章节目录 I AM CALLED BLACK-1

(88106 www.88106.info)    AfteranabsenceoftwelveyearsIenteredIstanbullikeasleepwalker.“Theearthcalledtohim,”theysayofmenwhoareabouttodie,andinmycase,itwasdeaththatdrewmebacktothecitywhereI’dbeenbornandraised.

    WhenIfirstreturned,Ithoughttherewasonlydeath;later,Iwouldalsoencounterlove.Love,however,wasadistantandforgottenthing,likemymemoriesofhavinglivedinthecity.ItwasinIstanbul,twelveyearsago,thatIfellhelplesslyinlovewithmyyoungcousin.

    FouryearsafterIfirstleftIstanbul,whiletravelingthroughtheendlesssteppes,snow-coveredmountainsandmelancholycitiesofPersia,carryinglettersandcollectingtaxes,IadmittedtomyselfthatIwasslowlyforgettingthefaceofthechildhoodloveI’dleftbehind.Withgrowingpanic,Itrieddesperatelytorememberher,onlytorealizethatdespitelove,afacelongnotseenfinallyfades.DuringthesixthyearIspentintheEast,travelingorworkingasasecretaryintheserviceofpashas,IknewthatthefaceIimaginedwasnolongerthatofmybeloved.Later,intheeighthyear,IforgotwhatI’dmistakenlycalledtomindinthesixth,andagainvisualizedacompletelydifferentcountenance.Inthisway,bythetwelfthyear,whenIreturnedtomycityattheageofthirty-six,Iwaspainfullyawarethatmybeloved’sfacehadlongsinceescapedme.

    Manyofmyfriendsandrelativeshaddiedduringmytwelve-yearexile.IvisitedthecemeteryoverlookingtheGoldenHornandprayedformymotherandfortheuncleswho’dpassedawayinmyabsence.Theearthysmellofmudmingledwithmymemories.Someonehadbrokenanearthenwarepitcherbesidemymother’sgrave.Forwhateverreason,gazingatthebrokenpieces,Ibegantocry.WasIcryingforthedeadorbecauseIwas,strangely,stillonlyatthebeginningofmylifeafteralltheseyears?OrwasitbecauseI’dcometotheendofmylife’sjourney?Afaintsnowfell.Entrancedbytheflakesblowinghereandthere,IbecamesolostinthevagariesofmylifethatIdidn’tnoticetheblackdogstaringatmefromadarkcornerofthecemetery.

    Mytearssubsided.Iwipedmynose.IsawtheblackdogwaggingitstailinfriendshipasIleftthecemetery.Sometimelater,Isettledintoourneighborhood,rentingoneofthehouseswherearelativeonmyfather’ssideoncelived.ItseemsIremindedthelandladyofhersonwho’dbeenkilledbySafavidPersiansoldiersatthefrontandsosheagreedtocleanthehouseandcookforme.

    IsetoutonlongandsatisfyingwalksthroughthestreetsasifI’dsettlednotinIstanbul,buttemporarilyinoneoftheArabcitiesattheotherendoftheworld.Thestreetshadbecomenarrower,orsoitseemedtome.Incertainareas,onroadssqueezedbetweenhousesleaningtowardoneanother,Iwasforcedtorubupagainstwallsanddoorstoavoidbeinghitbyladenpackhorses.Thereweremorewealthypeople,orsoitseemedtome.Isawanornatecarriage,acitadeldrawnbyproudhorses,thelikesofwhichcouldn’tbefoundinArabiaorPersia.Nearthe“BurntColumn,”Isawsomebothersomebeggarsdressedinragshuddlingtogetherasthesmellofoffalcomingfromthechicken-sellersmarketwaftedoverthem.Oneofthemwhowasblindsmiledashewatchedthefallingsnow.

    HadIbeentoldIstanbulusedtobeapoorer,smallerandhappiercity,Imightnothavebelievedit,butthat’swhatmyhearttoldme.Thoughmybeloved’shousewaswhereit’dalwaysbeenamonglindenandchestnuttrees,otherswerenowlivingthere,asIlearnedfrominquiringatthedoor.Idiscoveredthatmybeloved’smother,mymaternalaunt,haddied,andthatherhusband,myEnishte,andhisdaughterhadmovedaway.ThisishowIcametolearnthatfatheranddaughterwerethevictimsofcertainmisfortunes,fromstrangersansweringthedoor,whoinsuchsituationsareperfectlyforthcoming,withouttheleastawarenessofhowmercilesslythey’vebrokenyourheartanddestroyedyourdreams.Iwon’tdescribeallofthistoyounow,butallowmetosaythatasIrecalledwarm,verdantandsunnysummerdaysinthatoldgarden,Ialsonoticediciclesthesizeofmylittlefingerhangingfromthebranchesofthelindentreeinaplacewhosemisery,snowandneglectnowevokednothingbutdeath.

    I’dalreadylearnedaboutsomeofwhathadbefallenmyrelativesthroughalettermyEnishtesenttomeinTabriz.Inthatletter,heinvitedmebacktoIstanbul,explainingthathewaspreparingasecretbookforOurSultanandthathewantedmyhelp.He’dheardthatforaperiodwhileinTabriz,ImadebooksforOttomanpashas,provincialgovernorsandIstanbulites.WhatIdidthenwastousethemoneyadvancedbyclientswho’dplacedmanuscriptordersinIstanbultolocateminiaturistsandcalligrapherswhowerefrustratedbythewarsandthepresenceofOttomansoldiers,buthadn’tyetleftforKazvinoranotherPersiancity,anditwasthesemasters—complainingofpovertyandneglect—whomIcommissionedtoinscribe,illustrateandbindthepagesofthemanuscriptsIwouldthensendbacktoIstanbul.Ifitweren’tfortheloveofillustratingandfinebooksthatmyEnishteinstilledinmeduringmyyouth,Icouldhaveneverinvolvedmyselfinsuchpursuits.

    Atthemarketendofthestreet,whereatimemyEnishtehadlived,Ifoundthebarber,amasterbytrade,inhisshopamongthesamemirrors,straightrazors,pitchersofwaterandsoapbrushes.Icaughthiseye,butI’mnotsureherecognizedme.Itdelightedmetoseethatthehead-washingbasin,whichhungbyachainfromtheceiling,stilltracedthesameoldarc,swingingbackandforthashefilleditwithhotwater.

    SomeoftheneighborhoodsandstreetsI’dfrequentedinmyyouthhaddisappearedinashesandsmoke,replacedbyburntruinswherestraydogscongregatedandwheremadtransientsfrightenedthelocalchildren.Inotherareasrazedbyfire,largeaffluenthouseshadbeenbuilt,andIwasastonishedbytheirextravagance,bywindowsofthemostexpensiveVianstainedglass,andbylavishtwo-storyresidenceswithbaywindowssuspendedabovehighwalls.

    Asinmanyothercities,moneynolongerhadanyvalueinIstanbul.AtthetimeIreturnedfromtheEast,bakeriesthatoncesoldlargeone-hundreddrachmaloavesofbreadforonesilvercoinnowbakedloaveshalfthesizeforthesameprice,andtheynolongertastedthewaytheydidduringmychildhood.Hadmylatemotherseenthedaywhenshe’dhavetospendthreesilverpiecesforadozeneggs,she’dsay,“Weoughttoleavebeforethechickensgrowsospoiledthey**onusinsteadoftheground.”ButIknewtheproblemofdevaluedmoneywasthesameeverywhere.ItwasrumoredthatFlemishandVianmerchantshipswerefilledwithchestsofcounterfeitcoin.Attheroyalmint,wherefivehundredcoinswereoncemintedfromahundreddrachmasofsilver,now,owingtotheendlesswarringwiththePersians,eighthundredcoinsweremintedfromthesameamount.WhenJanissariesdiscoveredthatthecoinsthey’dbeenpaidactuallyfloatedintheGoldenHornlikethedriedbeansthatfellfromthevegetable-sellerspier,theyrioted,besiegingOurSultan’spalaceasifitwereanenemyfortress.

    AclericbythenameofNusret,whopreachedattheBayazidMosqueandclaimedtobedescendedfromOurGloriousProphetMuhammad,hadmadeanameforhimselfduringthisperiodofimmorality,inflation,crimeandtheft.

    Thishoja,whowasfromthesmalltownofErzurum,attributedthecatastrophesthathadbefallenIstanbulinthelasttenyears—includingtheBah?ekap?andKazanj?lardistrictfires,theplaguesthatclaimedtensofthousands,theendlesswarswiththePersiansatacostofcountlesslives,aswellasthelossofsmallOttomanfortressesintheWesttoChristiansinrevolt—toourhavingstrayedfromthepathoftheProphet,todisregardfor

    thestricturesoftheGloriousKoran,tothetolerancetowardChristians,totheopensaleofwineandtotheplayingofmusicalinstrumentsindervishhouses.

