章节目录 I AM CALLED BLACK

(88106 www.88106.info)    IwonderedwhetherShekure’sfatherwasawareofthelettersweexchanged.IfIweretoconsiderhertone,whichbespokeatimidmaidenquiteafraidofherfather,I’dhavetoconcludethatnotasinglewordaboutmehadpassedbetweenthem.Yet,Isensedthatthiswasnotthecase.TheslynessinEsther’slooks,Shekure’senchantingappearanceatthewindow,thedecisivenesswithwhichmyEnishtesentmetohisillustratorsandhisdespairwhenheorderedmetocomethismorning—allofitmademequiteuneasy.

    Inthemorning,assoonasmyEnishteaskedmetositbeforehim,hebegantodescribetheportraitshesawinVenice.AstheambassadorofOurSultan,RefugeoftheWorld,he’dvisitedquiteanumberofpalazzos,churchesandthehousesofprosperousmen.Overaperiodofdays,hestoodbeforethousandsofportraits.Hesawthousandsofframedfacesdepictedonstretchedcanvasorwoodorpainteddirectlyontowalls.“Eachonewasdifferentfromthenext.Theyweredistinctive,uniquehumanfaces!”hesaid.Hewasintoxicatedbytheirvariety,theircolors,thepleasantness—evenseverity—ofthesoftlightthatseemedtofallonthemandthemeaningemanatingfromtheireyes.

    “Asifavirulentplaguehadstruck,everyonewashavinghisportraitmade,”hesaid.“InallofVenice,richandinfluentialmenwantedtheirportraitspaintedasasymbol,amementooftheirlivesandasignoftheirriches,powerandinfluence—sotheymightalwaysbethere,standingbeforeus,announcingtheirexistence,nay,theirindividualityanddistinction.”

    Hiswordswerebelittling,asifhewerespeakingoutofjealousy,ambitionorgreed.Though,attimes,ashetalkedabouttheportraitshe’dseeninVenice,hisfacewouldabruptlylightuplikeachild’s,invigorated.

    Portraiturehadbecomesuchacontagionamongaffluentmen,princesandgreatfamilieswhowerepatronsofartthatevenwhentheycommissionedfrescoesofbiblicalscenesandreligiouslegendsforchurchwalls,theseinfidelswouldinsistthattheirownimagesappearsomewhereinthework.Forinstance,inapaintingoftheburialofSt.Stephan,you’dsuddenlysee,ahyes,presentamongthetearfulgravesidemourners,theveryprincewhowasgivingyouthetour—inastateofpureenthusiasm,exhilarationandconceit—ofthepaintingshangingonhispalazzowalls.Next,inthecornerofafrescodepictingSt.Petercuringthesickwithhisshadow,you’drealizewithanoddsenseofdisillusionmentthattheunfortunateonewrithingthereinpainwas,infact,thestrong-as-an-oxbrotherofyourpolitehost.Thefollowingday,thistimeinapiecedepictingtheResurrectionoftheDead,you’ddiscovertheguestwho’dstuffedhimselfbesideyouatlunch.

    “Somehavegonesofar,justtobeincludedinapainting,”saidmyEnishte,fearfullyasthoughheweretalkingaboutthetemptationsofSatan,“thatthey’rewillingtobeportrayedasaservantfillinggobletsinthecrowd,oramercilessmanstoninganadulteress,oramurderer,hishandsdrenchedinblood.”

    Pretendingnottounderstand,Isaid,“ExactlythewayweseeShahIsmailascendingthethroneinthoseillustratedbooksthatrecountancientPersianlegends.OrwhenwecomeacrossadepictionofTamerlane,whoactuallyruledlongafterward,inthestoryofHüsrevandShirin.”

    Wasthereanoisesomewhereinthehouse?

    “It’sasiftheVianpaintingsweremadetofrightenus,”saidmyEnishtelater.“Anditisn’tenoughthatwebeinaweoftheauthorityandmoneyofthesemenwhocommissiontheworks,theyalsowantustoknowthatsimplyexistinginthisworldisaveryspecial,verymysteriousevent.They’reattemptingtoterrifyuswiththeiruniquefaces,eyes,bearingandwiththeirclothingwhoseeveryfoldisdefinedbyshadow.They’reattemptingtoterrifyusbybeingcreaturesofmystery.”

