章节目录 “I AM CALLED “OLIVE”

(88106 www.88106.info)    Afterthemiddayprayers,IwaseversoswiftlyyetpleasurablydrawingthedarlingfacesofboyswhenIheardaknockatthedoor.Myhandjerkedinsurprise.Iputdownmybrush.Icarefullyplacedthework-boardthatwasonmykneesofftotheside.Rushinglikethewind,Isaidaprayerbeforeopeningthedoor.Iwon’twithholdanythingfromyou,becauseyou,whocanhearmefromwithinthisbook,aremuchnearertoAllahthanweinthisfilthyandmiserableworldofours.AkbarKhan,theEmperorofHindustanandtheworld’srichestshah,ispreparingwhatwillonedaybecomealegendarybook.Tocompletehisproject,hesentwordtothefourcornersofIslamdominvitingtheworld’sgreatestartiststojoinhim.Themenhe’dsenttoIstanbulvisitedmeyesterday,invitingmetoHindustan.Thistime,Iopenedthedoortofind,intheirplace,mychildhoodacquaintanceBlack,aboutwhomI’dforgottenentirely.Backthenhewasn’tabletokeepourcompany,hewasjealousofus.“Yes?”

    Hesaidhe’dcometoconverse,topayafriendlyvisit,tohavealookatmyillustrations.Iwelcomedhimsohemightseeitall.Ilearnedhe’djusttodayvisitedHeadIlluminatorMasterOsmanandkissedhishand.Thegreatmaster,heexplained,hadgivenhimwisewordstoponder:“Apainter’squalitybecomesevidentinhisdiscussionsofblindnessandmemory,”he’dsaid.Soletitbeevident:

    BlindnessandMemoryBeforetheartofilluminationtherewasblacknessandafterwardtherewillalsobeblackness.Throughourcolors,paints,artandlove,werememberthatAllahhadcommandedusto“See”!Toknowistorememberthatyou’veseen.Toseeistoknowwithoutremembering.Thus,paintingisrememberingtheblackness.Thegreatmasters,whosharedaloveofpaintingandperceivedthatcolorandsightarosefromdarkness,longedtoreturntoAllah’sblacknessbymeansofcolor.ArtistswithoutmemoryneitherrememberAllahnorhisblackness.Allgreatmasters,intheirwork,seekthatprofoundvoidwithincolorandoutsidetime.Letmeexplaintoyouwhatitmeanstorememberthisdarkness,whichwasrevealedinHeratbythegreatmastersofold.

    ThreeStoriesonBlindnessandMemoryALIFInLami’iChelebi’sTurkishtranslationofthePersianpoetJami’sGiftsofIntimacy,whichaddressesthestoriesofthesaints,itiswrittenthatinthebookmaker’sworkshopofJihanShah,theruleroftheBlacksheepnation,therenownedmasterSheikhAliTabrizihadillustratedamagnificentversionofHüsrevandShirin.AccordingtowhatI’veheard,inthislegendarymanuscript,whichtookelevenyearstocomplete,themasterofmasterminiaturists,SheikhAli,displayedsuchtalentandskillandpaintedsuchwonderfulpicturesthatonlythegreatestoftheoldmasters,Bihzad,couldhavematchedhim.Evenbeforetheilluminatedmanuscriptwashalffinished,JihanShahknewthathewouldsoonpossessaspectacularbookwithoutequalinalltheworld.HethuslivedinfearandjealousyofyoungTallHasan,theruleroftheWhitesheepnation,anddeclaredhimhisarchenemy.Moreover,JihanShahquicklysensedthatthoughhisprestigewouldgrowimmenselyafterthebookwascompleted,anevenbetterversionofthemanuscriptcouldbemadeforTallHasan.Beingoneofthosetrulyjealousmenwhopoisonedhisowncontentmentwiththethought“Whatifotherscometoknowsuchbliss?”JihanShahsensedatoncethatifthevirtuosominiaturistmadeanothercopy,orevenabetterversion,itwouldbeforhisarchenemyTallHasan.Thus,inordertopreventanyonebesideshimselffromowningthismagnificentbook,JihanShahdecidedtohavethemasterminiaturistSheikhAlikilledafterhe’dcompletedthebook.Butagood-heartedCircassianbeautyinhisharemadvisedhimthatblindingthemasterminiaturistwouldsuffice.JihanShahforthwithadoptedthiscleveridea,whichhepassedontohiscircleofsycophants,untilitultimatelyreachedtheearsofSheikhAli.Evenso,SheikhAlididn’tleavethebookhalffinishedandfleeTabrizasother,mediocreillustratorsmight’vedone.Hedidn’tresorttogameslikeslowingdowntheprogressofthemanuscriptormakinginferiorillustrationssoitwouldn’tbe“perfect”andtherebyforestallinghisimminentblinding.Indeed,heworkedwithevenmoreardorandconviction.Inthehousewherehelivedalone,he’dbeginworkingafterthemorningprayersandcontinueillustratingthesamehorses,cypresses,lovers,dragonsandhandsomeprincesbycandlelightinthemiddleofthenightagainandagainuntilbittertearsstreamedfromhiseyes.Muchofthetime,he’dgazefordaysatanillustrationbyoneofthegreatoldmastersofHeratashemadeanexactcopyonanothersheet.Intheend,hecompletedthebookforJihanShahtheBlacksheep,andasthemasterminiaturisthadexpected,hewasatfirstpraisedandshoweredwithgoldpieces,beforebeingblindedwithasharpplumeneedleusedtoaffixturbanplumes.Beforehispainhadevensubsided,SheikhAlileftHeratandwenttojoinTallHasantheWhitesheep.“Yes,indeed,Iamblind,”heexplainedtoTallHasan,“yetIremembereachofthesplendorsofthemanuscriptI’veilluminatedforthelastelevenyears,downtoeachmarkofthepenandeachstrokeofthebrush,andmyhandcandrawitagainfrommemory.MyExcellency,Icouldillustratethegreatestmanuscriptofalltimeforyou.Sincemyeyeswillnolongerbedistractedbythefilthofthisworld,I’llbeabletodepictallthegloriesofAllahfrommemory,intheirpurestform.”TallHasanbelievedthegreatmasterminiaturist;andthemasterminiaturist,keepinghispromise,illustratedfrommemorythemostmagnificentofbooksfortheruleroftheWhitesheep.EveryoneknewthespiritualpowerprovidedbythenewbookwaswhatlaybehindTallHasan’ssubsequentdefeatoftheBlacksheepandthevictoriousKhan’sexecutionofJihanShahduringaraidnearBing?l.Thismagnificentbook,alongwiththeoneSheikhAliTabrizimadefor

    thelateJihanShah,enteredOurSultan’streasuryinIstanbulwhentheever-victoriousTallHasanwasdefeatedattheBattleofOtlukbelibySultanMehmetKhantheConqueror,mayherestinpeace.Thosewhocantrulysee,know.

    BASincetheDenizenofParadise,SultanSüleymanKhantheLawgiver,favoredcalligraphersoverillustrators,unfortunateminiaturistsofthedaywouldrecountthepresentstoryasanexampleofhowillustratingsurpassescalligraphy.However,asanyonewhopayscloseattentionwillrealize,thistaleisactuallyaboutblindnessandmemory.AfterthedeathofTamerlane,RuleroftheWorld,hissonsandgrandchildrensettoattackingandmercilesslybattlingoneanother.Intheeventthatoneofthemsucceededinconqueringanother’scity,hisfirstactionwastominthisowncoinsandhaveasermonreadatthemosque.Hissecondactasvictorwastopullapartthebooksthathadcomeintohispossession;anewdedicationwouldbewritten,boastingoftheconquerorasthenew“ruleroftheworld,”anewcolophonadded,anditwouldallbeboundtogetheragainsothatthosewholaideyesontheconqueror’sbookwouldbelievethathetrulywasaworldruler.WhenAbdüllatif,thesonofTamerlane’sgrandsonUlu?Bey,capturedHerat,hemobilizedhisminiaturists,calligraphersandbinderswithsuchhaste,andsopressuredthemtomakeabookinhonorofhisfather,aconnoisseurofbookarts,thatasvolumeswereinthemidstofbeingunboundandthescriptedpagesdestroyedandburned,thecorrespondingpicturesbecamemixedup.SinceitdidnotbefitthehonorofUlu?Beyforhissontoarrangeandbindalbumswithoutacareforwhichpicturebelongedtowhichstory,heassembledalltheminiaturistsinHeratandrequestedthattheyrecountthestoriessoastoputtheillustrationsinproperorder.Fromeachminiaturist’smouth,however,cameadifferentaccount,andsothecorrectorderoftheplateswasconfusedallthemore.Thereupon,theoldestsurvivingheadminiaturistwassoughtout.Hewasamanwho’dextinguishedthelightofhiseyesinpainstakinglaboronthebooksofalltheshahsandprinceswho’druledoverHeratforthelastfifty-fouryears.Agreatcommotionensuedwhenthemenrealizedthattheoldmasternowpeeringatthepictureswasindeedblind.Somelaughed.Theelderlymasterrequestedthatanintelligentboy,whohadnotyetreachedtheageofsevenandwhocouldn’treadorwrite,bebroughtforward.Suchachildwasfoundandtakentohim.Theoldminiaturistplacedanumberofillustrationsbeforehim.“Describewhatyousee,”heinstructed.Astheboydescribedthepictures,theoldminiaturist,raisinghisblindeyestothesky,listenedcarefullyandresponded:“AlexandercradlingthedyingDariusfromFirdusi’sBookofKings…theaccountoftheteacherwhofallsinlovewithhishandsomestudentfromSadi’sRosegarden…thecontestofdoctorsfromNizami’sTreasuryofSecrets…”Theotherminiaturists,vexedbytheirelderlyandblindcolleague,said,“Wecould’vetoldyouthataswell.Thesearethebest-knownscenesfromthemostfamousstories.”Inturn,theagedandblindminiaturistplacedthemostdifficultillustrationsbeforethechildandagainlistenedintently.“HürmüzpoisoningthecalligraphersonebyonefromFirdusi’sBookofKings,”hesaid,againfacingthesky.“Acheaprenditionoftheterribleaccountofthecuckoldwhocatcheshiswifeandherloverinapeartree,fromRumi’sMasnawi,”hesaid.Inthisfashion,relyingontheboy’sdescriptions,heidentifiedallofthepictures,noneofwhichhecouldsee,andtherebysucceededinhavingthebooksproperlyboundtogetheragain.WhenUlu?BeyenteredHeratwithhisarmy,heaskedtheoldminiaturistbywhatsecrethe,ablindman,couldidentifythosestoriesthatothermasterillustratorscouldn’tdetermineevenbylookingatthem.“Itisn’t,asonemightassume,thatmymemorycompensatesformy

    blindness,”repliedtheoldillustrator.“Ihaveneverforgottenthatstoriesarerecollectednotonlythroughimages,butthroughwordsaswell.”Ulu?Beyrespondedthathisownminiaturistsknewthosewordsandstories,butstillcouldn’torderthepictures.“Because,”saidtheoldminiaturist,“theythinkquitewellwhenitcomestopainting,whichistheirskillortheirart,buttheydon’tcomprehendthattheoldmastersmadethesepicturesoutofthememoriesofAllahHimself.”Ulu?Beyaskedhowachildcouldknowsuchthings.“Thechilddoesn’tknow,”saidtheoldminiaturist.“ButI,anelderlyandblindminiaturist,knowthatAllahcreatedthisworldlyrealmthewayanintelligentseven-year-oldboywouldwanttoseeit;what’smore,Allahcreatedthisearthlyrealmsothat,aboveall,itmightbeseen.Afterward,Heprovideduswithwordssowemightshareanddiscusswithoneanotherwhatwe’veseen.Wemistakenlyassumedthatthesestoriesaroseoutofwordsandthatillustrationswerepaintedinserviceofthesestories.Quitetothecontrary,paintingistheactofseekingoutAllah’smemoriesandseeingtheworldasHeseestheworld.”