    ThepicklesellerwhopassionatelyinformedmeabouttheclericfromErzurumsaidthatthecounterfeitcoins—thenewducats,thefakeflorinsstampedwithlionsandtheOttomancoinswiththeirever-decreasingsilvercontent—thatfloodedthemarketsandbazaars,justliketheCircassians,Abkhazians,Mingarians,Bosnians,GeorgiansandArmenianswhofilledthestreets,weredraggingustowardanabsolutedegradationfromwhichitwouldbedifficulttoescape.Iwastoldthatscoundrelsandrebelsweregatheringincoffeehousesandproselytizinguntildawn;thatdestitutemenofdubiouscharacter,opium-addictedmadmenandfollowersoftheoutlawedKalenderidervishsect,claimingtobeonAllah’spath,wouldspendtheirnightsindervishhousesdancingtomusic,piercingthemselveswithskewersandengaginginallmannerofdepravity,beforebrutally**ingeachotherandanyboystheycouldfind.

    Ididn’tknowwhetheritwasthemelodioussoundo**tethatcompelledmetofollow,orifinthemuddleofmymemoriesanddesires,Icouldsimplynolongerendurethevirulentpickleseller,andseizeduponthemusicasawayoutoftheconversation.Ido,however,knowthis:Whenyouloveacityandhaveexploreditfrequentlyonfoot,yourbody,nottomentionyoursoul,getstoknowthestreetssowellafteranumberofyearsthatinafitofmelancholy,perhapsstirredbyalightsnowfallingeversosorrowfully,you’lldiscoveryourlegscarryingyouoftheirownaccordtowardoneofyourfavoritepromontories.

    ThiswashowIhappenedtoleavetheFarrier’sMarketandendedupwatchingthesnowasitfellintotheGoldenHornfromaspotbesidetheSüleymaniyeMosque:Snowhadalreadybeguntoaccumulateontherooftopsfacingnorthandonsectionsofthedomeexposedtothenortheasterlybreeze.

    Anapproachingship,whosesailswerebeinglowered,greetedmewithaflutterofcanvas.ThecolorofitssailsmatchedtheleadenandfoggyhueofthesurfaceoftheGoldenHorn.Thecypressandplrees,therooftops,theheartacheofdusk,thesoundscomingfromtheneighborhoodbelow,thecallsofhawkersandthecriesofchildrenplayinginmosquecourtyardsmingledinmyheadandannouncedemphaticallythat,hereafter,Iwouldn’tbeabletoliveanywherebutintheircity.Ihadthesensationthatmybeloved’sface,whichhadescapedmeforyears,mightsuddenlyappeartome.

    Ibegantowalkdownthehillandmeldedintothecrowds.Aftertheeveningprayerwascalled,Ifilledmystomachatalivershop.Intheempty

    shop,Ilistenedcarefullytotheowner,whofondlywatchedmeeateachbiteasifhewerefeedingacat.Takinghiscueandfollowinghisdirections,Ifoundmyselfturningdownoneofthenarrowalleysbehindtheslavemarket—wellafterthestreetshadbecomedark—andlocatedthecoffeehouse.

    Inside,itwascrowdedandwarm.Thestoryteller,thelikesofwhomIhadseeninTabrizandinPersiancitiesandwhowasknownthereaboutsasa“curtain-caller,”wasperchedonaraisedplatformbesidethewood-burningstove.Hehadunfoldedandhungbeforethecrowdapicture,thefigureofadogdrawnonroughpaperhastilybutwithacertainelegance.Hewasgivingvoicetothedog,andpointing,fromtimetotime,atthedrawing.

    IAMADOGAsyoucandoubtlesstell,dearfriends,mycaninesaresolongandpointedtheybarelyfitintomymouth.Iknowthisgivesmeamenacingappearance,butitpleasesme.Noticingthesizeofmyteeth,abutcheroncehadthegalltosay,“MyGod,that’snodogatall,it’sawildboar!”

    Ibithimsohardonthelegthatmycaninessankrightthroughhisfattyfleshtothehardnessofhisthighbone.Foradog,yousee,nothingisassatisfyingassinkinghisteethintohismiserableenemyinafitofinstinctualwrath.Whensuchanopportunitypresentsitself,thatis,whenmyvictim,whodeservestobebitten,stupidlyandunknowinglypassesby,myteethtwingeandacheinanticipation,myheadspinswithlongingandwithoutevenmeaningto,Iemitahair-raisinggrowl.

    I’madog,andbecauseyouhumansarelessrationalbeaststhanI,you’retellingyourselves,“Dogsdon’ttalk.”Nevertheless,youseemtobelieveastoryinwhichcorpsesspeakandcharactersusewordstheycouldn’tpossiblyknow.

    Dogsdospeak,butonlytothosewhoknowhowtolisten.

    Onceuponatime,long,longago,inafarawayland,abrashclericfromaprovincialtownarrivedatoneofthelargestmosquesinacapitalcity;allright,let’scallittheBayazidMosque.It’dbeappropriatetowithholdhisname,solet’srefertohimas“HusretHoja.”ButwhyshouldIcoverupanythingmore:

    Thismanwasoneboneheadedcleric.Hemadeupforthemodestyofhisintellectwiththepowerofhistongue,Godblessit.EachFriday,hesoanimatedhiscongregation,somovedthemtotearsthatsomewouldcryuntiltheyfaintedordriedupandwitheredaway.Don’tgetmewrong,unlikeotherclericswiththegiftofpreaching,hehimselfdidn’tweep.Onthecontrary,whileeveryoneelsecried,heintensifiedhisorationwithoutablinkasiftochastisethecongregation.Inallprobability,thegardeners,royalpages,halvamakers,riffraffandclericslikehimselfbecamehislackeysbecausetheyenjoyedthetonguelashing.Well,thismanwasnodogafterall,nosir,hewasahumanbeing—tobehumanistoerr—andbeforethoseenthralledcrowds,helosthimselfwhenhesawthatintimidatingthrongsofpeoplewasaspleasurableasbringingthemtotears.Whenheunderstoodthattherewasmuchmorebreadtobemadeinthisnewventure,hewentoverthetopandhadthenervetosaythefollowing:

    “Thesolereasonforrisingprices,plagueandmilitarydefeatliesinourforgettingtheIslamofthetimeofourGloriousProphetandfallingswayto

    falsehoods.WastheProphet’sbirthepicreadinmemoryofthedeadbackthen?Wasthefortieth-dayceremonyperformed,wheresweetslikehalvaandfrieddoughareofferedtohonorthedead?WhenMuhammadlived,wastheGloriousKoranrecitedmelodically,likeasong?Weretheprayerscalledhaughtilyandpompouslytoshowhowcloseone’sArabicwastoanArab’s?

    Wastheresuchathingasrecitingthecalltoprayercoyly,withtheflourishofamanimitatingawoman?Today,peoplepleadbeforegravesites,beggingforamends.Theyhopefortheinterventionofthedeadontheirbehalf.Theyvisitthetombsofsaintsandworshipatgraveslikepagansbeforepiecesofstone.

    Theytievotivepiecesofclotheverywhere,andmakepromisesofsacrificeinreturnforatonement.WeretheredervishsectarianswhospreadsuchbeliefsinMuhammad’stime?IbnArabi,theintellectualmentorofthesesectarians,becameasinnerbyswearingthattheinfidelPharaohhaddiedabeliever.

    Thesedervishes,theMevlevis,theHalvetis,theKalenderisandthosewhosingtheKorantomusicalaccompanimentorjustifydancingwithchildrenandjuvenilesbysaying”wepraytogetheranyway,whynot?“areallkaffirs.Dervishlodgesoughttobedestroyed,theirfoundationsexcavatedtoadepthofsevenellsandthecollectedearthcastintothesea.Onlythenmightritualprayersbeperformedthereagain.”

    IheardtellthatthisHusretHoja,takingmattersevenfurther,declaredwithspittleflyingfromhismouth,“Ah,mydevotedbelievers!Thedrinkingofcoffeeisanabsolutesin!OurGloriousProphetdidnotpartakeofcoffeebecauseheknewitdulledtheintellect,causedulcers,herniaandsterility;heunderstoodthatcoffeewasnothingbuttheDevil’sruse.Coffeehousesareplaceswherepleasure-seekersandwealthygadaboutssitknee-to-knee,involvingthemselvesinallsortsofvulgarbehavior;infact,evenbeforethedervishhousesareclosed,coffeehousesoughttobebanned.Dothepoorhaveenoughmoneytodrinkcoffee?Menfrequenttheseplaces,becomebesottedwithcoffeeandlosecontroloftheirmentalfacultiestothepointthattheyactuallylistentoandbelievewhatdogsandmongrelshavetosay.Butthosewhocursemeandourreligion,itistheywhoarethetruemongrels.”

