shirt, my straight razor, my comb and other belongings, they were momentarily at a loss. Out of the other pouch, which Black opened, emerged fifty-three Venetian gold coins, pieces of gold leaf that I』d stolen from the workshop in recent years, my sketchbook of model forms which I concealed from everybody, more stolen gold leaf hidden between the pages, indecent pictures—some of which I』d drawn myself and some I』d collected—a keepsake agate ring from my dear mother along with a lock of her white hair, and my best pens and brushes.

1258: The Sack of Baghdad. Hulagu (reigned 1251–1265), the grandson of Genghis Khan, conquered Baghdad.

Just then I sensed that the others were whispering among themselves, maligning me.

Was it more fitting for me to abandon my prayers, spring to my feet and open the door for them or to keep them waiting in the rain until I』d finished? When I realized they were watching me, I completed my prayers in a somewhat distracted state. I opened the door, and there they were—Butterfly, Stork and Black. I gave a cry of joy and embraced Butterfly.

「I give my word,」 he said.

and whether we』d truly burn in Hell. He suffered fits of regret and beat his breast in remorse, but I was unpersuaded. He was an imposter who feigned regret.「「How did you know this?」

From the muddy ground upon which my head had fallen, I could neither see my murderer nor my satchel full of gold pieces and pictures, which I still wanted to cling to tightly. These things were behind me, in the direction of the hill leading down to the sea and Galleon Harbor which I would never reach. My head

「Eighty years ago, the great Bihzad, master of masters, understood that everything was coming to an end with the fall of Herat, and honorably blinded himself so nobody would force him to paint in another way,」 he said. 「A short while after he deliberately inserted this plume needle into his own eye and removed it, God』s exquisite darkness slowly descended over His beloved servant, this artist with the miraculous hand. This needle which came from Herat to Tabriz with the now drunk and blind Bihzad, was sent as a present by Shah Tahmasp to Our Sultan』s father, along with that legendary Book of Kings. At first, Master Osman was unable to determine why this object was sent. But today, he was able to see the ill will and just logic behind this cruel present. After Master Osman understood that Our Sultan wanted to have His own portrait made in the style of the European masters and that you all, whom he loved more than his own children, had betrayed him, he stuck this needle into each of his eyes last night in the Treasury—in imitation of Bihzad. Now, if I were to blind you, the accursed man responsible for bringing to ruin the workshop Master Osman established at the expense of his entire life, what of it?」

「There』s no reason to fear him anymore,」 he said. 「The murderer is Velijan Effendi, the Persian.」

The pictures we made on various parts of the two pages over the past year—tree, horse, Satan, Death, dog and woman—were arranged, large and small, according to Enishte』s albeit inept new method of ｒｅad.9９ｃｓｗ•ｃoｍcomposition, in such a way that the dearly departed Elegant Effendi』s gilding and borders made us feel we were no longer looking at a page from a book but at the world seen through a window. In the center of this world, where Our Sultan should』ve been, was my own portrait, which I briefly observed with pride. I was somewhat unsatisfied with it because after laboring in vain for days, looking into a mirror and erasing and reworking, I was unable to achieve a good resemblance; still, I felt unbridled elation because the picture not only situated me at the center of a vast world, but for some unaccountable and diabolic reason, it made me appear more profound, complicated and mysterious than I actually was. I wanted only that my artist brethren recognize, understand and share in my exuberance. I was both the center of everything, like a sultan or a king, and, at the same time, myself. The situation fed my pride as it increased my embarrassment. Finally these two feelings balanced each other, and I was able to relax and take dizzying pleasure in the picture. But for this pleasure to be complete, I knew every mark on my face and shirt, all of the wrinkles, shadows, moles and boils, every detail from my whiskers to the weave of my clothes and all their colors in all their shades had to be perfect, down to the minutest details, as much as the skill of Frankish painters would allow.

themselves over to similar work. No one behaved as though abandoning illustration were any great loss. Perhaps because nobody had ever seen his own face done justice on the page.

It seemed as if no one would see me, as my thoughts faded away, my mud-covered head would go on staring at this melancholy incline, the stone wall and the nearby yet unattainable mulberry and chestnut trees for years.

I left the road, ran through two muddy gardens and took shelter beneath an old stone house surrounded by greenery. This was the house where I came each Tuesday as an apprentice to get Master Osman and followed two paces behind him carrying his bag, portfolio, pen box and writing board on our way to the workshop. Nothing had changed here, except the plane trees in the yard and along the street had grown so large that an aura of grandeur, power and wealth hearkening back to the time of Sultan Süleyman had settled over the house and street.

「To God belongs the East and the West,」 I said in Arabic like the late Enishte.

Where were the burnishing boards which were used so much they became a part of the apprentices』 bodies and then just tossed aside, and the long paper scissors that the apprentices dulled by playing 「swordsman」? Where were the writing boards inscribed with the names of the great masters so they wouldn』t get mixed up, the aroma of China ink and the faint rattle of coffeepots aboil in the silence? Where were the various brushes we made of hairs from the necks and inner ears of kittens born to our tabby cats each summer, and the great sheaves of Indian paper given to us so, in idle moments, we could practice our artistry the way calligraphers did? Where was the ugly steel-handled penknife whose use required permission from the Head Illuminator, thus providing a deterrent to the entire workshop when we had to scrape away large mistakes; and what happened to the rituals that surrounded these mistakes?

I gave Black such a look that he was quick to understand I』d do so and he released me. My heart began to beat rapidly.

1512: The Flight of Bihzad. The great miniaturist Bihzad emigrated from Herat to Tabriz.

1571: The Battle of Lepanto. A four-hour naval battle between allied Christian forces and the Ottomans subsequent to the Ottoman invasion of Cyprus (1570). Though the Ottomans were defeated, Venice surrendered Cyprus to the Ottomans in 1573. The battle had great impact on European morale and was the subject of paintings by Titian, Tintoretto and Veronese.