    DJIMTwohundredfiftyyearsago,Arabminiaturistswereinthecustomofstaringatthewesternhorizonatdaybreaktoalleviatetheunderstandableandeternalanxietiesaboutgoingblindsharedbyallminiaturists;likewise,acenturylaterinShiraz,manyillustratorswouldeatwalnutsmashedwithrosepetalsonanemptystomachinthemornings.Again,inthesameera,theelderminiaturistsofIsfahanwhobelievedsunlightwasresponsiblefortheblindnesstowhichtheysuccumbedonebyone,asiftotheplague,wouldworkinahalf-darkcorneroftheroom,andmostoftenbycandlelight,topreventdirectsunlightfromstrikingtheirworktables.Atday’send,intheworkshopsoftheUzbekartistsofBukhara,masterminiaturistswouldwashtheireyeswithwaterblessedbysheikhs.Butofalloftheseprecautions,thepurestapproachtoblindnesswasdiscoveredinHeratbytheminiaturistSeyyitMirek,mentortothegreatmasterBihzad.AccordingtomasterminiaturistMirek,blindnesswasn’tascourge,butratherthecrowningrewardbestowedbyAllahupontheilluminatorwhohaddevotedanentirelifetoHisglories;forillustratingwastheminiaturist’ssearchforAllah’svisionoftheearthlyrealm,andthisuniqueperspectivecouldonlybeattainedthroughrecollectionafterblindnessdescended,onlyafteralifetimeofhardworkandonlyaftertheminiaturist’seyestiredandhehadexpendedhimself.Thus,Allah’svisionofHisworldonlybecomesmanifestthroughthememoryofblindminiaturists.Whenthisimagecomestotheagingminiaturist,thatis,whenheseestheworldasAllahseesitthroughthedarknessofmemoryandblindness,theillustratorwillhavespenthislifetimetraininghishandsoitmighttransferthissplendidrevelationtothepage.AccordingtothehistorianMirzaMuhammetHaydarDuglat,whowroteextensivelyaboutthelegendsofHeratminiaturists,themasterSeyyitMirek,inhisexplicationoftheaforementionednotionofpainting,usedtheexampleoftheillustratorwhowantedtodrawahorse.Hereasonedthateventhemostuntalentedpainter—onewhoseheadisemptylikethoseoftoday’sVianpainters—whodrawsthepictureofahorsewhilelookingatahorsewillstillmaketheimagefrommemory;because,yousee,itisimpossible,atoneandthesametime,tolookatthehorseandatthepageuponwhichthehorse’simageappears.First,theillustratorlooksatthehorse,thenhequicklytransferswhateverrestsinhismindtothepage.Intheinterim,evenifonlyawinkintime,whattheartistrepresentsonthepageisnotthehorsehesees,butthememoryofthehorsehehasjustseen.Proofthatforeventhemostmiserableillustrator,apictureispossibleonlythroughmemory.Thelogicalextensionofthisconcept,whichregardstheactiveworklifeofaminiaturistasbutpreparationforboth

    theresultingblissofblindnessandblindmemory,isthatthemastersofHeratregardedtheillustrationstheymadeforbibliophileshahsandprincesastrainingforthehand—asanexercise.Theyacceptedthework,theendlessdrawingandstaringatpagesbycandlelightfordayswithoutbreak,asthepleasurablelaborthatdeliveredtheminiaturisttoblindness.Throughouthiswholelife,themasterminiaturistMirekconstantlysoughtoutthemostappropriatemomentforthismostgloriousofapproachingeventualities,eitherbypurposelyhurryingblindnessthroughthepainstakingdepictionoftreesandalltheirleavesonfingernails,grainsofriceandevenonstrandsofhair,orbycautiouslydelayingtheimminentdarknessbytheeffortlessdrawingofpleasant,sun-filledgardens.Whenhewasseventy,inordertorewardthisgreatmaster,SultanHüseyinBaykaraallowedhimtoenterthetreasurycontainingthousandsofmanuscriptplatesthattheSultanhadcollectedandsecuredunderlockandkey.There,inthetreasurythatalsocontainedweapons,goldandboltuponboltofsilkandvelvetcloth,bythecandlelightofgoldencandelabra,MasterMirekstaredatthemagnificentleavesofthosebooks,eachalegendinitsownright,madebytheoldmastersofHerat.Andafterthreedaysandnightsofcontinuousscrutiny,thegreatmasterwentblind.Heacceptedhisconditionwithmaturityandresignation,thewayonemightgreettheAngelsofAllah,andheneverspokeorpaintedagain.MirzaMuhammetHaydarDuglat,theauthoroftheHistoryofRashid,ascribedthisturnofeventsasfollows:“AminiaturistunitedwiththevisionandlandscapeofAllah’simmortaltimecanneverreturntothemanuscriptpagesmeantforordinarymortals”;andheadds,“Wherevertheblindminiaturist’smemoriesreachAllahtherereignsanabsolutesilence,ablesseddarknessandtheinfinityofablankpage.”

    CertainlyitwaslessoutofdesiretohearmyanswertoMasterOsman’squestiononblindnessandmemorythantoputhimselfateasethatBlackaskedmethequestionwhileheporedovermypossessions,myroomandmypictures.Yetagain,IwaspleasedtoseethatthestoriesIrecountedaffectedhim.“BlindnessisarealmofblissfromwhichtheDevilandguiltarebarred,”Isaidtohim.

    “InTabriz,”saidBlack,“underMasterMirek’sinfluence,someoftheminiaturistsoftheoldstylestilllookuponblindnessasthegreatestvirtueofAllah’sgrace,andthey’reembarrassedaboutgrowingoldbutnotblind.Eventoday,fearingthatotherswillconsiderthisproofofalackoftalentandskill,theypretendtobeblind.AsaresultofthismoralconvictionwhichbearstheinfluenceofJemalettinofKazvin,someofthemsitforweeksinthedarknessamidmirrors,inthedimlightofanoillamp,withouteatingordrinkingandstareatillustratedpagespaintedbytheoldmastersofHeratinordertolearnhowtoperceivetheworldlikeablindmandespitenottrulybeingblind.”

    Somebodyknocked.Iopenedthedoortofindahandsomeapprenticefromtheworkshopwhoselovelyalmondeyeswereopenedwide.Hesaidthatthebodyofourbrother,thegilderElegantEffendi,hadbeendiscoveredinanabandonedwellandthathisfuneralprocessionwouldcommenceattheMihrimahMosqueduringtheafternoonprayer.Hethenranofftodeliverthenewstoothers.Allah,mayyouprotectusall.

    IAMESTHERTellmethen,doeslovemakeoneafoolordoonlyfoolsfallinlove?I’vebeenaclothespeddlerand

    matchmakerforyears,andIdon’thavetheslightestclue.Howit’dthrillmetobecomeacquaintedwithmen—orcouples—whogrewmoreintelligentandbecamemorecunninganddeviousastheyfelldeeperinlove.Idoknowthismuchthough:Ifamanresortstowiles,guileandpettydeceptions,itmeanshe’snowherenearbeinginlove.AsforBlackEffendi,it’sobviousthathe’salreadylosthiscomposure—whenheeventalksaboutShekurehelosesallself-control.

    Atthebazaar,Ifedhimbyroteallthewell-rehearsedrefrainsthatItelleveryone:Shekureisalwaysthinkingofhim,sheaskedmeabouthisresponsetoherletter,I’dneverseenherlikethisandsoon.HegavemesuchalookthatIpitiedhim.HetoldmetotakethelettertoShekurestraightaway.Everyidiotassumesthere’sapressingcircumstanceabouthislovethatnecessitatesparticularhaste,andtherebylaysbaretheintensityofhislove,unwittinglyputtingaweaponintothehandsofhisbeloved.Ifhisloverissmart,she’llpostpheanswer.Themoral:Hastedelaysthefruitsoflove.

    HadlovesickBlackknownthatIfirsttookadetourwhilecarryingtheletterhe’dchargedmetodeliver“posthaste,”he’dthankme.Inthemarketsquare,Inearlyfrozetodeathwaitingforhim.Afterheleft,IthoughtI’dvisitoneofmy“daughters”towarmup.IcallthemaidenswhoselettersI’vedelivered,theonesI’vemarriedoffthroughthesweatofmybrow,my“daughters.”Thisuglymaidenofminewassothankfulandbeholdentomethatatmyeveryvisit,beyondwaitingonmehandandfoot,flittingaboutlikeamoth,she’dpressafewsilvercoinsintomypalm.Nowshewaspregnantandingoodhumor.Sheputlindenteaontheboil.Isavoredeachsip.Whensheleftmealone,IcountedthecoinsBlackEffendihadgivenme.Twentysilverpieces.

    Isetoutonmywayagain.Ipassedthroughsidestreetsandthroughominousalleywaysthatwerefrozen,muddyandnearlyimpassable.AsIwasknockingonthedoor,mirthtookholdofmeandIbegantoshout.

    “Theclothierishere!Clothierrr!”Isaid.“Comeandseethebestofmyruffledmuslinfitforasultan.ComegetmystunningshawlsfromKashmir,myBursavelvetsashcloth,mysuperbsilk-edgedEgyptianshirtcloth,myembroideredmuslintablecloths,mymattressandbedsheets,andmycolorfulhandkerchiefs.Clothierrr!”

    Thedooropened.Ientered.Asalways,thehousesmelledofbedding,sleep,fryingoilandhumidity,thatterriblesmellpeculiartoagingbachelors.