    Withyourpermission,I’dliketorespondtothislastcommentbytheesteemedcleric.Ofcourse,itiscommonknowledgethathajis,hojas,clerics,andpreachersdespiseusdogs.Inmyopinion,thewholematterconcernsourreveredProphetMuhammad,peaceandblessingsbeuponhim,whocutoffapieceofhisrobeuponwhichacatlaysleepingratherthanwakethebeast.Bypointingoutthisaffectionshowntothecat,whichhasincidentallybeendeniedtousdogs,andduetooureternalfeudwiththisfelinebeast,whicheventhestupidestofmenrecognizesasaningrate,peoplehavetriedto

    intimatethattheProphethimselfdislikeddogs.They’reconvincedthatwe’lldefilethosewhohaveperformedritualablutions,andtheresultofthiserroneousandslanderousbeliefisthatwe’vebeenbarredfrommosquesforcenturiesandhavesufferedbeatingsintheircourtyardsfrombroomstick-wieldingcaretakers.

    Allowmetoremindyouof“TheCave,”themostbeautifuloftheKoran’schapters.I’mremindingyounotbecauseIsuspecttheremaybethosewhoneverreadtheKoranamongusinthisgoodcoffeehouse,butbecauseIwanttorefreshyourmemories:Thischapterrecountsthestoryofthesevenyouthswhogrowtiredoflivingamongpagansandtakerefugeinacavewheretheyenteradeepsleep.Allahthensealstheirearsandcausesthemtodozeoffforexactlythreehundredandnineyears.Whentheyawake,theylearnjusthowmanyyearshavepassedonlyafteroneofthementersthesocietyofmenandtriestospendanoutdatedsilvercoin.Allofthemarestunnedtolearnwhathashappened.Thischaptersubtlydescribesman’sattachmenttoAllah,Hismiracles,thetransitorynatureoftimeandthepleasureofdeepsleep,andthoughit’snotmyplace,allowmetoremindyouoftheeighteenthverse,whichmakesmentionofadogrestingatthemouthofthiscavewherethesevenyouthshavefallenasleep.Obviously,anyonewouldbeproudtoappearintheKoran.Asadog,Itakeprideinthischapter,andthroughitIintendtobringtheErzurumis,whorefertotheirenemiesasdirtymongrels,totheirsenses.

    Sothen,what’stheactualreasonforthisanimositytowarddogs?Whydoyoupersistinsayingthatdogsareimpure,andcleaningandpurifyingyourhomesfromtoptobottomifadoghappenstoenter?Whydoyoubelievethatthosewhotouchusspoiltheirablutions?Ifyourcaftanbrushesagainstourdampfur,whydoyouinsistonwashingthatcaftanseventimeslikeafrenziedwoman?Onlytinsmithscouldberesponsiblefortheslanderthatapotlickedbyadogmustbethrownawayorretinned.Orperhaps,yes,cats…Whenpeoplelefttheirvillagesforthesedentarylifeofthecity,shepherddogsremainedintheprovinces;that’swhenrumorsofthefilthinessofdogslikemebegantospread.YetbeforetheadventofIslam,twoofthetwelvemonthsoftheyearwere“monthsofthedog.”Now,however,adogisconsideredabadomen.Idon’twanttoburdenyouwithmyownproblems,mydearfriendswhohavecometohearastoryandponderitsmoral—tobehonest,myangerarisesoutoftheesteemedcleric’sattacksuponourcoffeehouses.

    WhatwouldyouthinkifIsaidthatthisHusretofErzurumwasofdubiousbirth?Butthey’vealsosaidofme,“Whatkindofdogdoyouthinkyouare?

    You’reattackingthevenerableclericbecauseyourmasterisapicture-hangingstorytellerwhotellstalesatacoffeehouseandyouwanttoprotecthim.Goon,scat!”Godforbid,I’mnotdenigratinganyone.ButI’magreatadmirerofourcoffeehouses.Youknow,IhavenoproblemwiththefactthatmyportraitwasdrawnonsuchcheappaperorthatI’mafour-leggedbeast,butIdoregretthatIcan’tsitdownlikeamanandhaveacupofcoffeewithyou.We’ddieforourcoffeeandourcoffeehouses—what’sthis?See,mymasterispouringcoffeeformefromasmallcoffeepot.Apicturecan’tdrinkcoffee,yousay?

    Please!Seeforyourselves,thisdogishappilylappingaway.

    Ah,yes,thathitthespot,it’swarmedmeup,sharpenedmysightandquickenedmythoughts.NowlistentowhatIhavetotellyou:BesidesboltsofChinesesilksandChinesepotteryadornedwithblueflowers,whatdidtheVianDogesendtoNurhayatSultan,theesteemeddaughterofourrespectedSultan?AsoftandcuddlyVianshe-dogwithacoatofsilkandsable.Iheardthatthisbitchissospoiledshehasaredsilkdressaswell.Oneofourfriendsactually**edher,that’showIknow,andshecan’tevenengageintheactwithoutherdress.InthatFrankishlandofhers,alldogswearoutfitslikethatanyway.I’veheardtellthatoverthereaso-calledelegantandwell-bredVianwomansawanakeddog—ormaybeshesawitsthing,I’mnotsure—anyway,shescreamed,“MydearGod,thedogisnaked!”andfainteddeadaway.

    InthelandsoftheinfidelFranks,theso-calledEuropeans,everydoghasanowner.Thesepooranimalsareparadedonthestreetswithchainsaroundtheirnecks,they’refetteredlikethemostmiserableofslavesanddraggedaroundinisolation.TheseFranksforcethepoorbeastsintotheirhomesandevenintotheirbeds.Dogsaren’tpermittedtowalkwithoneanother,letalonesniffandfrolictogether.Inthatdespicablestate,inchains,theycandonothingbutgazeforlornlyateachotherfromadistancewhentheypassonthestreet.DogswhoroamthestreetsofIstanbulfreelyinpacksandcommunities,thewaywedo,dogswhothreatenpeopleifnecessary,whocancurlupinawarmcornerorstretchoutintheshadeandsleeppeacefully,andwhocan**wherevertheywantandbitewhomevertheywant,suchdogsarebeyondtheinfidels’conception.It’snotthatIhaven’tthoughtthatthismightbewhythefollowersoftheErzurumiopposeprayingfordogsandfeedingthemmeatonthestreetsofIstanbulinexchangefordivinefavorsandevenwhytheyopposetheestablishmentofcharitiesthatperformsuchservices.Iftheyintendboth

    totreatusasenemiesandmakeinfidelsofus,letmeremindthemthatbeinganenemytodogsandbeinganinfidelareoneandthesame.Atthe,Ihope,nottoodistantexecutionsofthesedisgracefulmen,Iprayourexecutionerfriendsinviteustotakeabite,astheysometimesdotosetadeterringexample.

    BeforeIfinish,letmesaythis:Mypreviousmasterwasaveryjustman.

    Whenwesetoutatnighttothieve,we’dcooperate:I’dbegintobark,andhe’dcutthethroatofourvictimwhosescreamswouldbedrownedoutbymybarking.Inreturnformyhelp,he’dcutuptheguiltymenthathe’dpunished,boilthemandfeedthemtome.Idon’tlikerawmeat.Godwilling,thewould-beexecutionerofthatclericfromErzurumwilltakethisintoaccountsoIwon’tupsetmystomachwiththatscoundrel’srawflesh.

    IWILLBECALLEDAMURDERERNay,Iwouldn’thavebelievedIcouldtakeanyone’slife,evenifI’dbeentoldsomomentsbeforeImurderedthatfool;andthus,myoffenseattimesrecedesfrommelikeaforeigngalleondisappearingonthehorizon.Nowandagain,IevenfeelasifIhaven’tcommittedanycrimeatall.FourdayshavepassedsinceIwasforcedtodoawaywithhaplessElegant,whowasabrothertome,andonlynowhaveI,tosomeextent,acceptedmysituation.

    Iwould’vepreferredtoresolvethisunexpectedandawfuldilemmawithouthavingtodoawaywithanybody,butIknewtherewasnootherchoice.Ihandledthematterthenandthere,assumingtheburdenofresponsibility.Icouldn’tletthefalseaccusationsofonefoolhardymanendangertheentiresocietyofminiaturists.