    Heexplainedhowoncehe’dgottenlostintheexquisiteportraitgalleryo**aticcollectorwhoseopulentestatewasperchedontheshoresofLakeComo;theproprietorhadcollectedtheportraitsofallthegreatpersonagesinFrankishhistoryfromkingstocardinals,andfromsoldierstopoets:“WhenmyhospitablehostleftmealoroamasIwishedthroughouthispalazzo,whichhe’dproudlygivenmeatourof,Isawthatthesesupposedlyimportantinfidels—mostofwhomappearedtoberealandsomeofwhomlookedmestraightintheeye—hadattainedtheirimportanceinthisworldsolelyonaccountofhavingtheirportraitsmade.Theirlikenesseshadimbuedthemwithsuchmagic,hadsodistinguishedthem,thatforamomentamongthepaintingsIfeltflawedandimpotent.HadIbeendepictedinthisfashion,itseemed,I’dbetterunderstandwhyIexistedinthisworld.”

    Hewasfrightenedbecausehesuddenlyunderstood—andperhapsdesired—thatIslamicartistry,perfectedandsecurelyestablishedbytheoldmastersofHerat,wouldmeetitsendonaccountoftheappealofportraiture.“However,itwasasifItoowantedtofeelextraordinary,differentandunique,”hesaid.AsifproddedbytheDevil,hefelthimselfstronglydrawntowhathefeared.“HowshouldIsayit?It’sasifthiswereasinofdesire,likegrowingarrogantbeforeGod,likeconsideringoneselfofutmostimportance,likesituatingoneselfatthecenteroftheworld.”

    Thereafter,thisideadawnedonhim:ThesemethodswhichtheFrankishartistsmadeuseofasifplayingapridefulchild’sgame,couldbemorethansimplymagicassociatedwithOurExaltedSultan—butcouldinfactbecomeaforcemeanttoserveourreligion,bringingunderitsswayallwhobeheldit.

    Ilearnedthattheideaofpreparinganilluminatedmanuscripthadarisenthen:myEnishte,who’dreturnedtoIstanbulfromVenice,suggesteditwouldbeexcellentindeedforOurSultantobethesubjectofaportraitintheFrankishstyle.ButafterHisExcellencytookexception,abookcontainingpicturesofOurSultanandtheobjectsthatrepresentedHimwasagreedupon.

    “Itisthestorythat’sessential,”ourwisestandmostGloriousSultanhadsaid.“Abeautifulillustrationelegantlycompletesthestory.Anillustrationthatdoesnotcomplementastory,intheend,willbecomebutafalseidol.Sincewecannotpossiblybelieveinanabsentstory,wewillnaturallybeginbelievinginthepictureitself.ThiswouldbenodifferentthantheworshipofidolsintheKaabathatwentonbefore

    OurProphet,peaceandblessingsbeuponhim,haddestroyedthem.Ifnotaspartofastory,howwouldyouproposetodepictthisredcarnation,forexample,orthatinsolentdwarfoverthere?”

    “Byexposingthecarnation’sbeautyanduniqueness.”

    “Inthearrangementofyourscene,then,wouldyousituatetheflowerattheprecisecenterofthepage?”

    “Iwasafraid,”myEnishtesaid.“IpanickedmomentarilywhenIrealizedwhereOurSultan’sthoughtsweretakingme.”

    WhatfilledmyEnishtewithfearwasthenotionofsituatingatthecenterofthepage—andthereby,theworld—somethingotherthanwhatGodhadintended.

    “Thereafter,”OurSultanhadsaid,“you’llwanttoexhibitapictureinwhosecenteryou’vesituatedadwarf.”ItwasasIhadassumed.“Butthispicturecouldneverbedisplayed:afterawhile,we’dbegintoworshipapicturewe’vehungonawall,regardlessoftheoriginalintentions.IfIbelieved,heavenforbid,thewaytheseinfidelsdo,thattheProphetJesuswasalsotheLordGodhimself,thenI’dalsoholdthatGodcouldbeobservedinthisworld,andeven,thatHecouldmanifestinhumanform;onlythenmightIacceptthedepictionofmankindinfulldetailandexhibitsuchimages.Youdounderstandthat,eventually,wewouldunthinkinglybeginworshipinganypicturethatishungonawall,don’tyou?”