    “Oldhag,”hesaid.“Whyareyoushouting?”

    Isilentlyremovedtheletterandhandedittohim.Inthehalf-litroom,hestealthilyandquietlyapproachedmeandsnatcheditfrommyhand.Hepassedintothenextroomwhereanoillampalwaysburned.Iwaitedatthethreshold.

    “Isn’tyourdearfatherhome?”

    Hedidn’tanswer.He’dlosthimselfintheletter.Ilefthimalonesohecouldread.Hestoodbehindthelamp,andIcouldn’tseehisface.Afterfinishingtheletter,hereaditanew.

    “Yes,”Isaid,“andwhathashewritten?”

    Hasanread:

    MyDearestShekure,asItoohaveforyearsnowsustainedmyselfthroughmydreamsofonesingleperson,Irespectfullyunderstandyourwaitingforyourhusbandwithoutconsideringanother.Whatelsecouldoneexpectfromawomanofyourstaturebesideshonestyandvirtue?[Hasancackled!]Mycomingtovisityourfatherforthesakeofpainting,however,doesnotamounttoharassingyou.Thiswouldneverevencrossmymind.Imakenoclaimathavingreceivedasignfromyouoranyotherencouragement.Whenyourfaceappearedtomeatthewindowlikedivinelight,IconsidereditnothingbutanactofGod’sgrace.ThepleasureofseeingyourfaceisallIneed.[“HetookthatfromNizami,”Hasaninterrupted,annoyed.]Butyouaskmetokeepmydistance;tellmethen,areyouanangelthatapproachingyoushouldbesoterrifying?ListentowhatIhavetosay,listen:Iusedtotrytosleepwatchingthemoonlightfallontothenakedmountainsfromremoteandgodforsakencaravansarieswherenobodybutadesperatehankeeperandafewthugsfleeingthegallowslodged,andthere,inthemiddleofthenight,listeningtothehowlingofwolvesevenlonelierandmoreunfortunatethanmyself,Iusedtothinkthatonedayyouwouldsuddenlyappeartome,justasyoudidatthewindow.Readclosely:NowthatI’vereturnedtoyourfatherforthesakeofthebook,you’vesentbackthepictureImadeinmychildhood.IknowthisisnotasignofyourdeathbutasignthatI’vefoundyouagain.Isawoneofyourchildren,Orhan.Thatpoorfatherlessboy.OnedayIwillbecomehisfather!

    “Godprotecthim,he’swrittenwell,”Isaid,“thisonehasbecomequitethepoet.”

    “”Areyouanangelthatapproachingyoushouldbesoterrifying?“”herepeated.“HestolethatlinefromIbnZerhani.Icoulddobetter.”Hetookhisownletteroutofhispocket.“TakethisanddeliverittoShekure.”

    Forthefirsttime,acceptingmoneyalongwiththelettersdisturbedme.Ifeltsomethinglikedisgusttowardthismanandhismadobsession,hisunrequitedlove.Hasan,asiftoconfirmmyhunch,forthefirsttimeinalongwhilesetasidehisgoodetiquetteandsaidquiterudely:

    “Tellherthatifwesodesire,we’llforceherbackhereunderpressureofthejudge.”

    “Youreallywantmetosaythat?”

    Silence.“Nay,”hesaid.Thelightfromtheoillampilluminatedhisface,allowingmetoseehimlowerhisheadlikeaguiltychild.It’sbecauseIknowthissideofHasan’scharacteraswellthatIhavesomerespectforhisfeelingsanddeliverhisletters.It’snotonlyforthemoney,asyoumightthink.

    Iwasleavingthehouse,andhestoppedmeatthedoor.

    “DoyouletShekureknowhowmuchIloveher?”heaskedmeexcitedlyandfoolishly.

    “Don’tyoutellhersoinyourletters?”

    “TellmehowImightconvinceherandherfather?HowmightIpersuadethem?”

    “Bybeingagoodperson,”Isaidandwalkedtothedoor.

    “Atthisage,it’stoolate…”hesaidwithsincereanguish.

    “You’vebeguntoearnalotofmoney,CustomsOfficerHasan.Thismakesoneagoodperson…”Isaidandfled.

    Thehousewassodarkandmelancholythattheairoutsideseemedwarmer.Thesunlighthitmyface.IwishedforShekure’shappiness.ButIalsofeltsomethingforthatpoormaninthatdamp,chillyanddarkhouse.Onawhim,IturnedintotheSpiceMarketinLalelithinkingthesmellsofcinnamon,saffronandpepperwouldrestoremyspirits.Iwasmistaken.

    AtShekure’shouse,aftershetookuptheletters,sheimmediatelyaskedafterBlack.Itoldherthatthefireoflovehadmercilesslyengulfedhisentirebeing.Thisnewspleasedher.

    “EvenlonelyspinstersbusywiththeirknittingarediscussingwhyElegantEffendimight’vebeenkilled,”Isaidlater,changingthesubject.

    “Hayriye,makesomehalvaasapresentofcondolenceandtakeitovertoKalbiye,poorElegantEffendi’swidow,”saidShekure.

    “AlltheErzurumisandquiteacrowdofotherswillbeattendinghisfuneralservice,”Isaid.“Hisrelativesswearthey’llavengehisspiltblood.”

    ShekurehadalreadybeguntoreadBlack’sletter.Ilookedintoherfaceintentlyandangrily.Thiswomanwasprobablysuchafoxthatshecouldcontrolhowherpassionswerereflectedinherface.AsshereadIsensedthatmysilencepleasedher,thatsheregardeditasmyapprovalofthespecialimportshegavetoBlack’sletter.Shekurefinishedtheletterandsmiledatme;tomeetwithhersatisfaction,Ifeltforcedtoask,“Whathashewritten?”

    “Justasinhischildhood…He’sinlovewithme.”

    “Whatareyourthoughts?”

    “I’mamarriedwoman.I’mwaitingformyhusband.”

    Contrarytoyourexpectations,thefactthatshe’dlietomeafteraskingmetogetinvolvedinheraffairsdidn’tangerme.Actually,thiscommentrelievedme.IfmoreoftheyoungmaidensandwomenI’vecarriedlettersforandadvisedinthewaysoftheworldattendedtodetailsthewayShekuredid,theywould’velessenedtheworkforusbothbyhalf.Moreimportantly,theywould’veendedupinbettermarriages.

    “Whatdoestheotheronewrite?”Iaskedanyway.

    “Idon’tintendtoreadHasan’sletterrightnow,”sheanswered.“DoesHasanknowthatBlack’sreturnedtoIstanbul?”

    “Hedoesn’tevenknowheexists.”

    “DoyouspeakwithHasan?”sheasked,openingwideherbeautifulblackeyes.

    “Asyou’verequested.”

    “Yes?”

    “He’sinagony.He’sdeeplyinlovewithyou.Evenifyourheartbelongstoanother,it’llbedifficultevertobefreeofhimnow.Byacceptinghislettersyou’vegreatlyencouragedhim.Bewaryofhim,however.Fornotonlydoeshewanttomakeyoureturnthere,butbyestablishingthathisolderbrotherhasdied,he’spreparingtomarryyou.”Ismiledtosoftentheweightofthesewordsandsoasnottobereducedtobeingthatmalcontent’smouthpiece.

    “What’stheotheronesay,then?”sheasked,butdidsheherselfknowwhomshewasinquiringafter?

    “Theminiaturist?”

    “Mymind’sallajumble,”shesaidsuddenly,perhapsafraidofherownthoughts.“Itseemsthatmatterswillbecomeevenmoreconfused.Myfather’sgrowingolder.What’llbecomeofus,ofthesefatherlesschildren?Isenseanevilapproaching,thattheDevilispreparingsomemischiefforus.Esther,tellmesomethingthatwillheartenme.”

    “Don’tyoufretintheslightest,mydearestShekure,”Isaidasemotionwelledupwithinme.“You’retrulyintelligent,you’reverybeautiful.Onedayyou’llsleepinthesamebedwithyourhandsomehusband,you’llcuddlewithhim,andhavingforgottenallyourworries,you’llbehappy.Icanreadthisinyoureyes.”

    Suchaffectionrosewithinmethatmyeyesfilledwithtears.

    “Fine,butwhichonewillbecomemyhusband?”

    “Isn’tthatwiseheartofyoursgivingyouananswer?”

    “It’sbecauseIdon’tunderstandwhatmyheartissayingthatI’mdispirited.”

    ForamomentitoccurredtomethatShekuredidn’ttrustmeatall,thatshewasmasterfullyconcealingherdistrustinordertolearnwhatIknew,thatshewastryingtoarousemypity.WhenIsawshewouldn’tbewritingaresponsetothelettersatpresent,Igrabbedmysack,enteredthecourtyardandslippedaway—butnotbeforesayingsomethingItoldallmymaids,eventhosewhowerecross-eyed:

    “Fearnot,mydear,ifyoukeepthosebeautifuleyesofyourspeeled,nomisfortune,nomisfortuneatallwillbefallyou.”

    I,SHEKUREIftruthbetold,itusedtobethateachtimeEsthertheclothierpaidavisit,I’dfantasizethatamanstrickenwithlovewouldfinallyberousedtowritealetterthatcouldstirtheheartofanintelligentwomanlikemyself—beautiful,well-bredandwidowed,yetwithherhonorstillintact—andsetitpounding.Andtodiscoverthattheletterwasfromoneoftheusualsuitors,would,attheveryleast,fortifymyresolveandforbearancetoawaitmyhusband’sreturn.Butthesedays,everytimeEstherleaves,Ibecomeconfusedandfeelallthemorewretched.

    Ilistenedtothesoundsofmyworld.Fromthekitchencamethebubblingsoundofboilingwaterandthesmelloflemonsandonions.Hayriyewasboilingzucchini.ShevketandOrhanwerefrolickingandplaying“swordsman”inthecourtyardbeneaththepomegranatetree,Iheardtheirshouts.Myfatherwassittingsilentlyinthenextroom.IopenedandreadHasan’sletterandwasreassuredthattherewasnocauseforalarm.Still,Igrewalittlemorefrightenedofhim,andcongratulatedmyselfforwithstandinghiseffortstomakelovetomewhenwesharedthesamehouse.Next,IreadBlack’sletter,holdingitgentlyasifitweresomedelicateandsensitivebird,andmythoughtsbecamemuddled.Ididn’treadthelettersagain.ThesunbrokethroughthecloudsanditoccurredtomethatifI’denteredHasan’sbedchamberonenightandmadelovewithhim,noone,exceptAllah,would’vebeenthewiser.Hedidresemblemymissinghusband;it’dbethesamething.Sometimesastrangethoughtlikethisenteredmyhead.Asthesunquicklywarmedme,Icouldfeelmybody:myskin,myneck,evenmynipples.Orhanslippedinsideasthesunlightstruckmethroughtheopendoor.