    Nevertheless,beingamurderertakessomegettingusedto.Ican’tstandbeingathome,soIheadouttothestreet.Ican’tstandmystreet,soIwalkontoanother,andthenanother.AsIstareatpeople’sfaces,Irealizethatmanyofthembelievethey’reinnocentbecausetheyhaven’tyethadtheopportunitytosnuffoutalife.It’shardtobelievethatmostmenaremoremoralorbetterthanmesimplyonaccountofsomeminortwistoffate.Atmost,theywearsomewhatstupiderexpressionsbecausetheyhaven’tyetkilled,andlikeallfools,theyappeartohavegoodintentions.AfterItookcareofthatpatheticman,wanderingthestreetsofIstanbulforfourdayswasenoughtoconfirmthateveryonewithagleamofclevernessinhiseyeandtheshadowofhissoulcastacrosshisfacewasahiddenassassin.Onlyimbecilesareinnocent.

    Tonight,forexample,whilewarmingupwithasteamingcoffeeatthecoffeehouselocatedinthebackstreetsoftheslavemarket,gazingatthesketchofadoghangingonthebackwall,Iwasgraduallyforgettingmyplightandlaughingwiththerestofthemateverythingthedogrecounted.Then,Ihadthesensationthatoneofthemenbesidemewasacommonmurdererlikemyself.ThoughhewassimplylaughingatthestorytellerasIwas,myintuitionwassparked,eitherbythewayhisarmrestednearmineorbythewayherestlesslyrappedhisfingersonhiscup.I’mnotsurehowIknew,butIsuddenlyturnedandlookedhimdirectlyintheeye.Hegaveastartandhisfacecontorted.Asthecrowddispersed,anacquaintanceofhistookhimbythearmandsaid,“NusretHoja’smenwillsurelyraidthisplace.”

    Raisinganeyebrow,hesignaledthemanquiet.Theirfearinfectedme.Norustedanyone,everyoneexpectedtobedoneinatanymomentbythemannexttohim.

    Ithadbecomeevencolder,andsnowhadaccumulatedonstreetcornersandatthebasesofwalls.Intheblindnessofnight,Icouldfindmywayalongthenarrowstreetsonlybygropingwithmyhands.Attimes,thedimlightofanoillampstillburningsomewhereinsideawoodenhousefilteredoutfrombehindblackenedwindowsanddrawnshutters,reflectingonthesnow;butmostly,Icouldseenothing,andfoundmywaybylisteningforthesoundsofwatchmenbangingtheirsticksonstones,forthehowlingofmaddogs,orthesoundscomingfromhouses.Attimesthenarrowanddreadfulstreetsofthecityseemedtobelitupbyawondrouslightcomingfromthesnowitself;andinthedarkness,amidtheruinsandtrees,IthoughtIspottedoneofthoseghoststhathavemadeIstanbulsuchanominousplaceforthousandsofyears.

    Fromwithinhouses,nowandagain,Iheardthenoisesofmiserablepeoplehavingcoughingfitsorsnortingorwailingastheycriedoutintheirdreams,orIheardtheshoutsofhusbandsandwivesastheytriedtostrangleeachother,theirchildrensobbingattheirfeet.

    Foracoupleofnightsinarow,IcametothiscoffeehousetorelivethehappinessI’dfeltbeforebecomingamurderer,toraisemyspiritsandtolistentothestoryteller.Mostofmyminiaturistfriends,thebrethrenwithwhomI’dspentmyentirelife,camehereeverynight.SinceI’dsilencedthatloutwithwhomI’dmadeillustrationssincechildhoodIdidn’twanttoseeanyofthem.

    Muchembarrassesmeaboutthelivesofmybrethren,whocan’tdowithoutgossiping,andaboutthedisgracefulatmosphereofjovialityinthisplace.Ievensketchedafewpicturesforthestorytellersotheywouldn’taccusemeofconceit,butthatfailedtoputanendtotheirenvy.

    They’rejustifiedinbeingjealous.Notoneofthemcouldsurpassmeinmixingcolors,increatingandembellishingborders,composingpages,selectingsubjects,drawingfaces,arrangingbustlingwarandhuntingscenesanddepictingbeasts,sultans,ships,horses,warriorsandlovers.Notonecouldapproachmymasteryinimbuingillustrationswiththepoetryofthesoul,noteveningilding.I’mnotbragging,butexplainingthistoyousoyoumightfullyunderstandme.Overtime,jealousybecomesanelementasindispensableaspaintinthelifeofthemasterartist.

    Duringmywalks,whichgrowincreasinglylongerduetomyrestlessness,Icomeface-to-faceoccasionallywithoneofourmostpureandinnocentreligiouscountrymen,andastrangenotionsuddenlyentersmyhead:IfIthink

    aboutthefactthatI’mamurderer,themanbeforemewillreaditonmyface.

    Therefore,Iforcemyselftothinkofdifferentthings,justasIforcedmyself,writhinginembarrassment,tobanishthoughtsofwomenwhenperformingprayersasanadolescent.ButunlikethosedaysofyouthfulfitswhenIcouldn’tgettheactofcopulationoutofmythoughts,now,IcanindeedforgetthemurderthatI’vecommitted.

    Yourealize,infact,thatI’mexplainingallthesethingsbecausetheyrelatetomypredicament.ButifIweretodivulgeevenonedetailrelatedtothekillingitself,you’dfigureitalloutandthiswouldrelievemefrombeinganameless,facelessmurdererroamingamongyoulikeanapparitionandrelegatemetothestatusofanordinary,confessedcriminalwhohasgivenhimselfup,soontopayforhiscrimewithhishead.Givemethelicensenottodwelloneverysingledetail,allowmetokeepsomecluestomyself:TrytodiscoverwhoIamfrommychoiceofwordsandcolors,asattentivepeoplelikeyourselvesmightexaminefootprintstocatchathief.This,inturn,bringsustotheissueof“style,”whichisnowofwidespreadinterest:Doesaminiaturist,oughtaminiaturist,havehisownpersonalstyle?Auseofcolor,avoiceallhisown?

    Let’sconsiderapiecebyBihzad,themasterofmasters,patronsaintofallminiaturists.Ihappenedacrossthismasterpiece,whichalsonicelypertainstomysituationbecauseit’sadepictionofmurder,amongthepagesofaflawlessny-year-oldbookoftheHeratschool.ItemergedfromthelibraryofaPersianprincekilledinamercilessbattleofsuccessionandrecountsthestoryofHüsrevandShirin.You,ofcourse,knowthefateofHüsrevandShirin,IrefertoNizami’sversion,notFirdusi’s:

    Thetwoloversfinallymarryafterahostoftrialsandtribulations;however,theyounganddiabolicalShiruye,Hüsrev’ssonbyhispreviouswife,won’tgivethemanypeace.Theprincehashiseyeonnotonlyhisfather’sthronebutalsohisfather’syoungwife,Shirin.Shiruye,ofwhomNizamiwrites,“Hisbreathhadthestenchofalion’smouth,”byhookorcrookimprisonshisfatherandsucceedstothethrone.Onenight,enteringthebedchamberofhisfatherandShirin,hefeelshiswayinthedark,andonfindingthepairinbed,stabshisfatherinthechestwithhisdagger.Thus,thefather’sbloodflowstilldawnandheslowlydiesinthebedthatheshareswiththebeautifulShirin,whoremainssleepingpeacefullybesidehim.

    ThispicturebythegreatmasterBihzad,asmuchasthetaleitself,addressesagravefearI’vecarriedwithinmeforyears:Thehorrorofwakingintheblackofnighttorealizethere’sastrangermakingfaintsoundsashecreepsabout

    theblacknessoftheroom!Imaghattheintruderwieldsadaggerinonehandashestranglesyouwiththeother.Everydetail,thefinelywroughtwall,windowandframeornamentation,thecurvesandcirculardesignsintheredrug,thecolorofthesilentscreamemanatingfromyourclampedthroatandtheyellowandpurpleflowersembroideredwithincrediblefinesseandvigoronthemagnificentquiltuponwhichthebareandvilefootofyourmurderermercilesslystepsasheendsyourlife,allofthesedetailsservethesamepurpose:Whileaugmentingthebeautyofthepainting,theyremindyoujusthowexquisitearetheroominwhichyouwillsoondieandtheworldyouwillsoonleave.Theindifferenceofthepainting’sbeautyandoftheworldtoyourdeath,thefactofyourbeingtotallyaloneindeathdespitethepresenceofyourwife,thisistheinescapablemeaningthatstrikesyou.