    MyEnishtesaid:“Iunderstooditquitewell,andbecauseIdid,Iwasafraidofwhatwebothwerethinking.”

    “Forthisreason,”OurSultanremarked,“Icouldneverallowmyportraittobedisplayed.”

    “Thoughthisisexactlywhathewanted,”whisperedmyEnishte,withadevilishtitter.

    Itwasmyturntobefrightenednow.

    “Nheless,itismydesirethatmyportraitbemadeinthestyleoftheFrankishmasters,”OurSultanwenton.“Suchaportraitwill,ofcourse,havetobeconcealedwithinthepagesofabook.Whateverthatbookmightbe,youshallbetheotellme.”

    “Inaninstantofsurpriseandawe,Iconsideredhisstatement,”saidmyEnishte,thengrinningmoredevilishlythanbefore,heseemed,suddenly,tobecomesomeoneelse.

    “HisExcellencyOurSultanorderedmetostartworkingonHisbookposthaste.Myheadspunwithjoy.HeaddedthatitoughttobepreparedasapresentfortheVianDoge,whomIwastovisitonceagain.Oncethebookwascompleted,itwouldbecomeasymbolofthevanquishingpoweroftheIslamicCaliphOurExaltedSultan,inthethousandthyearoftheHegira.HerequestedthatIpreparethe

    illuminatedmanuscriptinutmostsecrecy,primarilytoconcealitspurposeasanolivebranchextendedtotheVians,butalsotoavoidaggravatingworkshopjealousies.Andinastateofgreatelationandsworntosecrecy,Iembarkeduponthisventure.”

    IAMYOURBELOVEDUNCLEAndsoitwasonthatFridaymorning,IbegantodescribethebookthatwouldcontainOurSultan’sportraitpaintedintheVianstyle.IbroachedthetopictoBlackbyrecountinghowI’dbroughtitupwithOurSultanandhowI’dpersuadedhimtofundthebook.MyhiddenpurposewastohaveBlackwritethestories—whichIhadn’tevenbegun—thatweremeanttoaccompanytheillustrations.

    ItoldhimI’dcompletedmostofthebook’sillustrationsandthatthelastpicturewasnearlyfinished.“There’sadepictionofDeath,”Isaid,“andIhadthemostcleverofminiaturists,Stork,illustratethetreerepresentingthepeacefulnessofOurSultan’sworldlyrealm.There’sapictureofSatanandahorsemeanttospiritusfarfaraway.There’sadog,alwayscunningandwily,andalsoagoldcoin…Ihadthemasterminiaturistsdepictthesethingswithsuchbeauty,”ItoldBlack,“thatifyousawthembutonce,you’dknowstraightawaywhatthecorrespondingtextoughttobe.Poetryandpainting,wordsandcolor,thesethingsarebrotherstoeachother,asyouwellknow.”

    Forawhile,IponderedwhetherIshouldtellhimImightmarryoffmydaughtertohim.Wouldhelivetogetherwithusinthishouse?Itoldmyselfnottobetakeninbyhisraptattentionandhischildlikeexpression.IknewhewasschemingtoelopewithmyShekure.Still,Icouldrelyonnobodyelsetofinishmybook.

    ReturningtogetherfromtheFridayprayers,wediscussed“shadow,”thegreatestofinnovationsmanifestinthepaintingsoftheVianmasters.“If,”Isaid,“weintendtomakeourpaintingsfromtheperspectiveofpedestriansexchangingpleasantriesandregardingtheirworld;thatis,ifweintendtoillustratefromthestreet,weoughttolearnhowtoaccountfor—astheFranksdo—whatis,infact,mostprevalentthere:shadows.”

    “Howdoesonedepictshadow?”askedBlack.