    “Mama,whatareyoureading?”hesaid.

    Allrightthen,rememberhowIsaidthatIdidn’trereadthelettersEstherhadjustdelivered?Ilied.Iwasinthemidstofreadingthemagain.Thistime,Itrulydidfoldthemupandtuckthemawayinmyblouse.

    “Comehere,you,ontomylap,”IsaidtoOrhan.Hedidso.“Ohmy,you’resoheavy.MayGodprotectyou,you’vegottenquitebig,”Isaidandkissedhim.“You’reascoldasice…”

    “You’resowarm,Mama,”heinterrupted,leaningbackontomybosom.

    Wewereleaningtightagainsteachother,enjoyingsittingthatwayinsilence.Ismelledthenapeofhisneckandkissedhim.Ihuggedhimevenmoretightly.Wewerestill.

    “I’mfeelingticklish,”hesaidlater.

    “Tellmethen,”Isaidinmyseriousvoice.“IftheSultanoftheJinnscameandsaidhe’dgrantyouawish,whatwouldyouwantmostofall?”

    “I’dwantShevkettogoaway.”

    “Whatbesides?Wouldyouwanttohaveafather?”

    “No,whenIgrowupI’mgoingtomarryyoumyself.”

    Itwasn’taging,losingone’sbeautyorevenbeingbereftofhusbandandmoneythatwastheworstofallcalamities,whatwastrulyhorriblewasnothavinganyobejealousofyou.IloweredOrhan’swarmingbodyfrommylap.Thinkingthatawickedwomanlikemyselfoughttowedsomeonewithagoodsoul,Iwentuptoseemyfather.

    “HisExcellencyOurSultanwillrewardyouafterseeingforHimselfthatHisbookhasbeencompleted,”Isaid.“You’llgotoVeniceagain.”

    “Icannotbecertain,”saidmyfather.“Thismurderhasdistressedme.Ourenemiesareapparentlyquitepowerful.”

    “Iknow,aswell,thatmyownsituationhasemboldenedthem,givingrisetomisunderstandingsandunfoundedhopes.”

    “Howdoyoumean?”

    “Ioughttobewedassoonaspossible.”

    “What?”saidmyfather.“Towhom?Butyouaremarried.Wheredidthisnotioncomefrom?”heasked.“Who’saskedforyourhand?Evenifweweretofindareasonableandappealingprospect,”saidmyreasonablefather,“Idoubtwe’dbeabletotakehim,notlikethat,youunderstand.”Hesummedupmy

    unfortunatesituationasfollows:“You’reawarethatthereareweightyandcomplicatedmatterswemustsettlebeforeyoucanmarryagain.”Afteraprotractedsilence,headded,“Isitthatyouwanttoleaveme,mydeardaughter?”

    “LastnightIdreamedthatmyhusbandhaddied,”Isaid.Ididn’tcrythewayawomanwho’dactuallyseensuchadreamwouldhave.

    “Likethosewhoknowhowtoreadapicture,oneshouldknowhowtoreadadream.”

    “Wouldyouconsideritappropriateformetodescribemydream?”

    Therewasapause:Wesmiledateachother,quicklyinferring—asintelligentpeopledo—allpossibleconclusionsfromthematterathand.

    “Byinterpretingyourdream,Imightbeconvincedofhisdeath,yetyourfather-in-law,yourbrother-in-lawandthejudge,whoisobligatedtolistentothem,willdemandmoreproof.”

    “TwoyearshavepassedsinceIreturnedherewiththechildrenandmyin-lawshaven’tbeenabletoforcemeback…”

    “Becausetheyverywellrealizethattheyhavetheirownmisdeedstoanswerfor,”saidmyfather.“Thisdoesn’tmeanthatthey’llbewillingtoletyoupetitionforadivorce.”

    “IfwewerefollowersoftheMalikiortheHanbelisects,”Isaid,“thejudge,acknowledgingthatfouryearshavepassed,wouldgrantmeadivorceinadditiontosecuringasupportallowanceforme.Butsinceweare,manythankstoAllah,Hanefis,thisoptionisnotopentous.”

    “Don’tmentiontheüsküdarjudge’sShafütestand-intome.That’snotasoundventure.”

    “AllthewomenofIstanbulwhosehusbandsaremissingatthefrontgotohimwiththeirwitnessestogetdivorced.Sincehe’saShafüte,hesimplyasks,”Isyourhusbandmissing?“”Howlonghashebeenmissing?“”Areyouhavingtroublemakingendsmeet?“”Aretheseyourwitnesses?“andimmediatelygrantsthedivorce.”

    “MydearShekure,who’splantedsuchschemesinyourhead?”hesaid.“Who’sstrippedyouofyourreason?”

    “AfterI’mdivorcedonceandforall,ifthereisamanwhocantrulystripmeofmyreason,youwill,ofcourse,tellmewhothatmightbeandIshallneverquestionyourdecisionaboutmyhusband.”

    Myshrewdfather,realizingthathisdaughterwasasshrewdashe,begantoblink.Myfatherwould

    blinkrapidlylikethisforthreereasons:1.becausehewasinatightspotandhismindwasracingtofindacleverwayout;2.becausehewasonthevergeoftearsofhopelessnessandsorrow;3.becausehewasinatightspot,cunninglycombiningreasons1and2togivetheimpressionthathemightsooncryoutofsorrow.

    “Areyoutakingthechildrenandabandoningyouroldfather?Doyourealizethatonaccountofourbook”—yes,hesaid“ourbook”—“Iwasafraidofbeingmurdered,butnowthatyouwanttotakethechildrenandleave,Iwelcomedeath.”

    “Mydearfather,wasn’tityouwhoalwayssaidthatonlyadivorcecouldsavemefromthatgood-for-nothingbrother-in-law?”

    “Idon’twantyoutoabandonme.Onedayyourhusbandmightreturn.Evenifhedoesn’t,there’snoharminyourbeingmarried—solongasyouliveinthishousewithyourfather.”

    “Iwantnothingmorethantoliveinthishousewithyou.”

    “Darling,weren’tyoujustnowsayingthatyouwantedtogetmarriedassoonaspossible?”

    Thisisthedeadendyoureachbyarguingwithyourfather:Induecourse,youtoowillbeconvincedthatyou’reinthewrong.

    “Iwas,”Isaid,gazingatthegroundinfrontofme.Then,holdingbackmytearsandencouragedbythetruthofwhatcametomind,Isaid:

    “Allrightthen,shallIneverbemarriedagain?”

    “There’saspecialplaceinmyheartfortheson-in-lawwhowon’ttakeyoufarfromme.Whoisyoursuitor,wouldhebewillingtoliveherewithusinthishouse?”

    Ifellsilent.Webothknew,ofcourse,thatmyfatherwouldneverrespectason-in-lawwillingtoliveheretogetherwithus,andwouldgraduallydemeanandstiflehim.AndasFather’sunderhandedandexpertbelittlingofthemanwho’dmovedinwithhisbride’sfamilyproceededIwouldsoonwanttobethatwifenomore.

    “Withoutafather’sapproval,inyoursituation,youknowthatgettingmarriedispracticallyimpossible,don’tyou?Idon’twantyoutogetmarried,andIrefusetograntyoupermissiontodoso—”

    “Idon’twanttogetmarried,Iwantadivorce.”

    “—becausesomethoughtlessbeastofamanwhocaresaboutnothingbuthisownconcernsmighthurt

    you.YouknowhowmuchIloveyou,don’tyou,mydearShekure?Besides,wemustfinishthisbook.”

    Isaidnothing.ForifIweretospeak—promptedbytheDevil,whowasawareofmyanger—IwouldtellmyfatherrighttohisfacethatIknewhesleptwithHayriyeatnight.Butwoulditbefitawomanlikemetoadmitthatsheknewthatherelderlyfathersleptwithaslavegirl?

    “Whoisitthatwantstomarryyou?”

    Igazedatthegroundbeforemeandwasquiet,notoutofembarrassment,butoutofanger.Andrecognizingtheextentofmyanger,butnotbeingabletorespondinsomemannermademeevenmorefurious.Atthatjuncture,IimaginedmyfatherandHayriyeinbedinthatridiculousanddisgustingposition.IwasonthevergeoftearswhenIsaid:

    “There’szucchinionthestove,Idon’twantittoburn.”

    Icrossedtotheroombesidethestaircase,theonewiththealways-closedwindowthatlookedoutontothewell.Inthedark,quicklylocatingtheroll-upmattresswithmyhands,Ispreaditopenandlaydown:Ah,whatawonderfulfeeling,toliedownandfallasleepinafitoftearslikeachildwho’sbeenwronglychastised!AndwhatagonyitistoknowthatI’mtheonlypersonintheworldwholikesme.AsIcryinmysolitude,onlyyou,whohearmysobsandmoans,cancometomyaid.

    Awhilelater,IfoundthatOrhanhadstretchedoutuponmybed.Heplacedhisheadbetweenmybreasts.Isawthathewassighing,andcryingtoo.Pullinghimclosetome,Iheldhim.

    “Don’tcry,Mother,”hesaidlater.“Fatherwillreturnfromthewar.”

    “Howdoyouknow?”

    Hedidn’tanswer.Ilovedhimso,andpressedhimtomybosomsothatIforgotmyownworriesentirely.BeforeIcuddleupwithmyfine-boned,delicateOrhanandfallasleep,letmeconfessmyonlypressingconcern:Iregrethavingjustnowtoldyou,outofspite,aboutthematterbetweenmyfatherandHayriye.No,Iwasn’tlying,butI’mstillsoembarrassedthatitwouldbebestifyouforgotaboutit.PretendInevermentionedanything,asifmyfatherandHayriyeweren’tthusinvolved,please?

    IAMYOURBELOVEDUNCLEAlas,it’sdifficulthavingadaughter,difficult.Assheweptinthenextroom,Icouldhearhersobs,butIcoulddonothingbutlookatthepagesofthebookIheldinmyhands.OnapageofthevolumeIwastryingtoread,theBookoftheApocalypse,itwaswrittenthatthreedaysafterdeath,one’ssoul,receivingpermissionfromAllah,visitedthebodyitformerlyinhabited.Uponbeholdingthepiteousstateofitsbody,bloodied,decomposingandoozing,asitrestedinthegrave,thesoulwouldsorrowfully,tearfullyandmournfullygrieve,“Lo,mymiserablemortalcoil,mydearwretchedold

    body.”Atonce,IthoughtofElegantEffendi’sbitterendatthebottomofthewell,andhowupsethissoulnaturallymusthavebeenuponvisiting,andfindinghisbodynotathisgrave,butinthewell.