    “ThisisbyBihzad,”theagingmastersaidtwentyyearsagoasweexaminedthebookIheldinmytremblinghands.Hisfacewasilluminatednotbythenearbycandle,butbythepleasureofobservationitself.“ThisissoBihzadthatthere’snoneedforasignature.”

    Bihzadwassowellawareofthisfactthathedidn’thidehissignatureanywhereinthepainting.Andaccordingtotheelderlymaster,therewasasenseofembarrassmentandafeelingofshameinthisdecisionofhis.Wherethereistrueartandgenuinevirtuositytheartistcanpaintanincomparablemasterpiecewithoutleavingevenatraceofhisidentity.

    Fearingformylife,Imurderedmyunfortunatevictiminanordinaryandcrudemanner.AsIreturnedtothisfire-ravagedareanightafternighttoascertainwhetherI’dleftbehindanytracesthatmightbetrayme,questionsofstyleincreasinglyaroseinmyhead.Whatwasveneratedasstylewasnothingmorethananimperfectionorflawthatrevealedtheguiltyhand.

    Icould’velocatedthisplaceevenwithoutthebrillianceofthefallingsnow,forthisspot,razedbyfire,waswhereI’dendedthelifeofmycompanionoftwenty-fiveyears.Now,snowcoveredanderasedallthecluesthatmighthavebeeninterpretedassignature,provingthatAllahconcurredwithBihzadandmeontheissueofstyleandsignature.Ifweactuallycommittedanunpardonablesinbyillustratingthatbook—asthathalf-withadmaintainedfourdaysago—evenifwehaddonesounawares,Allahwouldn’thavebestowedthisfavoruponusminiaturists.

    Thatnight,whenElegantEffendiandIcamehere,thesnowhadn’tyetbeguntofall.Wecouldhearthehowlingofmongrelsechointhedistance.

    “Pray,forwhatreasonhavewecomehere?”theunfortunateonehadasked.

    “Whatdoyouplantoshowmeouthereatthislatehour?”

    “Justaheadliesawell,twelvepacesbeyondwhichI’veburiedthemoneyI’vebeensavingforyears,”Isaid.“IfyoukeepeverythingI’veexplainedtoyousecret,EnishteEffendiandIwillseethatyouarehappilyrewarded.”

    “AmItounderstandthatyouadmityouknewwhatyouweredoingfromthebeginning?”hesaidinagitation.

    “Iadmitit,”Iliedobligingly.

    “Youacknowledgethepictureyou’vemadeisinfactadesecration,don’tyou?”hesaidinnocently.“It’sheresy,asacrilegethatnodecentmanwouldhavethegalltocommit.You’regoingtoburninthepitsofHell.Yoursufferingandpainwillneverdiminish—andyou’vemademeanaccomplice.”

    AsIlistenedtohim,Isensedwithhorrorhowhiswordshadsuchstrengthandgravitythat,willinglyornot,peoplewouldheedthem,hopingthattheywouldprovetrueaboutmiserablecreaturesotherthanthemselves.ManyrumorslikethisaboutEnishteEffendihadbeguntoflyduetothesecrecyofthebookhewasmakingandthemoneyhewaswillingtopay—andbecauseMasterOsman,theHeadIlluminator,despisedhim.Itoccurredtomethatperhapsmybrothergilder,Elegant,hadwithslyintentusedthesefactstobuttresshisfalseaccusations.Towhatdegreewashebeinghonest?

    Ihadhimrepeattheclaimsthatpittedusagainsteachother,andashespoke,hedidn’tmincehiswords.Heseemedtobeprovokingmetocoverupamistake,asduringourapprenticeyears,whenthegoalwastoavoidabeatingbyMasterOsman.Backthen,Ifoundhissincerityconvincing.Asanapprentice,hiseyeswouldwidenastheydidnow,butbackthentheyhadn’tyetdimmedfromthelaborofembellishing.ButfinallyIhardenedmyheart;hewaspreparedtoconfesseverythingtoeveryone.

    “Dolistentome,”Isaidwithforcedexasperation.“Wemakeilluminations,createborderdesigns,drawframesontopages,webrightlyornamentpageafterpagewithlovelytonesofgold,wemakethegreatestofpaintings,weadornarmoiresandboxes.We’vedonenothingelseforyears.Itisourcalling.

    Theycommissionpaintingsfromus,orderingustoarrangeaship,anantelopeorasultanwithinthebordersofaparticularframe,demandingacertainstyleofbird,acertaintypeoffigure,takethisparticularscenefromthestory,forgetaboutsuch-and-such.Whateveritistheydemand,wedoit.”Listen,“EnishteEffendisaidtome,”here,drawahorseofyourownimagining,righthere.“Forthreedays,likethegreatartistsofold,IsketchedhundredsofhorsessoImight

    cometoknowexactlywhat”ahorseofmyownimagining‘was.Toaccustommyhand,IdrewaseriesofhorsesonacoarsesheetofSamarkandpaper.“ItookthesesketchesoutandshowedthemtoElegant.Helookedatthemwithinterestand,leaningclosetothepaper,begantostudytheblackandwhitehorsesinthefaintmoonlight.“TheoldmastersofShirazandHerat,”Isaid,“claimedthataminiaturistwouldhavetosketchhorsesunceasinglyforfiftyyearstobeabletotrulydepictthehorsethatAllahenvisionedanddesired.Theyclaimedthatthebestpictureofahorseshouldbedrawninthedark,sinceatrueminiaturistwouldgoblindworkingoverthatfifty-yearperiod,butintheprocess,hishandwouldmemorizethehorse.”

    Theinnocentexpressiononhisface,theoneI’dalsoseenlongago,whenwewerechildren,toldmethathe’dbecomecompletelyabsorbedinmyhorses.

    “Theyhireus,andwetrytomakethemostmysterious,themostunattainablehorse,justastheoldmastersdid.There’snothingmoretoit.It’sunjustofthemtoholdusresponsibleforanythingmorethantheillustration.”

    “I’mnotsurethat’scorrect,”hesaid.“We,too,haveresponsibilitiesandourownwill.IfearnoonebutAllah.ItwasHewhoprovideduswithreasonthatwemightdistinguishGoodfromEvil.”

    Itwasanappropriateresponse.

    “Allahseesandknowsall…”IsaidinArabic.“He’llknowthatyouandI,we’vedhisworkwithoutbeingawareofwhatweweredoing.WhowillyounotifyaboutEnishteEffendi?Aren’tyouawarethatbehindthisaffairreststhewillofHisExcellencyOurSultan?”

    Silence.

    IwonderedwhetherhewasreallysuchabuffoonorwhetherhislossofcomposureandrantinghadsprungoutofasincerefearofAllah.

    Westoppedatthemouthofthewell.Inthedarkness,Ivaguelycaughtsightofhiseyesandcouldseethathewasscared.Ipitiedhim.Butitwastoolateforthat.IprayedtoGodtogivemeonemoresignthatthemanstandingbeforemewasnotonlyadim-wittedcoward,butanunredeemabledisgrace.

    “Countofftwelvestepsanddig,”Isaid.

    “Then,whatwillyoudo?”

    “I’llexplainitalltoEnishteEffendi,andhe’llburnthepictures.Whatotherrecourseisthere?IfoneofNusretHoja’sfollowershearsofsuchanallegation,

    nothingwillremainofusorthebook-artsworkshop.AreyoufamiliarwithanyoftheErzurumis?Acceptthismoneysothatwecanbecertainyouwon’tinformonus.”

    “Whatisthemoneycontainedin?”

    “Thereareseventy-fiveViangoldpiecesinsideanoldceramicpicklejar.”

    TheVianducatsmadegoodsense,butwherehadIcomeupwiththeceramicpicklejar?Itwassofooli**wasbelievable.IwastherebyreassuredthatGodwaswithmeandhadgivenmeasign.Myoldcompanionapprentice,who’dgrowngreedierwitheachpassingyear,hadalreadystartedexcitedlycountingoffthetwelvestepsinthedirectionIindicated.

    Thereweretwothingsonmymindatthatmoment.Firstofall,therewerenoViancoinsoranythingofthesortburiedthere!IfIdidn’tcomeupwithsomemoneythisbuffoonwoulddestroyus.IsuddenlyfeltlikeembracingtheoafandkissinghischeeksasIsometimesdidwhenwewereapprentices,buttheyearshadcomebetweenus!Second,Iwaspreoccupiedwithfiguringouthowweweregoingtodig.Withourfingernails?Butthiscontemplation,ifyoucouldcallitthat,lastedonlyawinkintime.