Under the light of the oil lamp, I showed them the final picture, which I』d taken from Enishte』s house the day I killed him. At first, I watched their curious and timid expressions as they looked at the double-leaf picture. I circled around and joined them, and I was ever so faintly trembling as I stared. The

「There』s much that an artist with a clear conscience has to fear in our day,」 said Black smugly. 「Indeed, no one has anything to say against decoration, but pictures are forbidden by our faith. Because the illustrations of the Persian masters and even the masterpieces of the greatest masters of Herat are ultimately seen as an extension of border ornamentation, no one would take issue with them, reasoning that they enhanced the beauty of writing and the magnificence of calligraphy. And who sees our painting anyway? However, as we make use of the methods of the Franks, our painting is becoming less focused on ornamentation and intricate design and more on straightforward representation. This is what the Glorious Koran forbids and what displeased Our Prophet. Both Our Sultan and my Enishte knew this quite well. This was the reason for my Enishte』s murder.」

I was able to work through the following logic: If I held my peace, nothing would happen! This gave me strength. They could no longer hide the fact that since the days of our apprenticeships they』d been jealous of me; I, who quite evidently applied paint in the best manner, drew the steadiest line and made the best illuminations. I loved them for their extreme envy. I smiled upon my beloved brethren.

Since the road leading to the harbor was near, I succumbed to the Devil』s temptation, and was overcome by the excitement of seeing the arches of the workshop building where I』d spent a quarter century. This was how I ended up tracing the path that I』d take as an apprentice following Master Osman: down Archer』s Street which smelled dizzyingly of linden blossoms in the spring, past the bakery where my master would buy round meat pasties, up the hill lined with beggars and quince and chestnut trees, past the closed shutters of the new market and the barber whom my master greeted each morning, alongside the empty field where acrobats would set up their tents in summer and perform, in front of the foul-smelling rooming houses for bachelors, beneath moldy-smelling Byzantine arches, before Ibrahim Pasha』s palace and the column made up of three coiling snakes, which I』d drawn hundreds of times, past the plane tree, which we depicted a different way each time, emerging into the Hippodrome and under the chestnut and mulberry trees wherein sparrows and magpies alighted and chirped madly in the mornings.

I smiled at him. He started to relate things that I』m sure you all know by now. I listened intently to how Our Sultan, in consultation with the Head Treasurer, sought a solution to the murders, to the matter of Master Osman』s three days, to the 「courtesan method,」 to the peculiarity in the noses of the horses and to Black』s miraculous admittance to the Royal Private Quarters for the sake of actually examining those superlative books. There are moments in all our lives when we realize, even as we experience them, that we are living through events we will never forget, even long afterward. A melancholy rain was falling. As if upset by the rain, Butterfly mournfully gripped his dagger. Olive, the backside of whose armor was white with flour, was courageously forging into the heart of the dervish lodge, lamp in hand. These master artists, whose shadows roamed the walls like ghosts, were my brethren, and how I loved them! I was delighted to be a miniaturist.

「Could you appreciate your good fortune as you gazed at the great works of the old masters for days on end with Master Osman at your side?」 I asked Black. 「Did he kiss you? Did he caress your handsome face? Did he hold your hand? Were you awed by his talent and knowledge?」

One of them, I don』t want you to know which of them was responsible for this disgrace, passionately kissed me as if he were kissing the beloved he』d long desired. The others watched by the light of the oil lamp that they brought near to us. I could not but respond in kind to this kiss from my beloved brother. If we』re nearing the end of everything, let it be known that I do the best illuminating. Find my pages and see for yourselves.

I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERERYou』d forgotten about me, hadn』t you? Why should I conceal my presence from you any longer? For speaking in this voice, which is gradually getting stronger and stronger, has become irresistible for me. At times, I restrain myself only with great effort, and I』m afraid that the strain in my voice will give me away. At times, I let myself go completely unchecked, and that』s when those words, signs of my second character, which you might recognize, spill from my lips; my hands begin to tremble, beads of sweat collect on my forehead and I realize at once that these little whispers of my body, in turn, will furnish new clues.

「Will you be able to walk back to our house?」 I said. 「Shall we have them bring a horse for you?」

「Why these things?」 asked Stork.

My eyes had almost imperceptibly lost strength, but thank God, I could see enough to know that my question gave them pause.

「The blind and the seeing are not equal, it』s what 」ve ma yestevil』ama ve』l basiru』nun means,「 Butterfly said and continued:「…nor are the darkness and the light.

「So very true,」 I said to beloved Butterfly. 「Accept my kiss.」

1375–1467: The Blacksheep, a Turkmen tribal federation, ruled over parts of Iraq, eastern Anatolia and Iran. Jihan Shah (reigned 1438–67), the last Blacksheep ruler, was defeated by the Whitesheep Tall Hasan in 1467.

「Who are the blind and the seeing?」 Black said naively.

「It seems I am possessed of a style. But coming from him, of course, this was not an insult. I remembered wondering, in my shame, if this were indeed praise: I considered style to be a variety of rootlessness and dishonor, but doubt was eating at me. I wanted nothing to do with style, but the Devil was tempting me and I was, furthermore, curious.」

There was nobody in the vicinity of the ravaged and burned coffeehouse, nor anyone at the house of beautiful Shekure and her new husband, who was perhaps in the throes of death at this very moment. I heartily wished them nothing but happiness. While roaming the streets in the days after I』d tainted my hands with blood, all of Istanbul』s dogs, its shadowy trees, shuttered windows, black chimneys, ghosts and hardworking, unhappy early risers hurrying toward mosques to perform their morning prayers always stared at me with animosity; yet, from the moment I confessed my crimes and resolved to abandon the only city I』d ever known, they all regarded me with friendship.