    WhenShekure’ssobsdieddown,Iputasidethebookondeath.Idonnedanextrawoolenundershirt,woundmythickwoolsashtightlyaroundmywaistsoastowarmmymidriff,pulledonmyshalwarpantslinedwithrabbitfurand,asIwasleavingthehouse,turnedtodiscoverShevketinthedoorway.

    “Whereareyougoing,Grandfather?”

    “Yougetbackinside.Tothefuneral.”

    Ipassedthroughsnow-coveredstreets,betweenpoorrottinghousesleaningthiswayandthatway,barelyabletostand,andthroughfire-ravagedneighborhoods.Iwalkedforalongtime,takingthecautiousstepsofanagingmantryingnottoslipandfallontheice.Ipassedthroughout-of-the-wayneighborhoodsandgardensandfields.Iwalkedbyshopsthatdealtincarriagesandwheelsandpassedironsmiths,saddlers,harnessmakersandfarriersonmywaytowardthewallsofthecity.

    I’mnotsurewhytheydecidedtostartthefuneralprocessionallthewayattheMihrimahMosquenearthecity’sEdirneGate.Atthemosque,Iembracedthebig-headedandbewilderedbrothersofthedeceased,wholookedangryandobstinate.Weminiaturistsandcalligraphersembracedeachotherandwept.AsIwasperformingmyprayerswithinaleadenfogthathadsuddenlydescendedandswallowedeverything,mygazefellonthecoffinrestingatopthemosque’sstonefuneralblock,andIfeltsuchangertowardthemiscreantwho’dcommittedthiscrime,believeme,eventheAllahümmeBarikprayerbecamemuddledinmymind.

    Aftertheprayers,whilethecongregationshoulderedthecoffin,Iwasstillamongalltheminiaturistsandcalligraphers.StorkandIhadforgottenthatonsomenights,whenwesatinthedimlightofoillampsworkinguntilmorningonmybook,he’dtriedtoconvincemeoftheinferiorityofElegantEffendi’sgildingworkandofthelackofbalanceinhisuseofcolors—hecoloredeverythingnavybluesoitwouldlookricher!We’dbothforgottenthatI’dactuallygivenhimcredence,byallowing“Butnooneelseisqualifiedtodothiswork,”andweembracedeachotheranyway,sobbingoncemore.Later,Olivegavemeafriendlyandrespectfullookbeforehuggingme—amanwhoknowshowtoembraceisagoodman—andthesegesturessopleasedmethatIwasremindedhowofalltheworkshopartists,hewastheonewhomostbelievedinmybook.

    OnthestairsofthecourtyardgateIfoundmyselfbesideHeadIlluminatorMasterOsman.Wewerebothatalossforwords,astrangeandtensemoment.Oneofthedeceased’sbrothersbegantocryandsob,andsomeonepompouslyshouted,“Godisgreat.”

    “Towhichcemetery?”MasterOsmanaskedmeforthesakeofaskingsomething.

    Torespond“Idon’tknow”seemedhostileforsomereason.Flustered,andwithoutthinking,Iaskedthe

    samequestionofthemanstandingnexttomeonthestairs,“Towhichcemetery?TheonebytheEdirneGate?”

    “Eyüp,”saidanill-tempered,beardedandyoungdolt.

    “Eyüp,”Isaidturningtothemaster,buthe’dheardwhattheill-tempereddolthadsaidanyway.Then,helookedatmeasiftosay,“Iunderstand”inawaythatletmeknowhedidn’twantourencountertolastamomentlongerthanitalreadyhad.

    WithoutmentioningmyinfluenceonOurSultan’sgrowinginterestinFrankishstylesofpainting,MasterOsmanwasofcourseannoyedthatOurSultanhadorderedmetooverseethewritingout,embellishmentandillustrationoftheilluminatedmanuscript,whichI’vedescribedas“secret.”Ononeoccasion,theSultanforcedthegreatMasterOsmantocopyaportraitofHisHighness,whichhadbeencommissionedfromaVian.IknowMasterOsmanholdsmeresponsibleforhavingtoimitatethatpainter,forhavingtomakethatstrangepainting,whichhedidwithdisgust,referringtotheexperienceas“torture.”Hiswrathwasjustified.

    Standinginthemiddleofthestaircaseforawhile,Ilookedatthesky.WhenIwasconvincedthatI’dbeenleftquitebehind,Icontinueddowntheicystairs.I’dbarelydescended—eversoslowly—twostepswhenamantookmebythearmandembracedme:Black.

    “Theairisfreezing,”hesaid.“Youmustbecold.”

    Ihadn’ttheslightestdoubtthatthiswastheonewho’dmuddledShekure’smind.Theself-confidencewithwhichhetookmyarmwasproofenough.Therewassomethinginhisdemeanorthatannounced,“I’veworkedfortwelveyearsandhavetrulygrownup.”Whenwecametothebottomofthestairs,ItoldhimthatI’dexpectanaccountlaterofwhathe’dlearnedattheworkshop.

    “Yougoahead,mychild,”Isaid.“Goaheadandcatchuptothecongregation.”

    Hewastakenaback,butdidn’tleton.Thewayheletgoofmyarmwithreservationandwalkedaheadofmepleasedme,even.IfIgaveShekuretohim,wouldheagreetoliveinthesamehousewithus?

    We’dleftthecitythroughtheEdirneGate.Isawthecoffinonthevergeofdisappearingintothefogalongwiththecrowdofillustrators,calligraphersandapprenticesshoulderingitastheyquicklydescendedthehilltowardtheGoldenHorn.Theywerewalkingsofast,they’dalreadytraveledhalfofthemuddyroadthatleddownthesnow-coveredvalleytoEyüp.Inthesilentfog,offtotheleft,thechimneyoftheHan1mSultanCharitycandleworksshophappilypipedupitssmoke.Undertheshadowofthewalls,thereweretanneriesandthebustlingslaughterhousesthatservedtheGreekbutchersofEyüp.Thesmellofoffalcomingfromtheseplaceshadwaftedoverthevalley,whichextendedtothevaguelydiscernibledomesoftheEyüpMosqueanditscypress-linedcemetery.Afterwalkingforawhilelonger,IheardfrombelowtheshoutsofchildrenatplaycomingfromthenewJewishquarterin

    Balat.

    WhenwereachedtheplainwhereEyüpwaslocated,Butterflyapproachedme,andinhisusualfierymanner,abruptlybroachedhissubject:

    “OliveandStorkaretheonesbehindthisvulgarity,”hesaid.“Likeeveryoneelse,theyknewIhadabadrelationshipwiththedeceased.Theykneweveryonewasawareofthis.Therewasjealousybetweenus,evenopenanimosityandantagonism,overwhowouldassumeleadershipoftheworkshopafterMasterOsman.Nowtheyexpecttheguilttofallonmyshoulders,orattheleast,thattheHeadTreasurer,andunderhisinfluence,OurSultan,willdistancethemselvesfromme,nay,fromus.”

    “Whoisthis”us’ofwhichyouspeak?““Thoseofuswhobelievethattheoldmoralityoughttopersistattheworkshop,thatweshouldfollowthepathlaidbythePersianmasters,thatanartistshouldn’tillustratejustanysceneformoneyalone.Inplaceofweapons,armies,slavesandconquests,webelievethattheoldmyths,legendsandstoriesoughttobeintroducedanewintoourbooks.Weshouldn’tforgotheoldmodels.Genuineminiaturistsshouldn’tloiterattheshopsinthebazaarandpaintanyoldthing,depictionsofindecency,forafewextrakurushfromanybodywhohappensby.HisExcellencyOurSultanwouldfindusjustified.”

    “You’reincriminatingyourselfsenselessly,”Isaidsohemightbedonewithhisranting.“I’mconvincedthattheateliercouldnotharboranybodycapableofcommittingsuchacrime.You’reallbrethren.There’snogreatharminillustratingafewsubjectsthathaven’tbeendepictedpreviously,atleastnoharmsogreatastobeanoccasionforenmity.”

    AshappenedwhenIfirstheardthehorridnews,Ihadanepiphanyofsorts.ElegantEffendi’smurdererwasoneofthepremiermastersinthepalaceworkshopandhewasamemberofthecrowdbeforeme,climbingthehillthatledtothecemetery.Iwasalsoconvincedthatthemurdererwouldcontinuewithhisdevilryandsedition,thathewasanenemyofthebookIwasmaking,andmostprobably,thathe’dvisitedmyhousetopickupsomeworkillustratingandpainting.HadButterfly,too,likemostoftheartistswhofrequentedmyhouse,falleninlovewithShekure?Ashemadehisassertions,hadheforgottenthetimeswhenI’drequestedthathepaintpicturesthatwerecontrarytohispointofview,orwashejustneedlingmewithexpertskill?

    Nay,Ithoughtalittlewhilelater,hecouldn’tbeneedlingme.Butterfly,liketheothermasterillustrators,obviouslyowedmeadebtofgratitude:Withmoneyandgiftstominiaturistsdwindling,duetothewarsandlackofinterestonthepartofOurSultan,thesolesignificantsourceofextraincomehadforsometimebeenwhattheyearnedworkingforme.Iknewtheywerejealousofoneanotherovermyattentions,andforthisreason—butnotonlyforthisreason—Imetwiththemindividuallyatmyhouse,hardlyabasisforhostilitytowardme.Allofmyminiaturistswerematureenoughtobehaveintelligently,tosincerelyfindareasontoadmireamantowhomtheywereobligedfortheirownprofit.

    Torelievethesilenceandensurethattheprevioustopicofconversationwouldn’tberevisited,Isaid,“Oh,willHiswondersnevercease!They’reabletotakethecoffinupthathillasfastastheybroughtitdown.”

    Butterflysmiledsweetlyshowingallhisteeth:“Duetothecold.”

    Couldthisoneactuallykillaman,Iwondered,forexample,outofenvy?Mighthekillme?Hehadthefollowingexcuse:Thismanwasdebasingmyreligion.Nay,buthe’sagreatmaster,aperfectembodimentoftalent,whyshouldheresorttomurder?Agemeansnotonlystrainingoneselfclimbinghills,butalso,Igather,notbeingsoafraidofdeath.Itmeansalackofdesire,enteringintoaslavegirl’sbedchamber,notinafitofexcitement,butoutofcustom.Inaburstofintuition,ItoldhimtohisfacethedecisionI’dmade:

    “I’mnotcontinuingwiththebookanylonger.”

    “What?”saidButterflyashisexpressionchanged.

    “There’ssomekindofill-fortuneinit.OurSultanhascutoffthefunding.You’retotellOliveandStork,aswell.”