    Panicking,Igrabbedasthatlaybesidethewell.Whilehewasstillontheseventhoreighthstep,Icaughtuptohimandstruckhimonthebackofhisheadwithallmystrength.IstruckhimsoswiftlyandbrutallythatIwasmomentarilystartled,asiftheblowhadlandedonmyownhead.Aye,Ifelthispain.

    InsteadofanguishingoverwhatI’ddone,Iwantedtofinishthejobquickly.

    He’dbegunthrashingaboutonthegroundandmypanicdeepenedfurther.

    LongafterI’ddroppedhimintothewell,Icontemplatedhowthecrudenessofmydeeddidnotintheleastbefitthegraceofaminiaturist.

    IAMYOURBELOVEDUNCLEIamBlack’smaternaluncle,hisenishte,butothersalsocallme“Enishte.”

    TherewasatimewhenBlack’smotherencouragedhimtoaddressmeas“EnishteEffendi,”andlater,notonlyBlack,buteveryonebeganreferringtomethatway.Thirtyyearsago,afterwe’dmovedtothedarkandhumidstreetshadedbychestnutandlindentreesbeyondtheAksaraydistrict,Blackbegantomakefrequentvisitstoourhouse.Thatwasourresidencebeforethisone.IfIwereawayonsummercampaignwithMahmutPasha,I’dreturnintheautumntodiscoverthatBlackandhismotherhadtakenrefugeinourhome.

    Black’smother,maysherestinpeace,wastheoldersisterofmydearlydepartedwife.ThereweretimesonwintereveningsI’dcomehometofindmywifeandhismotherembracingandtearfullyconsolingeachother.Black’sfather,whocouldnevermaintainhisteachingpostsattheremotelittlereligiousschoolswherehetaught,wasill-tempered,angryandhadaweaknessfordrink.Blackwassixyearsoldatthetime;he’dcrywhenhismothercried,quietdownwhenhismotherfellsilentandregardedme,hisEnishte,withapprehension.

    Itpleasesmetoseehimbeforemenow,adetermined,matureandrespectfulnephew.Therespectheshowsme,thecarewithwhichhekissesmyhandandpressesittohisforehead,theway,forexample,hesaid,“Purelyforred,”whenhepresentedmewiththeMongolinkpotasagift,andhispoliteanddemurehabitofsittingbeforemewithhiskneesmindfullytogether;allofthisnotonlyannouncesthatheisthesensiblegrownmanheaspirestobe,butitremindsmethatIamindeedthevenerableelderIaspiretobe.

    Hesharesalikenesswithhisfather,whomI’veseenonceortwice:He’stallandthin,andmakesslightlynervousyetbecominggestureswithhisarmsandhands.Hiscustomofplacinghishandsonhiskneesorofstaringdeeplyandintentlyintomyeyesasiftosay,“Iunderstand,I’mlisteningtoyouwithreverence”whenItellhimsomethingofimport,orthewayhenodshisheadwithasubtlerhythmmatchingthemeasureofmywordsareallquiteappropriate.NowthatI’vereachedthisage,Iknowthattruerespectarisesnotfromtheheart,butfromdiscreterulesanddeference.

    DuringtheyearsBlack’smotherbroughthimfrequentlytoourhouseundereverypretensebecausesheanticipatedafutureforhimhere,Iunderstoodthatbookspleasedhim,andthisbroughtustogether.Asthoseinthehouseusedtoputit,hewouldserveasmy“apprentice.”Iexplainedto

    himhowminiaturistsinShirazhadcreatedanewstylebyraisingthehorizonlinecleartothetopoftheborder,andthatwhileeveryonedepictedMejnuninawretchedstateinthedesert,crazedwithloveforhisLeyla,thegreatmasterBihzadwasbetterabletoconveyMejnun’slonelinessbyportrayinghimwalkingamonggroupsofwomencooking,attemptingtoignitelogsbyblowingonthemorwalkingbetweentents.IremarkedhowabsurditwasthatmostoftheillustratorswhodepictedthemomentwhenHüsrevspiedthenakedShirinbathinginalakeatmidnighthadwhimsicallycoloredthelovers’horsesandclotheswithouthavingreadNizami’spoem,mypointbeingthataminiaturistwhotookupabrushwithoutthecareanddiligencetoreadthetexthewasillustratingwasmotivatedbynothingmorethangreed.

    I’mdelightednowtoseethatBlackhasacquiredanotheressentialvirtue:

    Toavoiddisappointmentinart,onemustn’ttreatitasacareer.Despitewhatevergreatartisticsenseandtalentamanmightpossess,heoughttoseekmoneyandpowerelsewheretoavoidforsakinghisartwhenhefailstoreceivepropercompensationforhisgiftsandefforts.

    Blackrecountedhowhe’dmetonebyoneallofthemasterillustratorsandcalligraphersofTabrizbymakingbooksforpashas,wealthyIstanbulitesandpatronsintheprovinces.Alltheseartists,Ilearned,wereimpoverishedandovercomebythefutilityoftheirlot.NotonlyinTabriz,butinMashhadandAleppo,manyminiaturistshadabandonedworkingonbooksandbegunmakingoddsingle-leafpictures—curiositiesthatwouldpleaseEuropeantravelers—evenobscenedrawings.RumorhasitthattheilluminatedmanuscriptShahAbbaspresentedtoOurSultanduringtheTabrizpeacetreatyhasalreadybeentakenapartsoitspagescouldbeusedforanotherbook.

    Supposedly,theEmperorofHindustan,Akbar,wasthrowingsomuchmoneyaroundforalargenewbookthatthemostgiftedillustratorsofTabrizandKazvinquitwhattheyweredoingandflockedtohispalace.

    Ashetoldmeallofthis,hepleasantlyinterjectedotherstoriesaswell;forexample,hedescribedwithasmiletheentertainingstoryofaMehdiforgeryorthefrenzythateruptedamongtheUzbekswhentheidiotprincesenttothembytheSafavidsasahostagetopeacefellfeverishlyillanddroppeddeadwithinthreedays.Evenso,Icouldtellfromtheshadowthatfellacrosshisfacethatthedilemmatowhichneitherofusreferred,butwhichtroubledusboth,hadyettoberesolved.

    Naturally,Black,likeeveryyoungmanwhofrequentedourhouseorheardwhatothershadtosayaboutus,orwhoknewaboutmybeautifuldaughter,Shekure,fromhearsay,hadfalleninlovewithher.PerhapsIdidn’tconsiderit

    dangerousenoughtowarrantmyattentionbackthen,buteveryone—includingmanywho’dneverlaideyesonher—fellinlovewithmydaughter,thatbelleofbelles.Black’safflictionwastheoverwhelmingpassionofanill-fatedyouthwhohadfreeaccesstoourhouse,whowasacceptedandwelllikedinourhomeandwhohadtheopportunityactuallytoseeShekure.Hedidnotburyhislove,asIhopedhewould,butmadethemistakeofrevealinghisextremepassiontomydaughter.

    Asaresult,hewasforcedtoquitourhousecompletely.

    IassumedthatBlacknowalsoknewhowthreeyearsafterhe’dleftIstanbul,mydaughtermarriedaspahicavalryman,attheheightofherloveliness,andthatthissoldier,havingfatheredtwoboysbutstillbereftofanycommonsense,hadgoneoffonacampaignnevertoreturnagain.Noonehadheardfromthecavalrymaninfouryears.Igatheredhewasawareofthis,notonlybecausesuchgossipspreadsfastinIstanbul,butbecauseduringthesilencesthatpassedbetweenus,Ifelthe’dlearnedthewholestorylongago,judgingbythewayhelookedintomyeyes.Evenatthismoment,ashecastsaneyeattheBookoftheSoul,whichstandsopenonthefoldingX-shapedreadingstand,Iknowhe’slisteningforthesoundsofherchildrenrunningthroughthehouse;Iknowhe’sawarethatmydaughterhasreturnedheretoherfather’shousewithhertwosons.

    I’veneglectedtomentionthenewhouseIhadbuiltinBlack’sabsence.

    Mostlikely,Black,likeanyyoungfellowwho’dsethismindtobecomingamanofwealthandprestige,considereditquitediscourteoustobroachsuchasubject.Still,whenweentered,Itoldhimonthestaircasethatthesecondfloorwasalwayslesshumid,andthatmovingupstairshadservedtoeasethepainsinmyjoints.WhenIsaid“thesecondfloor,”Ifeltoddlyembarrassed,butletmetellyou:MenwithmuchlessmoneythanI,evensimplespahicavalrymenwithtinymilitaryfiefs,willsoonbeabletobuildtwo-storyhouses.