In our youth, working together in the same room of our workshop, we would periodically lift our faces from our work boards and tables, just as the aging masters would do to rest their eyes, and begin talking about any topic that happened to enter our minds. Back then, just as we now did while looking at the book open before us, we didn』t look at one another as we chatted. For our eyes would be turned toward some distant spot outside an open window. I』m not sure if it was the excitement of recalling something remarkably beautiful from my halcyon apprenticeship days, or the sincere regret I felt at that moment because I hadn』t read the Koran for so long, or the horror of the crime I』d seen at the coffeehouse that night, but when my turn came to speak, I grew confused, my heart quickened as if I』d come under the threat of some danger, and as nothing else came to mind, I simply said the following:「You remember those verses at the end of 」The Cow「 chapter? I』d want most of all to depict them: 」Oh God, judge us not by what we』ve forgotten and by our mistakes. Oh God, burden us not with a weight we cannot bear, as with those who have gone before us. Forgive and absolve us of our transgressions and sins! Treat us with mercy, my dear God.「」 My voice broke and I was embarrassed by the tears I shed unexpectedly—perhaps because I was wary of the sarcasm that we always kept at the ready during our apprenticeships to protect ourselves and to avoid exposing our sensitivities.

1990–92, 1994–98336–330 B.C.: Darius ruled in Persia. He was the last king of the Achaemenids, losing his empire to Alexander the Great.

join their ranks. Stork was of the same mind as Black, who was afraid that Master Osman would turn us over to the torturers, and maintained that we must support one another and must be united in confronting the Head Treasurer. I sensed Black was not only motivated by the desire to give Shekure a genuine wedding present by finding his Enisthe』s murderer, he also intended to set Ottoman miniaturists on the path of European masters by paying them with the Sultan』s money in order to finish his Enishte』s book in imitation of the Franks (which was not only sacrilegious, but ridiculous). I also understood, with some certainty, that at the root of this scheme was Stork』s desire to be rid of us and even of Master Osman, for he dreamt of being Head Illuminator and (since everyone guessed that Master Osman preferred Butterfly) he was prepared to try anything to increase his chances. I was momentarily confused. Listening to the rain, I deliberated at length. Next, like a man who breaks away from the crowd and struggles to give his petition to the sovereign and grand vizier as they pass on horseback, I had the sudden inspiration to endear myself to Stork and Black. Leading them through a dark hallway and large portal, I took them to a frightening room that was once the kitchen. I asked them if they were able to find anything here among the ruins. Of course, they hadn』t. There was no trace of the kettles, the pots and pans and the bellows that were once used to prepare food for the forsaken and the poor. I never even attempted to clean up this ghastly room covered in cobwebs, dust, mud, debris and the excrement of dogs and cats. As always, a strong wind, rising up as if out of nowhere, dimmed the lamp—making our shadows now lighter, now darker.

1378–1502: The Whitesheep federation of Turkmen tribes ruled northern Iraq, Azerbaijan and eastern Anatolia. Whitesheep ruler Tall Hasan (reigned 1452–78) failed in his attempts to contain the eastward expansion of the Ottomans, but he defeated the Blacksheep Jihan Shah in 1467 and the Timurid Abu Said in 1468, extending his dominions to Baghdad, Herat, and the Persian Gulf.

I wasn』t even able to raise my dagger, I simply lifted the hand in which I held my satchel.

lamp aloft, I went after him, but soon grew frightened and turned back. My last gesture was to kiss Butterfly, and saying farewell, to take my leave of him. Since the tang of blood had come between us, I couldn』t kiss him to my heart』s content. But he noticed that tears flowed from my eyes.

What was that something?

622: The Hegira. The emigration of the Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Medina, and the beginning of the Muslim calendar.

I soaked pieces of bedding in hot water and rubbed them with soap. Then I wiped clean Black』s body, carefully as though cleaning a valuable antique carpet, and affectionately and eagerly as though caring for one of my boys. Without pressing on the bruises that covered his face, without jarring the cut in his nostril, I cleansed the horrible wound on his shoulder as a doctor might. As I』d do when bathing the children when they were babies, I cooed to him in a singsong voice. There were cuts on his chest and arms as well. The fingers of his left hand were purple from being bitten. The rags I used to wipe his body were soon bloodsoaked. I touched his chest; I felt the softness of his abdomen with my hand; I looked at his cock for a long time. The sounds of the children were coming from the courtyard below. Why did some poets call this thing a 「reed pen」?

The first thing to come to mind was the way Satan duped Dehhak into killing his father. At the time of that legend, which is described in the beginning of the Book of Kings, the world had been newly created, and everything was so basic that nothing needed explanation. If you wanted milk, you simply milked a goat and drank; you』d say 「horse,」 then mount it and ride away; you』d contemplate 「evil」 and Satan would appear and convince you of the beauty of murdering your own father. Dehhak』s murder of Merdas, his father of Arab descent, was beautiful, both because it was unprovoked and because it occurred at night in a magnificent palace garden while golden stars gently illuminated cypresses and colorful spring flowers.

「I hereby grant you Shekure,」 I said.

「You can tell them you were spreading salve onto my wounds,」 he said breathlessly.

Everything occurred so fast that I couldn』t make out what happened at first. I felt a sharp but limited pain in my right eye; a passing numbness seized my forehead. Then everything was as it had been, yet a horror had already taken root within me. The oil lamp had been withdrawn, but I could still clearly see the figure before me decisively thrust the needle, this time into my left eye. He』d taken the needle from Black only moments before, and was more careful and meticulous now. When I understood that the needle effortlessly penetrated my eye, I lay dead still, though I felt the same burning sensation. The numbness in my forehead seemed to spread over my entire head, but ceased when the needle was removed. They were looking at the needle and then at my eyes in turn. It was as if they weren』t certain what had transpired. When everybody fully understood the misfortune that had befallen me, the commotion stopped and the weight upon my arms eased.

「Coins counterfeited by the Venetians are everywhere,」 she sai九_九_藏_書d, smiling.