    Perhapshewouldhaveinquiredfurther,butwefoundourselvesontheslopesofthegraveyardamidtightlyspacedtoweringcypresses,highfernsandtombstones.Asthegreatcrowdencircledthegravesite,myonlycluethatthebodywasatthatverymomentbeingloweredintothegravewastheincreasingintensityoftheweepingandsobbingandtheexclamationsofbismillahiandalamilletiResulullah.

    “Uncoverhisfacecompletely,”someonesaid.

    Theywereremovingthewhiteshroud,andtheymust’vebeeneyetoeyewiththecorpseifindeedtherewasaneyeremaininginthatsmashedhead.IwasinthebackandIcouldn’tseeanything.I’doncegazedintotheeyesofDeath,notatagravesite,inanentirelydifferentplace…Amemory:Thirtyyearsago,OurSultan’sgrandfather,DenizenofParadise,decidedonceandforalltotakeCyprusfromtheVians.SheikhulislamEbussuutEffendi,recallingthatthisislandwasoncedesignatedacommissariatforMeccaandMedina,issue**twawhichmoreorlessstatedthatitwasinappropriateforanislandwhichhadhelpedsustainholysitestoremainunderChristianinfidelcontrol.Inturn,thedifficulttaskofinformingtheViansofthisunforeseendecision,thattheymustsurrendertheirisland,felltome.Asaresult,IwasabletotourthecathedralsofVenice.ThoughImarveledattheirbridgesandpalazzos,IwasmostenchantedbythepictureshanginginVianhomes.Nevertheless,inthemidstofthisbewilderment,trustinginthehospitalitydisplayedbytheVians,Ideliveredthemenacingcorrespondence,informingtheminahaughty,superciliousfashionthatOurSultandesiredCyprus.TheViansweresoangrythatintheircongress,whichhadbeenhastilyconvened,itwasdecidedthateventodiscusssuchaletterwasunacceptable.Furiousmobshadforced

    metoconfinemyselftotheDoge’spalazzo.Andwhensomeroguesmanagedtogetpasttheguardsanddoorkeepersandhadsettostranglingme,twooftheDoge’spersonalmusketeerssucceededinescortingmeoutoneofthesecretpassagewaystoanexitthatopenedontothecanal.There,inafognotunlikethisone,Ithoughtforaninstantthatthetallandpalegondolierdressedinwhite,who’dtakenmebythearm,wasnoneotherthanDeath.Icaughtsightofmyreflectioninhiseyes.

    Longingly,IdreamedoffinishingmybookinsecretandreturningtoVenice.Iapproachedthegrave,whichhadbeencarefullycoveredwithdirt:Atthismoment,angelsareinterrogatinghimabove,askinghimwhetherheismaleorfemale,hisreligionandwhomherecognizesashisprophet.Thepossibilityofmyowndeathcametomind.

    Acrowalightedbesideme.IgazedlovinglyintoBlack’seyesandaskedhimtotakemyarmandaccompanymeonthewayback.ItoldhimIexpectedhimatthehouseearlythenextmorningtocontinueworkingonthebook.Ihadindeedimaginedmyowndeath,andrealized,onceagain,thatthebookmustbecompleted,whateverthecost.

    IWILLBECALLEDAMURDERERTheythrewcold,muddyearthontothebatteredanddisfiguredcorpseofill-fatedElegantEffendiandIweptmorethananyofthem.Ishouted,“Iwanttodiewithhim!”and“Letmesharehisgrave!”andtheyheldmebythewaistsoIwouldn’tfallin.Igaspedforairandtheypressedtheirpalmstomyforehead,drawingmyheadbacksoImightbreathe.Bytheglancesofthedeceased’srelatives,IsensedImighthaveexaggeratedmysobsandwailing;Ipulledmyselftogether.BaseduponmyexcessivesorrowtheworkshopgossipsmightsupposethatElegantEffendiandIhadbeeninlove.

    Ihidbehindaplreeuntilthefuneralendedtoavoiddrawingmoreattentiontomyself.ArelativeoftheoafI’dsenttoHell—anevenbiggeridiotthanthedeceased—discoveredmebehindthetreeandstareddeepintomyeyeswithalookheassumedwasmeaningful.Heheldmeinhisembraceforawhile,thentheignoramussaidthefollowing:“Wereyou”Saturday“or”Wednesday‘?““”Wednesday“wastheworkshopnameofthedearlydepartedforatime,”Isaid.Hefellsilent.

    Thestorybehindtheseworkshopnames,whichboundustooneanotherlikeasecretpact,wassimple:Duringourapprenticeships,whenOsmantheminiaturisthadnewlygraduatedfromassistantmastertothelevelofmaster,weallsharedagreatrespect,admirationandloveforhim.Hewasavirtuosoandhetaughtuseverything,forGodhadblessedhimwithanenchantingartisticgiftandtheintellectofajinn.Earlyeachmorning,aswasdemandedofapprentices,oneofuswouldgotothemaster’shome,andfollowingrespectfullybehindhimonthewaytotheworkshop,carryhispenandbrushbox,hisbagandhisportfoliofullofpapers.Sodesperatewerewetobenearhimthatwe’dargueandfightamongourselvestodeterminewhowouldgothatday.

    MasterOsmanha**vorite.Butifhewerealwaystogo,itwouldfantheflamesofthenever-ending

    gossipandtastelessjokesthatinevitablyfilledtheworkshop,andsothegreatmasterdecidedthateachofuswouldbeassuredaspecifieddayoftheweek.ThegreatmasterworkedonFridaysandstayedathomeSaturdays.Hisson,whomheloveddearly—wholaterbetrayedhimandusbyquittingthetrade—wouldaccompanyhisfatheronMondayslikeacommonapprentice.Therewasalsoatallthinbrotherofoursknownas“Thursday,”aminiaturistmoregiftedthananyofus,whopassedawayatayoungage,succumbingtothefeverbroughtonbyamysteriousillness.ElegantEffendi,mayherestinpeace,wouldgoonWednesdays,andwasthereforeknownas“Wednesday.”Later,ourgreatmastermeaningfullyandlovinglychangedournamesfrom“Tuesday”to“Olive,”from“Friday”to“Stork,”andfrom“Sunday”to“Butterfly,”renamingthedearlydepartedas“Elegant”inallusiontothefinesseofhisgildingwork.Thegreatmastermusthavesaid,“Welcome”Wednesday,“howareyouthismorning?”tothelateElegantjustasheusedtogreetallofusbackthen.

    WhenIrecalledhowhewouldaddressme,Ithoughtmyeyesmightfillwithtears:MasterOsmanadmiredus,andhisowneyeswouldtearwhenhebeheldthebeautyofourwork;he’dkissourhandsandarms,anddespitethebeatings,wefeltasifwewereinHeavenasapprentices;andsoourtalentblossomedwithhislove.Evenjealousy,whichcastitsshadowoverthosehappyyears,hadadifferenthuethen.

    NowIamcompletelydivided,justlikethosefigureswhoseheadandhandsaredrawnandpaintedbyonemasterwhiletheirbodiesandclothesaredepictedbyanother.WhenaGod-fearingmanlikemyselfunexpectedlybecomesamurderer,ittakestimetoadjust.I’veadoptedasecondvoice,onebefittingamurderer,sothatImightstillcarryonasthoughmyoldlifecontinued.Iamspeakingnowinthisderisiveanddevioussecondvoice,whichIkeepoutofmyregularlife.Fromtimetotime,ofcourse,you’llhearmyfamiliar,regularvoice,whichwould’veremainedmyonlyvoicehadInotbecomeamurderer.ButwhenIspeakundermyworkshopname,I’llneveradmittobeing“amurderer.”Letnorytoassociatethesetwovoices,Ihavenoindividualstyleorflawsinartistrytobetraymyhiddenpersona.Indeed,Ibelievethatstyle,orforthatmatter,anythingthatservestodistinguishoneartistfromanother,isaflaw—notindividualcharacter,assomearrogantlyclaim.

    Idoadmitthatinmyownsituation,thispresentsaproblem.ForthoughImightspeakthroughmyworkshopname,lovinglygiventomebyMasterOsmanandusedbyEnishteEffendi,whoalsoadmiredit,innowisedoIwantyoutofigureoutwhetherIamButterfly,OliveorStork.Forifyoudoyouwon’thesitatetoturnmeovertothetorturersoftheSultan’sCommanderoftheImperialGuard.

    And,ImustmindwhatIthinkaboutandsay.Actually,Iknowthatyou’relisteningtomeevenwhenI’mmullingovermattersinprivate.Ican’taffordcarelesscontemplationofmyfrustrationsortheincriminatingdetailsofmylife.Evenwhenrecountingthe“Alif,”“Ba”and“Djim”stories.Iwasalwaysmindfulofyourgaze.

    Onesideofthewarriors,lovers,princesandlegendaryheroesthatI’veillustratedtensofthousandsoftimesfaceswhateverisdepictedthere,inthatmythicaltime—theenemiesthey’rebattling,forexample,orthedragonsthey’reslaying,orthebeautifulmaidensoverwhomtheyweep.Butanotheraspect,and

    anothersideoftheirbodies,facesthebookloverwhohappenstobegazingatthemagnificentpainting.IfIdohavestyleandcharacter,it’snotonlyhiddeninmyartwork,butinmycrimeandinmywordsaswell!Yes,trytodiscoverwhoIamfromthecolorofmywords!

    I,too,knowthatifyoucatchme,it’llbringconsolationtounfortunateElegantEffendi’smiserablesoul.They’reshovelingdirtonhimasIstandherebeneathtrees,amidchirpingbirds,watchingthegildedwatersoftheGoldenHornandtheleadendomesofIstanbul,anddiscoveringanewhowwonderfulitistobealive.PatheticElegantEffendi,soonafterhejoinedthecircleofthatfierce-browedpreacherfromErzurum,hestoppedlikingmecompletely;yet,inthetwenty-fiveyearsthatweillustratedbooksforOurSultan,thereweretimeswhenwefeltveryclosetoeachother.Twentyyearsago,webecamefriendswhileworkingonaroyalhistoryinverseforthelatefatherofourpresentsultan.ButwewerenevercloserthanwhenworkingontheeightillustratedplatesthatweretoaccompanyacollectionofFuzulipoems.Onesummereveningbackthen,asaconcessiontohisunderstandablebutillogicaldesires—apparentlyaminiaturistoughttofeelinhissoulthetexthe’sillustrating—IcamehereandpatientlylistenedtohimpretentiouslyrecitelinesfromFuzuli’scollectedworksasflocksofswallowsflutteredaboveusinafrenzy.Istillrecallalinerecitedthatevening:“Iamnotmebuteternallythee.”I’vealwayswonderedhowonemightillustratethisline.

