Chapter 8 “I AM CALLED “OLIVE”

After the midday prayers, I was ever so swiftly yet pleasantly drawing the darling faces of boys when I heard a knock at the door. My hand jerked in surprise. I put down my brush. I carefully placed the work-board that was on my knees off to the side. Rushing like the wind, I said a prayer before opening the door. I won't withhold anything from you, because you, who can hear me from within this book, are much nearer to Allah than we in this filthy and miserable world of ours. Akbar Khan, the Emperor of Hindustan and the world's richest shah, is preparing what will one day become a legendary book. To complete his project, he sent word to the four corners of Islamdom inviting the world's greatest artists to join him. The men he'd sent to Istanbul visited me yesterday, inviting me to Hindustan. This time, I opened the door to find, in their place, my childhood acquaintance Black, about whom I'd forgotten entirely. Back then He wasn't able to keep our company, he was jealous of us. “Yes?”

He said he'd come to converse, to pay a friendly visit, to have a look at my illustrations. I welcomed him so he might see it all. I learned he'd just today visited Head Illuminator Master Osman and kissed his hand. The great master, he explained, had given him wise words to ponder: “A painter's quality becomes evident in his discussions of blindness and memory,” he'd said. So let it be evident: Blindness and MemoryBefore the art of illumination there was blackness and afterward there will also be blackness. Through our colors, paints, art and love, we remember that Allah had commanded us to “See”! To know is to remember that you've seen To see is to know without remembering. Thus, painting is remembering the blackness. The great masters, who shared a love of painting and perceived that color and sight arose from darkness, longed to return to Allah's blackness by means of color. memory neither remember Allah nor his blackness. All great masters, in their work, seek that profound void within color and outside time. Let me explain to you what it means to remember this darkness, which was revealed in Herat by the great masters of old .

Three Stories on Blindness and MemoryALIFIn Lami'i Chelebi's Turkish translation of the Persian poet Jami's Gifts of Intimacy, which addresses the stories of the saints, it is written that in the bookmaker's workshop of Jihan Shah, the ruler of the Blacksheep nation, the renowned master Sheikh Ali Tabrizi had illustrated a magnificent version of Husrev and Shirin. According to what I've heard, in this legendary manuscript, which took eleven years to complete, the master of master miniaturists, Sheikh Ali, displayed such talent and skill and painted such wonderful pictures that only the greatest of the old masters, Bihzad, could have matched him. Even before the illuminated manuscript was half finished, Jihan Shah knew that he would soon possess a spectacular book without equal in all the world. He thus lived in fear and jealousy of young Tall Hasan, the ruler of the Whitesheep nation, and declared him his archenemy. Moreover, Jihan Shah quickly sensed that though his prestige would gro w enormously after the book was completed, an even better version of the manuscript could be made for Tall Hasan. Being one of those truly jealous men who poisoned his own contentment with the thought “What if others come to know such bliss?” Jihan Shah sensed at once that if the virtuoso miniaturist made another copy, or even a better version, it would be for his archenemy Tall Hasan. Thus, in order to prevent anyone besides himself from owning this magnificent book, Jihan Shah decided to have the master miniaturist Sheikh Ali killed after he'd completed the book. But a good-hearted Circassian beauty in his harem advised him that blinding the master miniaturist would suffice. Jihan Shah forthwith adopted this clever idea, which he passed on to his circle of sycophants, until it ultimately reached the ears of Sheikh Ali. Even so, Sheikh Ali didn't leave the book half finished and flee Tabriz as other, mediocre illustrators might've done. He didn't resort to games like slowing down the p rogress of the manuscript or making inferior illustrations so it wouldn't be “perfect” and thereby forestalling his imminent blinding. Indeed, he worked with even more ardor and conviction. In the house where he lived alone, he'd begin working after the morning prayers and continue illustrating the same horses, cypresses, lovers, dragons and handsome princes by candlelight in the middle of the night again and again until bitter tears streamed from his eyes. Much of the time, he'd gaze for days at an illustration by one of the great old masters of Herat as he made an exact copy on another sheet. In the end, he completed the book for Jihan Shah the Blacksheep, and as the master miniaturist had expected, he was at first praised and showered with gold pieces, before being blinded with a sharp plume needle used to affix turban plumes. Before his pain had even subsided, Sheikh Ali left Herat and went to join Tall Hasan the Whitesheep. “Yes, indeed, I am blind,” he explained to Tall Hasan, “y et I remember each of the splendors of the manuscript I've illuminated for the last eleven years, down to each mark of the pen and each stroke of the brush, and my hand can draw it again from memory. My Excellency, I could illustrate the greatest manuscript of all time for you. Since my eyes will no longer be distracted by the filth of this world, I'll be able to depict all the glories of Allah from memory, in their purest form.” Tall Hasan believed the great and the master miniaturist, keeping his promise, illustrated from memory the most magnificent of books for the ruler of the Whitesheep. Everyone knew the spiritual power provided by the new book was what lay behind Tall Hasan's subsequent defeat of the Blacksheep and the victorious Khan's execution of Jihan Shah during a raid near Bing?l. This magnificent book, along with the one Sheikh Ali Tabrizi made for