Were these three, staring into my eyes, the last sight I』d see in this world? I knew I』d never forget these moments until the end of my life, and I related what follows, because despite my regret, I also felt hope:「Your Enishte taught Elegant Effendi that he was involved in some forbidden project by covering up the final picture, by revealing only a specific spot to each of us and having us draw something there—by giving the picture an air of mystery and secrecy, it was Enishte himself who instilled the fear of heresy. He, not the Erzurumis who』ve never seen an illuminated manuscript in their lives, was the first to spread the frenzy and panic about sin that infected us. Meanwhile, what would an artist with a clear conscience have to fear?」

They were so quick to take out my legs that the four of us collapsed to the floor. There was a struggle and fight on the ground, but it was brief. I lay faceup on the floor beneath the three of them.

「Could the blind and the seeing ever be equal?」 said Stork much later. Was he implying that even though what we saw was obscene, the pleasure of sight that Allah had bestowed upon us was glorious? Nay, what would Stork know of such matters? He never read the Koran. I knew that the old masters of Herat would frequently recite this verse. The great masters used this verse as a response to enemies of painting who warned that illustrating was forbidden by our faith and that painters would be sent to Hell on Judgment Day. Until that magical moment, however, I』d never even once heard from Butterfly those words that now emerged from his mouth as if on their own:「I』d like to depict how the blind and the seeing are not equal!」

I noted in the faces of my old companions fear, bewilderment and the inescapable feeling devouring us all: jealousy. Along with the angry revulsion they felt toward a man hopelessly mired in sin, they were also envious.

1591: The Story of Black and the Ottoman Court Painters. A year before the thousandth anniversary (calculated in lunar years) of the Hegira, Black returns to Istanbul from the east, beginning the events recounted in the novel.

We too, like melancholy harem women, reminisced about the gifts of fur-lined caftans and purses full of money that the Sultan would present to us in reciprocation for the colorful decorated boxes, mirrors and plates, embellished ostrich eggs, cut-paper work, single-leaf pictures, amusing albums, playing cards and books we』d offer him on holidays. Where were the hardworking, long-suffering, elderly artists of that day who were satisfied with so little? They』d never sequester themselves at home and jealously hide their methods from others, dreading that their moonlighting would be found out, but would come to the workshop every day without fail. Where were the old miniaturists who humbly devoted their entire lives to drawing intricate designs on castle walls, cypress leaves whose uniqueness was discernible only after close scrutiny and the seven-leaf steppe grasses used to fill empty spaces? Where were the uninspired masters who never grew jealous, having accepted the wisdom and justice inherent in God』s bestowal of talent and ability upon some artists and patience and pious resignation upon others? We recalled these fatherly masters, some of whom were hunched and perpetually smiling, others dreamy and drunk and still others intent upon foisting off a spinster daughter; and as we recollected, we attempted to resurrect the forgotten details of the workshop as it had been during our apprentice and early mastership years.

「In actuality, as much as Our Sultan wanted to have a book prepared under the influence of the Frankish artists,」 I continued stubbornly, 「your Enishte wanted to prepare a provocative book whose taint of illicitness would feed his own pride. He felt a slavish awe toward the pictures of the Frankish masters he』d seen during his travels, and he』d fallen completely for the artistry that he regaled us about for days on end—you too must have heard that nonsense about perspective and portraiture. If you ask me, there was nothing damaging or sacrilegious in the book we were preparing…Since he was well aware of this, he pretended that he was preparing a forbidden book and this gave him great satisfaction…Being involved in such a dangerous venture with the Sultan』s personal permission was as important to him as the pictures of the Frankish masters. True, if we』d made a painting with the intent of exhibiting it, that would』ve been sacrilege. Yet in none of those pieces could I sense anything contrary to religion, any faithlessness, impiety or even the vaguest illicitness. Did you sense anything of the sort?」

We, my children and I, were happy, but Black couldn』t be. The most obvious reason for this was the wound on his shoulder and neck that never completely healed; my beloved husband was left 「crippled,」 as I heard him described by others. But this didn』t disrupt his life, other than in its appearance. There were even times when I heard other women, who』d seen my husband from a distance, describe him as handsome. But Black』s right shoulder was lower than the left and his neck remained oddly cocked. I also heard gossip to the effect that a woman like myself could only marry a husband whom she felt was beneath her, and how as much as Black』s wound was the cause of his discontent, it was also the secret source of our shared happiness.

After passing the Bayazid Mosque, I watched the Golden Horn from a promontory: The horizon was brightening, yet the water was still black. Ever so slowly bobbing in invisible waves, two fishermen』s rowboats, freight ships with their sails furled and an abandoned galleon repeatedly insisted that I not leave. Were the tears flowing from my eyes caused by the needle? I told myself to dream of the splendid life I would live in Hindustan off the splendid works my talent would create!

1514: The Plunder of the Seven Heavens Palace. The Ottoman Sultan Selim the Grim, after defeating the Safavid army at Chaldiran, plundered the Seven Heavens Palace in Tabriz. He returned to Istanbul with an exquisite collection of Persian miniatures and books.

「Alas, what we』ve had to bear of late!」 I lamented, burying my head into his shoulder. 「What do they want from us? Why are they killing us?」

Black fell into a panic, as if they were taking the plume needle from his hand, as if we』d taken sides against him. There was another scuffle. All I could do was tilt my head upward to escape the struggle over the needle, which was happening perilously close to my eyes.

He took it out and handed it to me with his good hand, and I stuck it into my sash. I focused my gaze into his lamblike eyes.

Black told me not to hide anything. Where was the last picture? Confess!

「I was returning home from the coffeehouse. Poor Elegant Effendi accosted me. He was frenzied and very agitated. I pitied him at first. But leave me be now and I shall later recount it all. My eyes are fading.」

We talked about and named the pages we took pride in and would want to take out and look at now and again if we had copies of them, the way Master Black Memi had. They explained how the sky on the upper half of the palace picture made for the Book of Skills, illuminated with gold wash, foreshadowed the end of the world, not due to the gold itself, but due to its tone between towers, domes and cypresses—the way gold ought to be used in a polite rendition.