    Fromtimetotime,asmynephewlistened,Iperceivedimpatienceinhim.He’dbegintofiddlewiththeMongolinkpothe’dgivenmeasapresent.Attimes,he’dtakeuptheironpokerandstokethefireinthestove.NowandthenIimaginedthathewantedtolowerthatpokerontomyheadandkillmebecauseIdaredtomovetheartofillustratingawayfromAllah’sperspective;becauseIwouldbetraythedreamsofthemastersofHeratandtheirentiretraditionofpainting;becauseI’ddupedOurSultanintoalreadydoingso.Occasionally,Blackwouldsitdeadstillforlongstretchesandfixhiseyesdeeplyintomine.Icouldimaginewhathewasthinking:“I’llbeyourslaveuntilIcanhaveyourdaughter.”Once,asIwoulddowhenhewasachild,Itookhimoutintotheyardandtriedtoexplaintohim,asafathermight,aboutthetrees,aboutthelightfallingontotheleaves,aboutthemeltingsnowandwhythehousesseemedtoshrinkaswemovedawayfromthem.Butthiswasamistake:Itprovedonlythatourformer

    filialrelationshiphadlongsincecollapsed.NowpatientsufferanceoftherantingsofadementedoldmanhadtakentheplaceofBlack’schildhoodcuriosityandpassionforknowledge.IwasjustanoldmanwhosedaughterwastheobjectofBlack’slove.Theinfluenceandexperienceofthecountriesandcitiesthatmynephewhadtraveledthroughforadozenyearshadbeenfullyabsorbedbyhissoul.Hewastiredofme,andIpitiedhim.Andhewasangry,Iassumed,notonlybecauseIhadn’tallowedhimtomarryShekuretwelveyearsago—afterall,therewasnootherchoicethen—butbecauseIdreamedofpaintingswhosestyletransgressedthepreceptsofthemastersofHerat.Furthermore,becauseIravedaboutthisnonsensewithsuchconviction,Iimaginedmydeathathishands.

    Iwasnot,however,afraidofhim;onthecontrary,Itriedtofrightenhim.ForIbelievedthatfearwasappropriatetothewritingI’drequestedofhim.“Asinthosepictures,”Isaid,“oneoughttobeabletosituateoneselfatthecenteroftheworld.OneofmyillustratorsbrilliantlydepictedDeathforme.Behold.”

    ThusIbegantoshowhimthepaintingsI’dsecretlycommissionedfromthemasterminiaturistsoverthelastyear.Atfirst,hewasatadshy,evenfrightened.WhenheunderstoodthatthedepictionofDeathwasinspiredbyfamiliarscenesthatcouldbefoundinmanyBookofKingsvolumes—fromthesceneofAfrasiyab’sdecapitationofSiyavush,forexample,orRüstem’smurderofSuhrabwithoutrealizingthiswashisson—hequicklybecameinterestedinthesubject.AmongthepicturesthatdepictedthefuneralofthelateSultanSüleymanwasoneI’dmadewithboldbutsadcolors,combiningacompositionalsensibilityinspiredbytheFrankswithmyownattemptatshading—whichI’daddedlater.Ipointedoutthediabolicdepthevokedbytheinterplayofcloudandhorizon.IremindedhimthatDeathwasunique,justliketheportraitsofinfidelsIhadseenhanginginVianpalazzos;allofthemdesperatelyyearnedtoberendereddistinctly.“Theywanttobesodistinctanddifferent,andtheywantthiswithsuchpassionthat,”Isaid,“look,lookintotheeyesofDeath.SeehowmendonotfearDeath,butrathertheviolenceimplicitinthedesiretobeone-of-a-kind,uniqueandexceptional.Lookatthisillustrationandwriteanaccountofit.GivevoicetoDeath.Here’spaperandpen.Ishallgivewhatyouwritetothecalligrapherstraightaway.”

    Hestaredatthepictureinsilence.“Whopaintedthis?”heaskedlater.

    “Butterfly.He’sthemosttalentedofthelot.MasterOsmanhadbeeninlovewithandawedbyhimforyears.”

    “I’veseenrougherversionsofthisdepictionofadogatthecoffeehousewherethestorytellerperforms,”Blacksaid.

    “Myillustrators,mostofwhomarespirituallyboundtoMasterOsmanandtheworkshop,takeadimviewofthelaborsperformedformybook.WhentheyleavehereatnightIimagheyhavetheirvulgarfunovertheseillustrationswhichtheydrawformoneyandridiculemeatthecoffeehouse.AndwhoamongthemwilleverforgetthetimeOurSultanhadtheyoungVianartist,whomHe’dinvitedfromtheembassyatmybehest,paintHisportrait.Thereafter,HehadMasterOsmanmakeacopyofthat

    oilpainting.ForcedtoimitatetheVianpainter,MasterOsmanheldmeresponsibleforthisunseemlycoercionandtheshamefulportraitthatcameofit.Hewasjustified.”