    WewereintheroomwiththebluedoorthatIusedasthepaintingworkshopinwinter,andIsensedthatBlackwasawareofShekure’spresenceintheadjacentroom.IatoncedisclosedtohimthematterthatinspiredtheletterI’dsenttoTabriz,invitinghimtoIstanbul.

    “JustasyoudidinconcertwiththecalligraphersandminiaturistsofTabriz,I,too,havebeenpreparinganillustratedmanuscript,”Isaid.“Myclientis,infact,HisExcellencyOurSultan,theFoundationoftheWorld.Becausethisbookisasecret,OurSultanhasdisbursedpaymenttomeundercoverofthe

    HeadTreasurer.AndIhavecometoanunderstandingwitheachofthemosttalentedandaccomplishedartistsofOurSultan’satelier.Ihavebeenintheprocessofcommissioningoneofthemtoillustrateadog,anotheratree,athirdI’vechargedwithmakingborderdesignsandcloudsonthehorizon,andyetanotherisresponsibleforthehorses.IwantedthethingsIdepictedtorepresentOurSultan’sentireworld,justasinthepaintingsoftheVianmasters.ButunliketheVians,myworkwouldnotmerelydepictmaterialobjects,butnaturallytheinnerriches,thejoysandfearsoftherealmoverwhichOurSultanrules.IfIendedupincludingthepictureofagoldcoin,itwastobelittlemoney;IincludedDeathandSatanbecausewefearthem.Idon’tknowwhattherumorsareabout.Iwantedtheimmortalityofatree,thewearinessofahorseandthevulgarityofadogtorepresentHisExcellencyOurSultanandHisworldlyrealm.Ialsowantedmycadreofillustrators,nicknamed”Stork,“”Olive,“”Elegant‘and“Butterfly,”toselectsubjectsoftheirownchoosing.Oneventhecoldest,mostforbiddingwinterevenings,oneofmySultan’sillustratorswouldsecretlyvisittoshowmewhathe’dpreparedforthebook.

    “Whatkindofpictureswerewemaking?Whywereweillustratingtheminthatway?Ican’treallyansweryouatpresent.NotbecauseI’mwithholdingasecretfromyou,andnotbecauseIwon’teventuallytellyou.It’sasthoughImyselfdon’tquiteknowwhatthepicturesmean.Ido,however,knowwhatkindofpaintingstheyoughttobe.”

    FourmonthsafterIsentmyletter,IheardfromthebarberlocatedonthestreetwhereweusedtolivethatBlackhadreturnedtoIstanbul,and,inturn,Iinvitedhimtoourhouse.Iwasfullyawarethatmystoryboreapromiseofbothsorrowandblissthatwouldbindthetwoofustogether.

    “Everypictureservestotellastory,”Isaid.“Theminiaturist,inordertobeautifythemanuscriptweread,depictsthemostvitalscenes:thefirsttimeloverslayeyesoneachother;theheroRüstemcuttingofftheheadofadevilishmonster;Rüstem’sgriefwhenherealizesthatthestrangerhe’skilledishisson;thelove-crazedMejnunasheroamsadesolateandwildNatureamonglions,tigers,stagsandjackals;theanguishofAlexander,who,havingcometotheforestbeforeabattletodivineitsoutcomefromthebirds,witnessesagreatfalcontearaparthiswoodcock.Oureyes,fatiguedfromreadingthesetales,restuponthepictures.Ifthere’ssomethingwithinthetextthatourintellectandimaginationareatpainstoconjure,theillustrationcomesatoncetoouraid.Theimagesarethestory’sblossomingincolor.Butpaintingwithoutitsaccompanyingstoryisanimpossibility.

    “OrsoIusedtothink,”Iadded,asifregretfully.“Butthisisindeedquitepossible.TwoyearsagoItraveledonceagaintoVeniceastheSultan’sambassador.IobservedatlengththeportraitsthattheVianmastershadmade.Ididsowithoutknowingtowhichsceneandstorythepicturesbelonged,andIstruggledtoextractthestoryfromtheimage.Oneday,Icameacrossapaintinghangingonapalazzowallandwasdumbfounded.

    “Morethananything,theimagewasofanindividual,somebodylikemyself.Itwasaninfidel,ofcourse,notoneofus.AsIstaredathim,though,IfeltasifIresembledhim.Yethedidn’tresemblemeatall.Hehadafullroundfacethatseemedtolackcheekbones,andmoreover,hehadnotraceofmymarvelouschin.Thoughhedidn’tlookanythinglikeme,asIgazeduponthepicture,forsomereason,myheartflutteredasifitweremyownportrait.

    “IlearnedfromtheViangentlemanwhowasgivingmeatourthroughhispalazzothattheportraitwasofafriend,anoblemanlikehimself.Hehadincludedwhateverwassignificantinhislifeinhisportrait:Inthebackgroundlandscapevisiblefromtheopenwindowtherewasafarm,avillageandablendingofcolorwhichmadearealistic-lookingforest.Restingonthetablebeforethenoblemanwereaclock,books,Time,Evil,Life,acalligraphypen,amap,acompass,boxescontaininggoldcoins,bric-a-brac,oddsandends,inscrutableyetdistinguishablethingsthatwereprobablyincludedinmanypictures,shadowsofjinnsandtheDevilandalso,thepictureoftheman’sstunninglybeautifuldaughterasshestoodbesideherfather.

    “Whatwasthenarrativethatthisrepresentationwasmeanttoembellishandcomplete?AsIregardedthework,Islowlysensedthattheunderlyingtalewasthepictureitself.Thepaintingwasn’ttheextensionofastoryatall,itwassomethinginitsownright.

    “Ineverforgotthepaintingthatbewilderedmeso.Ileftthepalazzo,returnedtothehousewhereIwasstayingasaguestandponderedthepicturetheentirenight.I,too,wantedtobeportrayedinthismanner.But,no,thatwasn’tappropriate,itwasOurSultanwhooughttobethusportrayed!OurSultanoughttoberenderedalongwitheverythingHeowned,withthethingsthatrepresentedandconstitutedHisrealm.Isettledonthenotionthatamanuscriptcouldbeillustratedaccordingtothisidea.

    “TheVianvirtuosohadmadethenobleman’spictureinsuchawaythatyouwouldimmediatelyknowwhichparticularnoblemanitwas.Ifyou’dneverseenthatman,iftheytoldyoutopickhimoutofacrowdofathousandothers,you’dbeabletoselectthecorrectmanwiththehelpofthatportrait.

    TheVianmastershaddiscoveredpaintingtechniqueswithwhichthey

    coulddistinguishanyonemanfromanother—withoutrelyingonhisoutfitormedals,justbythedistinctiveshapeofhisface.Thiswastheessenceof”portraiture.““Ifyourfaceweredepictedinthisfashiononlyonce,noonewouldeverbeabletoforgetyou,andifyouwerefaraway,someonewholaideyesonyourportraitwouldfeelyourpresenceasifyouwereactuallynearby.Thosewhohadneverseenyoualive,evenyearsafteryourdeath,couldcomeface-to-facewithyouasifyouwerestandingbeforethem.”

    Weremainedsilentforalongtime.Achillinglightthecoloroftheicinessoutsidefilteredthroughtheupperpartofthesmallhallwaywindowfacingthestreet;thiswasthewindowwhoselowershutterswereneveropened,whichI’drecentlypanedoverwithapieceofclothdippedinbeeswax.

    “Therewasaminiaturist,”Isaid.“HewouldcomeherejustliketheotherartistsforthesakeofOurSultan’ssecretbook,andwewouldworktogethertilldawn.Hedidthebestofthegilding.ThatunfortunateElegantEffendi,helefthereonenightnevertoarriveathome.I’mafraidtheymighthavedonehimin,thatpoormastergilderofmine.”

    IAMORHANBlackasked:“Havetheyindeedkilledhim?”

    ThisBlackwastall,skinnyandalittlefrightening.Iwaswalkingtowardthemwheretheysattalkinginthesecond-floorworkshopwiththebluedoorwhenmygrandfathersaid,“Theymighthavedonehimin.”Thenhecaughtsightofme.“Whatareyoudoinghere?”

    HelookedatmeinsuchawaythatIclimbedontohislapwithoutanswering.Thenheputmebackdownrightaway.

    “KissBlack’shand,”hesaid.

    Ikissedthebackofhishandandtouchedittomyforehead.Ithadnosmell.

    “He’squitecharming,”Blacksaidandkissedmeonmycheek.“Onedayhe’llbeabraveyoungman.”

    “ThisisOrhan,he’ssix.There’salsoanolderone,Shevket,who’sseven.

    Thatone’squiteastubbornlittlechild.”

    “IwentbacktotheoldstreetinAksaray,”saidBlack.“Itwascold,everythingwascoveredinsnowandice.Butitwasasifnothinghadchangedatall.”