1010: Firdusi』s Book of Kings. The Persian poet Firdusi (lived circa 935–1020) presented his Book of Kings to Sultan Mahmud of Ghazni. Its episodes on Persian myth and history—including Alexander』s invasion, tales of the hero Rüstem and the struggle between Persia and Turan—have inspired miniaturists since the fourteenth century.

「You cannot be certain, can you?」 I said, gloating. 「Even if you secretly believe that the blemish of blasphemy or the shadow of sacrilege exists in the pictures we』ve made, you could never accept this belief and express it, because this would be equivalent to giving credence to the zealots and Erzurumis who oppose and accuse you. On the other hand, you cannot claim with any conviction that you』re as innocent as freshly fallen snow, because this would mean giving up both the dizzying pride and refined self-congratulation of engaging in a secretive, mysterious and forbidden act. Do you know how I became aware that I was behaving pretentiously in this way? By bringing poor Elegant Effendi to this dervish lodge in the middle of the night! I brought him here with the excuse that we』d nearly frozen walking the streets so long. In actuality, it pleased me to show him I was a free-thinking Kalenderi throwback, or worse yet, that I aspired to be a Kalenderi. When Elegant understood I was the last of the followers of a dervish order based on pederasty, hashish consumption, vagrancy and all manner of aberrant behavior, I thought he』d fear and respect me even more, and in turn, be intimidated into silence. As fate would have it, the exact opposite happened. Our dim-witted boyhood friend disliked it here, and he quickly decided the accusations of blasphemy he』d learned from your Enishte were quite on the mark. So, our beloved apprenticeship companion, who』d at first implored, 」Help me, convince me that we won』t go to Hell so I might sleep in peace tonight,「 in a newfound, threatening tone, began to insist that 」this will end in

When we reached the house, Orhan shouted, 「We』re home!」 with such joy I had the intuition that Azrael, the Angel of Death, pitied us and Allah would grant Black more time. But I knew from experience that one could never tell when exalted Allah would take one』s soul, and I wasn』t overly hopeful.

「Olive…」 I said. 「Did you kill that miserable rogue?」

They described a portrayal of Our Exalted Prophet』s bewilderment and ticklishness, as angels seized him by his underarms during his ascension to Heaven from the top of a minaret; a picture of such grave colors that even children, upon seeing the blessed scene, would first tremble with pious awe and then laugh respectfully as if they themselves were being tickled. I explained how along one edge of a page I』d commemorated the previous Grand Vizier』s suppression of rebels who』d taken to the mountains by delicately and respectfully arranging the heads he』d severed, tastefully drawing each one, not as an ordinary corpse』s head, but as an individual and unique face in the manner of a Frankish portraitist, furrowing their brows before death, dabbing red onto their necks, making their sorrowful lips inquire after the meaning of life, opening their nostrils to one final, desperate breath, and shutting their eyes to

「And you』re the one who killed them both, isn』t that so?」 said Black.

「Nay, it』s enough to be the most gifted and the most talented,」 I said heedlessly.

Each of them displayed the panic of being separated from the herd, which I』d seen from time to time in every master painter over the span of my life. Even here in the lodge, they were loath to separate from one another.

At first, I sensed that my wailing put not only me at ease, but them as well. My voice brought us together.

「I』m pleased that I will see this once again before going blind,」 I said with pride. 「I want you all to see it as well. Look here.」

Stork, afraid that his turn had come, and justifiably so, fled into the blackened rooms within. Holding the

「Now, tell me then,」 I said, 「shall I go blind?」

1574–95: The reign of Ottoman Sultan Murat III (during whose rule the events of our novel take place). His rule witnessed a series of struggles between 1578–90 known as the Ottoman-Safavid wars. He was the Ottoman sultan most interested in miniatures and books, and he had the Book of Skills, the Book of Festivities and the Book of Victories produced in Istanbul. The most prominent Ottoman miniaturists, including Osman the Miniaturist (Master Osman) and his disciples, contributed to them.

「There among the great works of the old masters he showed me how you had a style,」 said Black. 「He taught me how the hidden fault of 」style「 isn』t something the artist selects of his own volition, but is determined by the artist』s past and his forgotten memories. He also showed me how these secret faults, weaknesses and defects, at one time such a source of shame they were concealed so we wouldn』t be estranged from the old masters, will henceforth emerge to be praised as 」personal characteristics』 or 「style,」 because the European masters have spread them over the world. Henceforth, thanks to fools who take pride in their own shortcomings, the world will be a more colorful and more stupid and, of course, a much more imperfect place.「The fact that Black confidently believed in what he said proved that he was one of the new breed of fools.

man, I』d awake in tears. When I saw the man in the street was Black, the scream that would never leave my throat in dreams sounded.

「There』s nothing else left to do,」 said Black dishonorably.

2. A picture of bliss: What the poet Blond Naz 1m of Ran had pondered in one of his verses. I know quite well how this painting ought to be made. Imagine the picture of a mother with her two children; the younger one, whom she cradles in her arms, nursing him as she smiles, suckles happily at her bountiful breast, smiling as well. The eyes of the slightly jealous older brother and those of the mother should be locked. I』d like to be the mother in that picture. I』d want the bird in the sky to be depicted as if flying, and at the same time, happily and eternally suspended there, in the style of the old masters of Herat who were able to stop time. I know it』s not easy.

But I knew that I wasn』t dead yet. My punctured pupils were motionless, but I could still see quite well through my open eyes.

I gave her four gold coins. She took them, one at a time, into her mouth and bit down upon them crudely with eagerness and longing.

It seemed as if this moment of observation went on and on and I realized seeing had become a variety of memory. I was reminded of what I thought when staring for hours at a beautiful picture: If you stare long enough your mind enters the time of the painting.

bedroom chamber! As a last resort, saying that he wants to perform his prayers, Hüsrev sends the servant boy attending him to fetch water, soap, clean clothes and his prayer rug; the naive boy, without understanding that his master has sent him for help, goes to gather the requested items. Once alone with Hüsrev, the murderer』s first task is to lock the door from the inside. In this scene at the end of the Book of Kings, the man whom the conspirators found to enact the murder is described by Firdusi with disgust: He is foul smelling, hairy and pot-bellied.