    Alldaylong,Ishowedhimeverypicture—exceptthefinalillustrationthatIcannot,forwhateverreason,finish.Iproddedhimtowrite.Idiscussedthetemperamentsoftheminiaturists,andIenumeratedthesumsofmoneyImetedouttothem.Wediscussed“perspective”andwhetherthediminutiveobjectsinthebackgroundofVianpicturesweresacrilegious,andequally,wetalkedaboutthepossibilitythatunfortunateElegantEffendihadbeenmurderedforexcessiveambitionandoutofjealousyoverhiswealth.

    AsBlackreturnedhomethatnight,Iwasconfidenthe’dcomeagainthenextmorningaspromisedandthathe’donceagainlistentomerecountthestoriesthatwouldconstitutemybook.Ilistenedtohisfootstepsfadingbeyondtheopengate;therewassomethingtothecoldnightthatseemedtomakemysleeplessandtroubledmurdererstrongerandmoredevilishthanmeandmybook.

    Iclosedthecourtyardgatetightlybehindhim.IplacedtheoldceramicwaterbasinthatIusedasabasilplanterbehindthegateasIdideachnight.BeforeIreducedthestovetosmolderingashesandwenttobed,IglanceduptoseeShekureinawhitegownlookinglikeaghostintheblackness.

    “Areyouabsolutelycertainthatyouwanttomarryhim?”Iasked.

    “No,dearFather.I’velongsinceforgottenaboutmarriage.Besides,Iammarried.”

    “Ifyoustillwanttomarryhim,I’mwillingtogiveyoumyblessingnow.”

    “Iwishnottobewedtohim.”

    “Why?”

    “Becauseit’sagainstyourwill.Inallsincerity,Idesirenobodythatyoudonotwant.”

    Inoticed,momentarily,thecoalsinthestovereflectedinhereyes.Hereyeshadaged,notoutofunhappiness,butanger;yettherewasnotraceofoffenseinhervoice.

    “Blackisinlovewithyou,”Isaidasifdivulgingasecret.

    “Iknow.”

    “HelistenedtoallIhadtosaytodaynotoutofhisloveofpainting,butoutofhisloveforyou.”

    “Hewillcompleteyourbook,thisiswhatmatters.”

    “Yourhusbandmightreturnoneday,”Isaid.

    “I’mnotcertainwhy,perhapsit’sthesilence,buttonightI’verealizedonceandforallthatmyhusbandwillneverreturn.WhatI’vedreamtseemstobethetruth:Theymust’vekilledhim.He’slongsinceturnedtodust.”Shewhisperedthelaststatementlestthesleepingchildrenhear.Andshesaiditwithapeculiartingeofanger.

    “Iftheyhappentokillme,”Isaid,“IwantyoutofinishthisbooktowhichI’vededicatedeverything.Swearthatyouwill.”

    “Igivemyword.Whowillbetheocompleteyourbook?”

    “Black!Youcanensurethathedoesso.”

    “Youarealreadyensuringthathedoesso,dearFather,”shesaid.“Youhavenoneedforme.”

    “Agreed,buthe’sgivingintomebecauseofyou.Iftheykillme,hemightbeafraidtocontinueon.”

    “Inthatcase,hewon’tbeabletomarryme,”saidmycleverdaughter,smiling.

    WheredidIcomeupwiththedetailabouthersmiling?Duringtheentireconversation,Inoticednothingexceptanoccasionalglimmerinhereyes.Wewerestandingtenselyfacingoneanotherinthemiddleoftheroom.

    “Doyoucommunicatewitheachother,exchangesignals?”Iasked,unabletocontainmyself.

    “Howcouldyoueventhinksuchathing?”

    Alongagonizingsilencepassed.Adogbarkedinthedistance.Iwasslightlycoldandshuddered.Theroomwassoblacknowthatwecouldnolongerseeeachother;wecouldeachonlysensetheother’spresence.Weabruptlyembracedwithallourmight.Shebegantocry,andsaidthatshemissedhermother.Ikissedandstrokedherhead,whichindeedsmelledlikehermother’shair.Iwalkedhertoherbedchamberandputhertobednexttothechildrenwhoweresleepingsidebyside.AndasIreflectedbackoverthelasttwodays,IwascertainthatShekurehadcorrespondedwithBlack.

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