    “Alas!Everythinghaschanged,everythinghasbecomeworse,”mygrandfathersaid.“Significantlyworse.”Heturnedtome.“Where’syourbrother?”

    “He’swithourmentor,themasterbinder.”

    “So,whatareyoudoinghere?”

    “Themastersaid,”Finework,youcangonow‘tome.““Youmadeyourwaybackherealone?”askedmygrandfather.“Yourolderbrotheroughttohaveaccompaniedyou.”ThenhesaidtoBlack:“There’sabinderfriendofminewithwhomtheyworktwiceaweekaftertheirKoranschool.Theyserveashisapprentices,learningtheartofbinding.”

    “Doyouliketomakeillustrationslikeyourgrandfather?”askedBlack.

    Igavehimnoanswer.

    “Allrightthen,”saidmygrandfather.“Leaveusbe,now.”

    TheheatfromtheopenbrazierthatwarmedtheroomwassonicethatIdidn’twanttoleave.Smellingthepaintandglue,Istoodstillforamoment.Icouldalsosmellcoffee.

    “Yetdoesillustratinginanewwaysignifyanewwayofseeing?”mygrandfatherbegan.“Thisisthereasonwhythey’vemurderedthatpoorgilderdespitethefactthatheworkedintheoldstyle.I’mnotevencertainhe’sbeenkilled,onlythathe’smissing.They’reillustratingacommemorativestoryinverse,aBookofFestivities,forOurSultanbyorderoftheHeadIlluminatorMasterOsman.Eachoftheminiaturistsworksathisownhome.MasterOsman,however,occupieshimselfatthepalacebook-artsworkshop.Tobeginwith,Iwantyoutogothereandobserveeverything.Iworrythattheothers,thatis,theminiaturists,haveendedupfallingoutwithandslayingoneanother.TheygobytheworkshopnamesthatHeadIlluminatorMasterOsmangavethemyearsago:”Butterfly,“”Olive,“”Stork‘…You’realsotogoandobservethemastheyworkintheirhomes.“Insteadofheadingdownstairs,Ispunaround.Therewasanoisecomingfromthenextroomwiththebuilt-inclosetwhereHayriyeslept.Iwentin.

    InsidetherewasnoHayriye,justmymother.Shewasembarrassedtoseeme.

    Shestoodhalfinthecloset.

    “Wherehaveyoubeen?”sheasked.

    ButsheknewwhereI’dbeen.Inthebackoftheclosettherewasapeepholethroughwhichyoucouldseemygrandfather’sworkshop,andifitsdoorwereopen,thewidehallwayandmygrandfather’sbedroomacrossthehallbythestaircase—if,ofcourse,hisbedroomdoorwereopen.

    “Iwaswithgrandfather,”Isaid.“Mother,whatareyoudoinginhere?”

    “Didn’tItellyouthatyourgrandfatherhadaguestandthatyouweren’ttobotherthem?”Shescoldedme,butnotveryloud,becauseshedidn’twanttheguesttohear.“Whatweretheydoing?”sheaskedafterward,inasweetvoice.

    “Theywereseated.Notwiththepaintsthough.Grandfatherspoke,theotherlistened.”

    “Inwhatmannerwasheseated?”

    Idroppedtothefloorandimitatedtheguest:“I’maveryseriousmannow,Mother,look.I’mlisteningtomygrandfatherwithkniteyebrows,asifIwerelisteningtothebirthepicbeingrecited.I’mnoddingmyheadintimenow,veryseriouslylikethatguest.”

    “Godownstairs,”mymothersaid,“callforHayriyeatonce.”

    Shesatdownandbeganwritingonasmallpieceofpaperonthewritingboardshe’dtakenup.

    “Mother,whatareyouwriting?”

    “Bequick,now.Didn’tItellyoutogodownstairsandcallforHayriye?”

    Iwentdowntothekitchen.Mybrother,Shevket,wasback.Hayriyehadputbeforehimaplateofthepilafmeantfortheguest.

    “Traitor,”mybrothersaid.“YoujustwentoffandleftmewiththeMaster.Ididallthefoldingforthebindingsmyself.Myfingersarebruisedpurple.”

    “Hayriye,mymotherwantstoseeyou.”

    “WhenI’mdonehere,I’mgoingtogiveyousuchabeating,”mybrothersaid.“You’llpayforyourlazinessandtreachery.”

    WhenHayriyeleft,mybrotherstoodandcameaftermethreateningly,evenbeforehe’dfinishedhispilaf.Icouldn’tgetawayintime.Hegrabbedmyarmatthewristandbegantwistingit.

    “Stop,Shevket,don’t,you’rehurtingme.”

    “Areyouevergoingtoshirkyourdutiesagainandleave?”

    “No,Iwon’teverleave.”

    “Sweartoit.”

    “Iswear.”

    “SwearontheKoran.”

    “…ontheKoran.”

    Hedidn’tletgoofmyarm.Hedraggedmetothelargecoppertraythatweusedasatableforeatingandforcedmetomyknees.Hewasstrongenoughtoeathispilafashecontinuedtotwistmyarm.

    “Quittorturingyourbrother,tyrant,”saidHayriye.Shecoveredherselfandwasheadingoutside.“Leavehimbe.”

    “Mindyourownaffairs,slavegirl,”mybrothersaid.Hewasstilltwistingmyarm.“Whereareyouoffto?”

    “Tobuylemons,”Hayriyesaid.

    “You’realiar,”mybrothersaid.“Thecupboardisfulloflemons.”

    Ashehadeaseduponmyarm,Iwassuddenlyabletofreemyself.Ikickedhimandgrabbedacandleholderbyitsbase,buthepouncedonme,

    smotheringme.Heknockedthecandleholderaway,andthecoppertrayfellover.

    “YoutwoscourgesofGod!”mymothersaid.Shekepthervoiceloweredsotheguestwouldn’thear.Howhadshepassedbeforetheopendooroftheworkshop,throughthehallway,andcomedownstairswithoutbeingseenbyBlack?

    Sheseparatedus.“Youtwojustcontinuetodisgraceme,don’tyou?”

    “Orhanliedtothemasterbinder,”Shevketsaid.“Heleftmetheretodoallthework.”

    “Hush!”mymothersaid,slappinghim.

    She’dhithimsoftly.Mybrotherdidn’tcry.“Iwantmyfather,”hesaid.

    “Whenhereturnshe’sgoingtotakeupUncleHasan’sruby-handledsword,andwe’regoingtomovebackwithUncleHasan.”

    “Shutup!”saidmymother.ShesuddenlybecamesoangrythatshegrabbedShevketbythearmanddraggedhimthroughthekitchen,passedthestairstotheroomthatfacedthefarshadysideofthecourtyard.Ifollowedthem.Mymotheropenedthedoor.Whenshesawme,shesaid,“Inside,thebothofyou.”

    “ButIhaven’tdoneanything,”Isaid.Ienteredanyway.Motherclosedthedoorbehindus.Thoughitwasn’tpitch-blackinside—afaintlightfellthroughthespacebetweentheshuttersfacingthepomegranatetreeinthecourtyard—Iwasscared.

    “Openthedoor,Mother,”Isaid.“I’mcold.”

    “Quitwhimpering,youcoward,”Shevketsaid.“She’llopenitsoonenough.”

    Motheropenedthedoor.“Areyougoingtobehaveuntilthevisitorleaves?”

    shesaid.“Allrightthen,you’llsitinthekitchenbythestoveuntilBlacktakeshisleave,andyou’renottogoupstairs,doyouunderstand?”

    “We’llgetboredinthere,”Shevketsaid.“WherehasHayriyegone?”

    “Quitbuttingintoeveryone’saffairs,”mymothersaid.

    Weheardasoftwhinnyingfromoneofthehorsesinthestable.Thehorsewhinniedagain.Itwasn’tourgrandfather’shorse,butBlack’s.Wewereovercomewithmirth,asifitwereafairday.Mothersmiled,wantingustosmileaswell.Takingtwostepsforward,sheopenedthestabledoorthatfacedusoffthestairwelloutsidethekitchen.

    “Drrsss,”shesaidintothestable.

    SheturnedaroundandguidedusintoHayriye’sgreasy-smellingandmice-riddenkitchen.Sheforcedustositdown.“Don’tevenconsiderstandinguntilourguestleaves.Anddon’tfightwitheachotherorelsepeoplewillthinkyou’respoiled.”

    “Mother,”Isaidtoherbeforesheclosedthekitchendoor.“Iwanttosaysomething,Mother:They’vedoneourgrandfather’sgilderin.”

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