It pleased me that Butterfly wasn』t with them, but if evidence implicating me were found, he, too, would

「You』re in no condition to return home.」

「Your Enishte was murdered because he was afraid,」 I said. 「Just like you, he』d begun to claim that illustration, which he was doing himself, wasn』t contrary to the religion or the sacred book…This was exactly the pretext sought by the Erzurumis, who were desperate to find an aspect contrary to the religion. Elegant Effendi and your Enishte were a perfect match for each other.」

These words not only constituted the color of our love—which settled into a bottleneck between life and death, prohibition and paradise, hopelessness and shame—they also were the excuse for our love. For

「Unhand me now,」 I shouted. 「Let me look upon the world one last time.」

1587–1629: Reign of the Safavid Persian ruler Shah Abbas I, begins with the deposition of his father Muhammad Khodabandeh. Shah Abbas reduced Turkmen power in Persia by moving the capital from Kazvin to Isfahan. He made peace with the Ottomans in 1590.

「I hear he』d also become quite close to the Erzurumis,」 said Black.

one with the dagger, whose point I held at Black』s throat, but I felt nothing but affection for my boyhood friends—including Stork, who』d stuck the plume needle into my eyes.

I, SHEKUREBlack had hidden us away in the house of a distant relative, where I spent a sleepless night. In the bed where I curled up with Hayriye and the children, I was occasionally able to nod off amid the sounds of snoring and coughing, but in my restless dreams, I saw strange creatures and women whose arms and legs had been severed and randomly reattached; they wouldn』t stop chasing me and continually woke me. Toward morning, the cold roused me and I covered Shevket and Orhan, embracing them, kissing their heads and begging Allah for pleasant dreams, such as I』d enjoyed during the blissful days when I slept in peace under my late father』s roof.

It was a mistake to utter this last sentence; nevertheless, I could sense that they were put at ease and no longer afraid that I』d strangle them in a dark corner of the lodge. Have I gained your trust as well?

「When the Imperial Guard searched my house, as they did yours, they shamelessly pilfered two of these

As if they were our own unforgettable and unattainable memories, we wistfully discussed our favorite scenes of love and war, recalling their most magnificent wonders and tear-inducing subtleties. Isolated and mysterious gardens where lovers met on starry nights passed before our eyes: spring trees, fantastic birds, frozen time…We imagined bloody battles as immediate and alarming as our own nightmares, bodies torn in two, chargers with blood-spattered armor, beautiful men stabbing each other with daggers, the small-mouthed, small-handed, slanted-eye, bowed women watching events from barely open windows…We recalled pretty boys who were haughty and conceited, and handsome shahs and khans, their power and palaces long lost to history. Just lihttｐs://reａｄ•9９ｃｓｗ•ｃｏｍke the women who wept together in the harems of those shahs, we now knew we were passing from life into memory, but were we passing from history into legend as they had? To avoid being drawn further into a realm of horror by the lengthening shadows of the fear of being forgotten—even more terrifying than the fear of dying—we asked each other about our favorite scenes of death.

Perhaps he』s right. In actuality, we don』t look for smiles in pictures of bliss, but rather, for the happiness in life itself. Painters know this, but this is precisely what they cannot depict. That』s why they substitute the joy of seeing for the joy of life.

At the last moment, both because Black moved and because I altered the path of my blow, the dagger struck his shoulder, not his neck. I watched in terror, the deed enacted by my arm alone. Once I removed the dagger, sunk to its handle in Black』s flesh, the spot bloomed a pure red. What I』d done both frightened and shamed me. But if I went blind on the ship, perhaps on the Arabian seas, I knew that I could not then take revenge upon any of my miniaturist brethren.

We were stricken with horror because what I said rang absolutely true; we fell silent. Still pacing, and panicked by the thought that everything would revert to its former state, I told myself the following: 「Tell the story of Afrasiyab』s murder of Siyavush to change the subject. But that』s a betrayal such as fails to frighten me. Recount the death of Hüsrev.」 All right then, but should it be the version told by Firdusi in the Book of Kings or the one told by Nizami in Hüsrev and Shirin? The pathos of the account in the Book of Kings rests in Hüsrev』s tearful realization of the identity of the murderer intruding in his

the next twenty-six years, until my beloved husband Black collapsed next to the well one morning to die of a bad heart, each afternoon, as the sunlight filtered into the room through the slats of the shutters, and for the first few years, to the sounds of Shevket and Orhan playing, we made love, always referring to it as 「spreading salve onto wounds.」 This was how my jealous sons, whom I didn』t want to suffer beatings at the jealous whims of a rough and melancholy father, were able to continue sleeping in the same bed with me for years. All sensible women know how it』s much nicer to sleep curled up with one』s children than with a melancholy husband who』s been beaten down by life.

「But I have no style whatsoever,」 I said. 「I』m not saying this out of pride to counter the latest tastes. Neither am I saying so to prove my innocence. For me, having a style would be worse than being a murderer.」

「If I were truly a murderer as you suspect,」 I said with stupid pride, 「the final picture would』ve emerged from my secret treasury, not these things.」

「Must an artist first become a murderer to be as high and mighty as you?」 asked Stork.