    IrantohishouseassoonasIlearnedthathisbodyhadbeenfound.There,thediminutivegardenwhereweoncesatandrecitedpoetry,nowcoveredinsnow,seemeddiminished,justlikeanygardenrevisitedafteraperiodofyears.Hishousewasthatway,too.Fromthenextroom,Icouldhearthewailsofwomen,andtheirexaggeratedexclamations,mountingasiftheywerecompetingwitheachother.Whenhiseldestbrotherspoke,Ilistenedintently:ThefaceofourforlornbrotherElegantwaspracticallydestroyed,andhisheadwassmashed.Afterhewasremovedfromthebottomofthewellwherehe’dlainforfourdays,hisbrothersscarcelyknewhim,andhispoorwife,Kalbiye,whomthey’dbroughtfromthehouse,wasforcedtoidentifytheunrecognizablebodyinthedarkofnightbyitstornandtatteredclothing.IwasremindedofadepictionoftheMidianmerchantspullingJosephfromthepitintowhichhe’dbeencastbyhisjealousbrothers.IquiteenjoypaintingthisscenefromtheromanceofJosephandZuleyha,foritremindsusthatenvyistheprimeemotioninlife.

    Therewasasuddenlull.Isensedtheireyesuponme.ShouldIcry?IcaughtBlack’seye.Thatvilescoundrel,he’speeringatus,likesomeonewho’sbeensentherebyEnishteEffenditouncoverthetruth.

    “Whocould’veperpetratedsuchahorrendouscrime?”criedtheoldestbrother.“Whatkindofheartlessbeastcould’veslaughteredourbrother,ourbrotherwhowouldn’tdareharmanant?”

    Heansweredthisquestionwithhisowntears,andIjoinedhim,feigninggriefwhileIsoughtmyownanswer:WhowereElegant’senemies?Ifithadn’tbeenme,whoelsecould’vemurderedhim?Irecalledthatsometimeago—IbelieveitwaswhentheBookofSkillswasbeingprepared—hewouldgetinvolvedinargumentswithcertainartistsinclinedtodismissthetechniquesoftheoldmastersandruinthepagesweillustratorshadlaboredextensivelyover;thustheywouldspoiltheborderswiththehorridcolorsusedtoembellishmorecheaplyandquickly.Whowerethey?Later,however,rumorsbeganto

    spreadthattheenmityhadarisennotforthisreason,butoutofcompetitionfortheaffectionsofahandsomebinder’sapprenticewhoworkedonthegroundfloor;butthiswasanoldstory.AndtherewerethosewhowereannoyedbyElegant’sdignity,hisrefinementandhiseruditefemininedemeanor,butthishadtodowithanothermatterentirely:Elegantwasslavishlyboundtotheoldstyle,afanaticaboutthecoordinationofcolorbetweengildingandillustration,andinthepresenceofMasterOsman,hewould,forinstance,pointoutthenonexistentfaultsofotherminiaturists—mineinparticular—withgentleconceit.HislastquarrelhadtodowithanissueaboutwhichMasterOsmanhad,inpastyears,grownquitesensitive:royalminiaturistswhomoonlighted,secretlyacceptingtrivialcommissionsoutsidetheauspicesofthepalace.Inrecentyears,afterOurSultan’sinteresthadbeguntowaneand,alongwithit,themoneycomingfromtheHeadTreasurer,alltheminiaturistsstartedpayingvisitstothetwo-storyhousesofthecrassyoungpashas—andthebestoftheartistswouldgolateatnighttovisitEnishte.

    Iwasn’tatallbotheredbyEnishte’sdecisiontostopworkingonhis—onour—bookorhisexcusethatitwasill-omened.Hehad,ofcourse,guessedthatthemurdererwhodidawaywithbrainlessElegantEffendiwasoneofuswhowereembellishinghisbook.Putyourselfinhisshoes:Wouldyouinviteamurderertoyourhouseeachfortnighttoworkonillustrationsafterdark?Wouldn’tyoufirstdetermheidentitiesofthemurdererandthebestillustrator?Ihavenodoubtthathe’llquicklydeducewhichoftheminiaturistswasthemosttalentedandthemostskilledincolorselection,gilding,pageruling,illustration,facedrawingandpagecomposition;andhavingdoneso,he’llcontinueworkingwithmealone.Ican’timaginehe’llbesopettyastothinkofmeasacommonmurdererratherthanagenuinelytalentedminiaturist.

    OutofthecornerofmyeyeIamwatchingthatfoolBlackEffendiwhomEnishtebroughtwithhim.Whenthesetwobrokeawayfromthecemeterycrowdpresentlydispersing,andwalkeddowntotheEyüpquay,Ifollowedthem.Theyboardedafour-oaredlongboat,andafterward,Igotintoasix-oaralongwithafewyoungapprenticeswho’dforgottenaboutthedeceasedandthefuneralandweremakingmerry.WithinsightofthePhanarGate,ourboatsmomentarilycamesoneareachotherthattheywereabouttolockoars,andIcouldseeclearlythatBlackwasearnestlywhisperingtoEnishte.Ithereuponthoughthoweasyitwastoendalife.MydearGod,you’vegiveneachofusthisunbelievablepower,butyou’vealsomadeusafraidtoexerciseit.

    Still,ifamanbutonceovercomesthisfearandacts,hestraightawaybecomesanentirelydifferentperson.TherewasatimewhenIwasterrifiednotonlyoftheDevil,butoftheslightesttraceofevilwithinme.Now,however,Ihavethesensethatevilcanbeendured,andmoreover,thatit’sindispensabletoanartist.AfterIkilledthatmiserableexcuseofaman,discountingthetremblinginmyhandswhichlastedonlyafewdays,Idrewbetter,Imadeuseofbrighterandboldercolors,andmostimportant,realizedthatIcouldconjureupwondersinmyimagination.But,thisbegsthequestionhowmanymeninIstanbulcantrulyappreciatethemagnificenceofmyillustrations?

    OffthewaterfrontnearJibali,fromallthewayinthemiddleoftheGoldenHorn,IgazedspitefullyatIstanbul.Thesnow-cappeddomesshonebrightinthesunlightthatbrokeabruptlythroughtheclouds.Thelargerandmorecolorfulacityis,themoreplacestherearetohideone’sguiltandsin;themore

    crowdeditis,themorepeopletherearetohidebehind.Acity’sintellectoughttobemeasurednotbyitsscholars,libraries,miniaturists,calligraphersandschools,butbythenumberofcrimesinsidiouslycommittedonitsdarkstreetsoverthousandsofyears.Bythislogic,doubtless,Istanbulistheworld’smostintelligentcity.

    AttheUnkapan1quay,IleftmylongboatalittleafterBlackandhisEnishtehadlefttheirs.Iwasbehindthemastheyleanedononeanotherandmountedthehill.AtthesiteofarecentfireintheshadowoftheSultanMehmetMosque,theystoppedandexchangedpartingwords.EnishteEffendiwasalone,andheappearedforaninstantlikeahelplessoldman.Iwastemptedtoruntohimandtellhimwhatthatbarbarian,fromwhosefuneralwewerereturning,hadslanderouslyconfidedinme;IwasgoingtoconfesswhatI’ddoprotectus,andtoaskhim:“IsittruewhatElegantEffendihadclaimed?AreweabusingOurSultan’strustthroughtheillustrationswe’vemade?Areourpaintingtechniquestraitorousandanaffronttoourreligion?Andhaveyoufinishedthatlastlargepainting?”

    Istoodinthemiddleofthesnowystreetaseveningfellandgazeddownthedarkroadwhichhadbeenabandonedalongwithmetojinns,fairies,brigands,thieves,tothegriefoffathersandchildrenreturninghomeandtothesorrowofsnow-coveredtrees.Attheendofthestreet,insideEnishteEffendi’sgrandiosetwo-storyhouse,beneaththeroof,whichIcannowseethroughthebarebranchesofthechestnuttrees,therelivesthemostbeautifulwomanintheworld.But,no,whyshouldIdrivemyselfmad?

    IAMAGOLDCOINBehold!Iamatwenty-two-caratOttomanSultanigoldcoinandIbearthegloriousinsigniaofHisExcellencyOurSultan,RefugeoftheWorld.Here,inthemiddleofthenightinthisfinecoffeehouseovercomewithfunerealmelancholy,Stork,oneofOurSultan’sgreatmasters,hasjustfinisheddrawingmypicture,thoughhehasn’tyetbeenabletoembellishmewithgoldwash—I’llleavethattoyourimagination.Myimageisherebeforeyou,yetImyselfcanbefoundinthemoneypurseofyourdearbrother,Stork,thatillustriousminiaturist.He’srisingnow,removingmefromhispurseandshowingmeofftoeachofyou.Hello,hello,greetingstoallthemasterartistsandassortedguests.Youreyeswidenasyoubeholdmyglimmer,youthrillasIshimmerinthelightoftheoillamp,andfinally,youbristlewithenvyatmyowner,MasterStork.You’rejustifiedinbehavingso,forthere’snobettermeasureofanillustrator’stalentthanI.

    Inthepastthreemonths,MasterStorkhasearnedexactlyforty-sevengoldpieceslikemyself.We’reallinthismoney-purseandMasterStork,seeforyourself,isn’thidingusfromanyone;heknowsthere’snoneamongtheminiaturistsofIstanbulwhoearnsmorethanhedoes.Itakeprideinbeingrecognizedasameasureoftalentamongartistsandinputtinganendtounnecessarydisagreements.Inthepast,beforewegotusedtocoffeeandourmindssharpened,thesedim-wittedminiaturistsweren’tsatisfiedwithspendingtheireveningsarguingaboutwhowasthemosttalentedorwhohadthebestsenseofcolor,whocoulddrawthebesttreeorwhowasmostexpertinthedepictionofclouds;no,they’dalsocometoblowsoversuchissues,knockingouteachother’steethintheprocess.Nowthatmyjudgment

    decideseverything,there’sasweetharmonyintheworkshop,andwhat’smore,anairthatwouldsuittheoldmastersofHerat.

    Inadditiontonotingtheharmonyandambiencebroughtaboutbymyjudgment,letmelistforyouthevariousthingsImightbeexchangedfor:thefootofayoungandbeautifulslavegirl,whichamountstoaboutone-fiftiethofherperson;agood-qualitywalnut-handledbarber’smirror,edgesinlaidwithbone;awell-paintedchestofdrawersdecoratedwithsunburstdesignsandsilverleafworthnysilverpieces;120freshloavesofbread;agravesiteandcoffinsforthree;asilverarmband;one-tenthofahorse;thelegsofanoldandfatconcubine;onebuffalocalf;twohigh-qualitypiecesofchina;themonthlywageofPersianminiaturistMehmettheDervishofTabrizandthemajorityofthoseofhislikewhoworkinOurSultan’sworkshop;onegoodhuntingfalconwithcage;tenjugsofPanayot’swine;aheavenlyhourwithMahmut,oneofthoseyoungboysworld-renownedforhisbeauty,andmanyotheropportunitiestoonumeroustospecify.