「My mother, may she rest in peace, was more intelligent than my father,」 I said. 「One night I was at home, in tears, determined never again to return to the workshop because I was daunted not only by Master Osman』s beatings, but by those of the other harsh and irritable masters and by those of the division head who always intimidated us with a ruler. In consolation, my dearly departed mother advised me that there were two types of people in the world: those who were cowed and crushed by their childhood beatings, forever downtrodden, she said, because the beatings had the desired effect of killing the inner devils; and those fortunate ones for whom the beatings frightened and tamed the devil within without killing him off. Though the latter group would never forget these painful childhood memories—she』d warned me not to tell this to anybody—the beatings would in time enable them to develop cunning, to fathom the unknown, to make friends, to identify enemies, to sense plots being hatched behind their backs and, let me hasten to add, to paint better than anyone else. Because I wasn』t able to draw the branches of a tree harmoniously, Master Osman would slap me so hard that, amid bitter tears, forests would burgeon before me. After angrily striking me in the head because I couldn』t see the errors at the bottoms of pages, he lovingly took up a mirror and placed it before the page so I could see the work as if for the first time. Then pressing his cheek to mine, he so lovingly identified the mistakes that magically appeared in the mirror image of the picture that I never forgot either the love or the ritual. The morning after a night spent weeping in my bed, my pride violated because he chastised me with a ruler before everyone, he came and kissed my arms so tenderly that I passionately knew I』d one day become a legendary miniaturist. Nay, it was not I who drew that horse.」

Whatever the cause, Black always remained melancholy. Because I knew that his sadness had nothing to do with his shoulder, I believed that somewhere in a secret corner of his soul he was possessed by a jinn of sorrow that dampened his mood even during our most exhilarating moments of lovemaking. To appease that jinn, at times he』d drink wine, at times stare at illustrations in books and take an interest in art, at times he』d even spend his days and nights with miniaturists chasing after pretty boys. There were periods when he entertained himself in the company of painters, calligraphers and poets in orgies of puns, double entendres, innuendos, metaphors and games of flattery, and there were periods when he forgot everything and surrendered himself to secretarial duties and a governmental clerkship under Hunched Süleyman Pasha, into whose service he』d managed to enter. Four years later, when Our Sultan died, and with the ascension of Sultan Mehmed, who turned his back entirely on all artistry, Black』s enthusiasm for illumination and painting turned from an openly celebrated pleasure into a private secret pursued behind closed doors. There were times when he』d open one of the books left to us by my father, and stare, guilty and sad, at an illustration made during the era of Tamerlane』s sons in Herat—yes, Shirin falling in love with Hüsrev after seeing his picture—not as if it were part of a happy game of talent still being played in palace circles, but as if he were dwelling upon a sweet secret long surrendered to memory.

This is what occurred to me the moment before I was beheaded: The ship shall depart from the harbor; this was joined in my mind with a command to hurry; it was the way my mother would say 「hurry」 when I was a child. Mother, my neck aches and all is still.

I left the lodge within a kind of deathly silence punctuated by Black』s moaning. Nearly running, I fled the wet and muddy garden, the dark neighborhood. The ship that was to take me to Akbar Khan』s workshop would depart after the morning azan; at that hour the last rowboat would leave for the ship from Galleon Harbor. As I ran, tears poured from my eyes.

lancing of my eyes, or perhaps a sudden rapture, made me feverish.

I recognized the pages while they were still under his arm: They were the illustrations I』d rescued from the coffeehouse during the raid. I didn』t deign to ask how these men had entered my house and located them. Nevertheless, Butterfly, Stork and I each placidly owned up to the pictures we made for the storyteller, may he rest in peace. Afterward, only the horse, an exquisite horse, remained unclaimed off to the side, its head lowered. Believe me, I didn』t even realize that a horse had been drawn.

A proud cockerel crowed twice in the distance. I gathered my bundle and my gold pieces, my notebook of forms, and put my illustrations into my portfolio. I considered how I might kill each of them one by

I』m certain you』ve long ago discovered my identity, which I』ve been trying to conceal. Even so, don』t be surprised that I』m behaving like the old masters of Herat, for they would conceal their signatures not to hide their identities, but out of principle and respect for their masters. Excitedly, I walked through the pitch-black rooms of the lodge, oil lamp in hand, making way for my own pale shadow. Had the curtain of blackness begun to fall over my eyes, or were these rooms and hallways truly this dark? How many days and weeks, how much time did I have before going blind? My shadow and I stopped among the ghosts in the kitchen and lifted up the pages from the clean corner of a dusty cabinet before quickly heading back. Black had followed me as a precaution, but he』d neglected to bring his dagger. Would I, perchance, consider taking up that dagger and blinding him before I myself went blind?

「You mean to say that you feel no remorse?」 said Stork like a man who』d just left a Friday sermon.

When I told him, 「Yes, that』s all,」 he went to the door with the superior air of a master who caught an apprentice stealing; he brought in a roll of paper untouched by the rain, and placed it before us three artists like a mother cat bringing a wounded bird to her kittens.

As with all gossip, there is perhaps an element of truth in this as well. However deprived and destitute I felt at not being able to pass down the streets of Istanbul mounted tall on an exceptionally beautiful horse, surrounded by slaves, lady servants and attendants—what Esther always thought I deserved—I also occasionally longed for a brave and spirited husband who held his head high and looked at the world with a sense of victory.

All time had now become this time.

They brought the lamp toward my face and gazed at it, displaying the care and compassion of surgeons.

「Whether or not you blind me, in the end, we』ll no longer be able to find a place for ourselves here,」 I said. 「If Master Osman truly goes blind, or passes away, and we paint the way we feel like painting, embracing our faults and individuality under the influence of the Franks so we might possess a style, we might resemble ourselves, but we won』t be ourselves. No, even if we were to agree to paint like the old masters, reasoning that only in this way could we be ourselves, Our Sultan, who』s turned His back even on Master Osman, will find others to replace us. No one will look at us anymore, we shall only incur

「All illumination is God』s illumination too,」 I said, completing the verse by the poet Hatifi of Herat. 「But as the methods of the Europeans spread, everyone will consider it a special talent to tell other men』s stories as if they were one』s own.」

Do you remember the limner who stuck his tongue into his cheek when he ruled pages—to the left side if the line he drew headed right, and to the right side if the line went left; the small, thin artist who

I could tell by the way he was able to navigate these waters, even on his deathbed, that Black had plied these seas many times before with who knows what manner of indecent women. While I was confused as to whether the forearm I kissed was my own or his, whether I was sucking my own finger or an entire life, he stared out of one half-opened eye, nearly intoxicated by his wounds and pleasure, checking where the world was taking him, and from time to time, he would hold my head delicately in his hands, and stare at my face astounded, now looking as if at a picture, now as if at a Mingerian whore.

「You have a distinct quality that distinguishes you from the old masters and the others,」 said Black.

Black threatened to cut my throat if I didn』t produce the last picture.

They were terrified, and a new confidence rose within me.

「In that case, you must head West instead of East,」 said jealous Stork.

I abruptly grabbed the wrist of that fool Black, who was still looking at the picture, and with all my strength, digging my nails into his flesh, I angrily squeezed and twisted it. The dagger that he rather timidly held dropped from his hand. I grabbed it from the ground.

「Hapless Elegant Effendi said he wanted to talk to me and that I was the only person he could trust.」

1453: Ottoman Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror took Istanbul. Demise of the Byzantine Empire. Sultan Mehmet later commissioned his portrait from Bellini.

Agitated by the thought of resembling that blind old man, I confessed how I did away with Enishte Effendi hurriedly, without savoring any of it. I was neither too honest nor too insincere with them: I found a medium consistency, such that the story wouldn』t trouble my heart too much, and they』d be assured I hadn』t gone to Enishte』s house to murder him. I wanted to make clear that it wasn』t a premeditated murder, which intent they gathered when I reminded them of the following while trying to absolve myself: 「Without harboring bad intentions, one never goes to Hell.」

As I passed through Aksaray like a thief, I could faintly make out the first light of day on the horizon. Opposite the first neighborhood fountain I encountered, among the side streets, narrow passages and walls, was the stone house in which I』d spent the night of my first day in Istanbul twenty-five years ago. There, through the yawning courtyard gate, I saw once again the well into which I wished to hurl myself in the middle of the night, tormented by guilt for having at the age of eleven wet the mattress that a distant relative spread out for me in a show of kind and generous hospitality. By the time I reached Bayazid, the watchmaker』s shop (where I often came to fix the mechanism of my broken clock), the bottle seller』s shop (where I purchased the empty crystal lamps and sherbet cups I embellished and the little bottles I decorated with floral designs and secretly sold to the gentry) and the public baths (where my feet went out of habit for a time because it was both inexpensive and empty) were all respectfully standing at attention before me and my tearful eyes.

「Nonetheless,」 said Black much later, 「we must come to a consensus about what we will say under torture if Master Osman happens to turn us over without any forewarning.」

「Let』s not discuss that point yet,」 said Black. 「First describe how you murdered Elegant.」

1206–1227: The reign of Mongol ruler Genghis Khan. He invaded Persia, Russia and China, and extended his empire from Mongolia to Europe.

Yet it wasn』t him I pitied, but myself now.

I could hear Esther enter the kitchen with that joyous voice and mysterious air she adopted when she brought news, and I went down to greet her.

I began to scream, nearly howling. Not from the pain, but from the terror of comprehending fully what had been done to me.

「I』d want to paint Judgment Day,」 said Stork. 「The resurrection of the dead, and the separation of the guilty from the innocent. Why is it that we cannot depict the Sacred Word of our faith?」

His face was swollen and bruised purple from fighting. His nose was mangled and covered in blood. He had a large gash from his shoulder to his neck. His shirt had turned bright red from the blood. Like the husband of my dreams, Black smiled at me faintly because he had, in the end, successfully returned.

Out of habit, I used the back of my hand as a broom to sweep away the ashes in what used to be a hearth and when an old stove emerged, I lifted up its iron lid with a creak. I held the lamp to the small mouth of the stove. I shall never forget how Stork leapt forward and greedily grabbed the leather pouches within before Black could act. He was about to open the pouches right there in the mouth of the oven, but as I had returned to the large salon, followed by Black who was afraid of remaining here, Stork bounded after us on his long thin legs.

「We worry,」 Black said, 「that the person we should fear is perhaps in our very midst.」

When I heard them agree with me, I felt like crying. I was going to say it was because their compassion, which I hardly deserved, softened my heart, but no. I was going to say it was because I again heard the thud of his body hitting the bottom of the well wherein I dropped him after killing him, but no. I was going to say it was because I remembered how happy I was before becoming a murderer, how I』d been like everybody else, but no. The blind man who used to pass through our neighborhood in my childhood appeared in my mind』s eye: He』d take a dirty metal water dipper out of his even dirtier clothes, and would call out to us neighborhood kids who watched him from a distance, there by the local water fountain, 「My children, which of you will fill this blind old man』s drinking cup with water from the

They stayed seated where they were. I stuck the point of the dagger into one of Black』s nostrils, the way Keykavus had done in the legend. When it began to bleed, bitter tears flowed from his imploring eyes.

「I shall practice genuine artistry in Hindustan,」 I said. 「I』ve yet to make the picture Allah will judge me by.」

During our trip back, as we passed through side streets clinging to our bundles, the children were at first too frightened to look Black in the face. But from astride the slowly ambling horse, Black was still able to describe how he foiled the schemes of the wretched murderer who』d killed their grandfather and how he challenged him to a sword fight. I could see that the children had warmed up to him somewhat, and I prayed to Allah: Please, don』t let him die!

「According to legend, blood clots in the eyes of some and not in others. If Allah is pleased with your artistry, he』ll bestow His own magnificent blackness upon you and take you under His care. In that case, you shall behold not this wretched world, but the exquisite vistas that He sees. If He is displeased, you shall continue to see the world the way you now do.」

「Why is it that you want to remain pure?」 said Black. 「Stay here with us.」

I felt suffocating regret and anger for two reasons: First, I』d said everything I had for naught, unaware that they』d come to an agreement beforehand; secondly, I hadn』t fled, unable to imagine that their envy would reach this level.