    BeforeIarrivedhere,Ispenttendaysinthedirtysockofapoorshoemaker’sapprentice.Eachnighttheunfortunatemanwouldfallasleepinhisbed,namingtheendlessthingshecouldbuywithme.Thelinesofthisepicpoem,sweetasalullaby,provedtomethattherewasnoplaceonEarthacoincouldn’tgo.

    Whichremindsme.IfIrecitedallthathappenedtomebeforeIcamehere,it’dfillvolumes.Therearenostrangersamongus,we’reallfriends;aslongasyoupromisenottotellanyone,andaslongasStorkEffendiwon’ttakeoffense,I’lltellyouasecret.Doyouswearnottotell?

    Allrightthen,Iconfess.I’mnotagenuwenty-two-caratOttomanSultanigoldcoinmintedattheChemberlitashMint.I’mcounterfeit.TheymademeinVeniceusingadulteratedgoldandbroughtmehere,passingmeoffastwenty-two-caratOttomangold.Yoursympathyandunderstandingaremuchobliged.

    BasedonwhatIcouldgatherfrombeinginthemintinVenice,thisbusinesshasbeengoingonforyears.Untilrecently,thedebasedgoldpiecesthattheVianinfidelsbroughttotheEastandspentwereVianducatswhichtheymintedinthatsamemint.WeOttomans,foreverrespectfulofwhateveriswritten,paidnoheedtotheamountofgoldineachducat—solongastheinscriptionremainedthesame—andthesefakeViangoldpiecesfloodedIstanbul.Later,notingthatcoinswithlessgoldandmorecopperwereharder,webegantodistinguishthecoinsbybitingthem.Forexample,you’reburningwithlove;yougorunningtoMahmut,thatyouthofunsurpassedbeauty,belovedbyall;first,hetakesintohissoftmouththecoin—nottheotherthing—andbitingit,declaresitcounterfeit.Asaconsequence,he’lltakeyoutoHeavenforonlyhalfanhourinsteadofonefullhour.TheVianinfidels,realizingthattheircounterfeitcoinspresentedsuchdisadvantages,decidedthattheymightaswellcounterfeitOttomancoins,reasoningthattheOttomanswouldbefooledagain.

    Now,letmedrawyourattentiontosomethingquitebizarre:WhentheseVianinfidelspaint,it’sasifthey’renotmakingapaintingbutactuallycreatingtheobjectthey’repainting.Whenitcomestomoney,however,ratherthanmakingtherealthing,theymakeitscounterfeit.

    Wewereloadedintoironchests,hauledontoshipsandpitchingtoandfrotraveledfromVenicetoIstanbul.Ifoundmyselfinamoneychanger’sshop,inthegarlickymouthofitsproprietor.Wewaitedforawhile,andasimple-mindedpeasantentered,hopingtoexchangesomegold.Themastermoneychanger,whowasagenurickster,declaredthatheneededtobitethegoldpiecetoseeifitwascounterfeit.Sohetookthepeasant’scoinandtosseditintohismouth.

    Whenwemetinsidehismouth,Irealizedthatthepeasant’scoinwasagenuineOttomanSultani.Hesawmewithinthatstenchofgarlicandsaid,“You’renothingbutacounterfeit.”Hewasright,buthisarrogantmanneroffendedmyprideandIliedtohim:“Actually,mybrother,you’retheonewho’scounterfeit.”

    Meanwhile,thepeasantwasproudlyinsisting,“Howcouldmygoldcoinpossiblybecounterfeit?Iburieditinthegroundtwentyyearsago,didavicelikecounterfeitingexistbackthen?”

    Iwaswonderingwhattheoutcomewouldbewhenthemoneychangertookmeoutofhismouthinsteadofthepeasant’sgoldcoin.“Takeyourgoldcoin,Idon’twantanyvileVianinfidel’sfakemoney,”hesaid,“haveyounoshame?”Thepeasantrespondedwithsomebitingwordsofhisown,thentookmewithhimoutthedoor.Afterhearingthesamepronouncementfromothermoneychangers,thepeasant’sspiritbrokeandheexchangedmeasadebasedcoinforonlynysilverpieces.Thisishowmyseven-yearsagaofendlesswanderingfromhandtohandbegan.

    AllowmetoadmitproudlythatI’vespentmostofmytimeinIstanbulwanderingfrompursetopurse,andfromsashtopocket,asbefitsanintelligentcoin.Myworstnightmareistobestoredinajugandlanguishforyearsbeneatharock,buriedinsomegarden;notthatithasn’thappenedtome,butforwhateverreason,theseperiodshaveneverlastedlong.Manyofthepeoplewhoholdmewanttoberidofmeassoonaspossible,especiallyiftheydiscoverI’mfake.Nheless,Ihaveyettocomeacrosssomeonewho’llwarnanunsuspectingbuyerthatI’mcounterfeit.Abroker,notrecognizingthatI’mcounterfeit,whohascountedout120silvercoinsinexchangeforme,willberatehimselfinfitsofanger,sorrowandimpatienceassoonashelearnshe’sbeencheated,andthesefitswon’tsubsideuntilheridshimselfofmebycheatinganother.Duringthiscrisis,evenasheattemptstorepeatedlyswindleothers,failingeachtimeonaccountofhishasteandanger,he’llcontinueallthewhiletocursethe“immoral”personwhohadoriginallyconnedhim.

    OverthelastsevenyearsinIstanbul,I’vechangedhands560times,andthere’snotahouse,shop,market,bazaar,mosque,churchorsynagogueIhaven’tentered.AsI’veroamedabout,I’velearnedthatmuchmoregossiphasbeenspread,manymorelegendstoldandliesspuninmynamethanI’deversuspected.I’veconstantlyhadmynoserubbedinit:Nothing’sconsideredvaluableanymorebesidesme,I’mmerciless,I’mblind,Imyselfamevenenamoredofmoney,theunfortunateworldrevolvesaround,notGod,butme,andthere’snothingIcan’tbuy—allthisistosaynothingofmydirty,vulgarandbasenature.AndthosewhoknowthatI’mfakearegiventoevenharsherjudgments.Asmyactualvaluedrops,however,mymetaphoricalvalueincreases—proofthatpoetryisconsolationtolife’smiseries.Butdespiteallsuchheartlesscomparisonandthoughtlessslander,I’verealizedthatalargemajoritydo

    sincerelyloveme.Inthisageofhatred,suchheartfelt—evenimpassioned—affectionoughttogladdenusall.

    I’veseeneverysquareinchofIstanbul,streetbystreetanddistrictbydistrict;I’veknownallhandsfromJewstoAbkhaziansandfromArabstoMingerians.IonceleftIstanbulinthepurseofapreacherfromEdirnewhowasgoingtoManisa.Ontheway,wehappenedtobeattackedbythieves.Oneofthemshouted,“Yourmoneyoryourlife!”Panicking,themiserablepreacherhidusinhisasshole.Thisspot,whichheassumedwasthesafest,smelledworsethanthemouthofthegarlicloverandwasmuchlesscomfortable.Butthesituationquicklygrewworsewheninsteadof“Yourmoneyoryourlife!”thethievesbegantoshout“Yourhonororyourlife!”Liningup,theytookhimbyturns.Idon’tdaredescribetheagonywesufferedinthatcrampedhole.It’sforthisreasonthatIdislikeleavingIstanbul.

    I’vebeenwellreceivedinIstanbul.YounggirlskissmeasifIwerethehusbandoftheirdreams;theyhidemebeneaththeirpillows,betweentheirhugebreasts,andintheirunderwear;theyevenfondlemeintheirsleeptomakecertainI’mstillthere.I’vebeenstorednexttothefurnaceinapublicbath,inaboot,atthebottomofasmallbottleinawonderful-smellingmuskseller’sshopandinthesecretpocketsewnintoachef’slentilsack.I’vewanderedthroughIstanbulinbeltsmadeofcamelleather,jacketliningsmadefromcheckeredEgyptiancloth,inthethickfabricofshoeliningandinthehiddencornersofmulticoloredshalwars.ThemasterwatchmakerPetrohidmeinasecretcompartmentofagrandfatherclock,andaGreekgrocerstuckmedirectlyintoawheelofkasharicheese.Ihidtogetherwithjewelry,sealsandkeyswrappedinpiecesofthickclothstowedawayinchimneys,instoves,beneathwindowsills,insidecushionsstuffedwithroughstraw,inundergroundchambersandinthehiddencompartmentsofchests.I’veknownfatherswhofrequentlystoodupfromthedinnertabletocheckwhetherIwasstillwhereIwassupposedtobe,womenwhosuckedonmelikecandyfornoreason,childrenwhosniffedatmeastheystuckmeuptheirnosesandoldpeoplewithonefootinthegravewhocouldn’trelaxunlesstheyremovedmefromtheirsheepskinpursesatleastseventimesaday.TherewasameticulousCircassianwomanwho,afterspendingthewholedaycleaningthehouse,tookuscoinsoutofherpurseandscrubbeduswithacoarsebrush.Iremembertheone-eyedmoneychangerwhoconstantlystackedusupintotowers;theporterwhosmelledofmorninggloriesandwho,alongwithhisfamily,watchedusasiflookingoutoverastunninglandscape;andthegilder,nolongeramongus—noneedtonamenames—whospenthiseveningsarrangingusintovariousdesigns.I’vetraveledinmahoganyskiffs;I’vevisitedtheSultan’spalace;I’vehiddenwithinHerat-madebindings,intheheelsofrose-scentedshoesandinthecoversofpacksaddles.I’veknownhundredsofhands:dirty,hairy,plump,oily,tremblingandold.I’vebeenredolentofopiumdens,candle-makers’shops,driedmackerelandthesweatofallofIstanbul.Afterexperiencingsuchexcitementandcommotion,abasethiefwhohadslithisvictim’sthroatintheblacknessofnightandtossedmeintohispurse,oncebackinhisaccursedhouse,spatinmyfaceandgrunted,“Damnyou,it’sallbecauseofyou.”Iwassooffended,sohurt,thatIwantednothingmorethantodisappear.

    IfIdidn’texist,however,noonewouldbeabletodistinguishagoodartistfromabadone,andthiswouldleadtochaosamongtheminiaturists;they’dallbeateachother’sthroats.SoIhaven’tvanished.I’veenteredthepurseofthemosttalentedandintelligentofminiaturistsandmademywayhere.

    Ifyouthinkyou’rebetterthanStork,thenbyallmeans,getholdofme.

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