the late Jihan Shah, entered Our Sultan's treasury in Istanbul when the ever-victorious Tall Hasan was defeated at the Battle of Otlukbeli by Sultan Mehmet Khan the Conqueror, may he rest in peace. Those who can truly see, know. BASince the Denizen of Paradise, Sultan Suleyman Khan the Lawgiver, favored calligraphers over illustrators, unfortunate miniaturists of the day would recount the present story as an example of how illustrating surprises calligraphy. However, as anyone who pays close attention is, will recount actually about blindness and memory. After the death of Tamerlane, Ruler of the World, his sons and grandchildren set to attacking and mercilessly battling one another. In the event that one of them succeeded in conquering another's city, his first action was to mint his own coins and have a sermon read at the mosque. His second act as victor was to pull apart the books that had come into his possession; a new dedication would be written, boasting of the conqueror as the new “ruler of the world,” a new colophon added, and it would all be bound together again so that those who laid eyes on the conqueror's book would believe that he truly was a world ruler. When Abdullatif, the son of Tam erlane's grandson Ulu? Bey, captured Herat, he mobilized his miniaturists, calligraphers and binders with such haste, and so pressured them to make a book in honor of his father, a connoisseur of book arts, that as volumes were in the midst of being unbound and the scripted pages destroyed and burned, the corresponding pictures became mixed up. Since it did not benefit the honor of Ulu? Bey for his son to arrange and bind albums without a care for which picture belonged to which story, he assembled all the miniaturists in Herat and requested that they recount the stories so as to put the illustrations in proper order. From each miniaturist's mouth, however, came a different account, and so the correct order of the plates was confused all the more. Thereupon, the oldest surviving head miniaturist was sought out. He was a man who'd extinguished the light of his eyes in painstaking labor on the books of all the shahs and princes who'd ruled over Herat for the last fifty- four years. A greatcommotion encouraged when the men realized that the old master now peering at the pictures was indeed blind. Some laughed. The elderly master requested that an intelligent boy, who had not yet reached the age of seven and who couldn't read or write, be Brought forward. Such a child was found and taken to him. The old miniaturist placed a number of illustrations before him. “Describe what you see,” he instructed. As the boy described the pictures, the old miniaturist, raising his blind eyes to the sky, listened carefully and responded: “Alexander cradling the dying Darius from Firdusi's Book of Kings… the account of the teacher who falls in love with his handsome student from Sadi's Rosegarden …the contest of doctors from Nizami's Treasury of Secrets…” The other miniaturists, vexed by their elderly and blind colleague, said, “We could've told you that as well. These are the best-known scenes from the most famous stories.” In turn, the aged and blind miniaturist placed the most difficult il Lustrations before the child and again listened intently. “Hurmuz poisoning the calligraphers one by one from Firdusi's Book of Kings,” he said, again facing the sky. “A cheap rendition of the terrible account of the cuckold who catches his wife and her lover in a pear tree, from Rumi's Masnawi," he said. In this fashion, relying on the boy's descriptions, he identified all of the pictures, none of which he could see, and thereby succeeded in having the books properly bound together again. Ulu? Bey entered Herat with his army, he asked the old miniaturist by what secret he, a blind man, could identify those stories that other master illustrators couldn't determine even by looking at them. Assume, that my memory compensates for my

blindness,” replied the old illustrator. “I have never forgotten that stories are recollected not only through images, but through words as well.” Ulu? Bey responded that his own miniaturists knew those words and stories, but still couldn't order the pictures. “Because,” said the old miniaturist, “they think quite well when it comes to painting, which is their skill or their art, but they don’t comprehend that the old masters made these pictures out of the memories of Allah Himself Bey asked how a child could know such things. “The child doesn’t know,” said the old miniaturist. “But I, an elderly and blind miniaturist, know that Allah created this worldly realm the way an intelligent seven -year-old boy would want to see it; what's more, Allah created this earthly realm so that, above all, it might be seen. Afterward, He provided us with words so we might share and discuss with one another what we've seen. We mistakenly assumed that these stories arose out of words and that illus trations were painted in service of these stories. Quite to the contrary, painting is the act of seeking out Allah's memories and seeing the world as He sees the world."

DJIM Two hundred fifty years ago, Arab miniaturists were in the custom of staring at the western horizon at daybreak to alleviate the understandable and eternal anxieties about going blind shared by all miniaturists; likewise, a century later in Shiraz, many ts illustra rose petals on an empty stomach in the mornings. Again, in the same era, the elder miniaturists of Isfahan who believed sunlight was responsible for the blindness to which they succeeded one by one, as if to the plague, would work in a half- dark corner of the room, and most often by candlelight, to prevent direct sunlight from striking their worktables. At day's end, in the workshops of the Uzbek artists of Bukhara, master miniaturists would wash their eyes with water blessed by sheikhs. But of all of these precautions, the purest approach to blindness was discovered in Herat by the miniaturist Seyyit Mirek, mentor to the great master Bihzad. According to master miniaturist Mirek, blindnesswasn't a scourge, but rather the crowning reward bestowed by Allah upon the illuminator who had devoted an entire life to His glories; for illustrating was the miniaturist's search for Allah's vision of the earthly realm, and this unique perspective could only be attained through recollection after blindness descended, only after a lifetime of hard work and only after the miniaturist's eyes tired and he had expended himself. Thus, Allah's vision of His world only becomes manifest through the memory of blind miniaturists. When this image comes to the aging miniaturists , that is, when he sees the world as Allah sees it through the darkness of memory and blindness, the illustrator will have spent his lifetime training his hand so it might transfer this splendid revelation to the page. According to the historian Mirza Muhammet Haydar Duglat , who wrote extensively about the legends of Herat miniaturists, the master Seyyit Mirek, in his expression of the aforementioned notion of painting, u sed the example of the illustrator who wanted to draw a horse. He reasoned that even the most untalented painter—one whose head is empty like those of today's Venetian painters—who draws the picture of a horse while looking at a horse will still make the image from memory; because, you see, it is impossible, at one and the same time, to look at the horse and at the page upon which the horse's image appears. First, the illustrator looks at the horse, then he quickly transfers whatever rests in his mind to the page. In the interim, even if only a wink in time, what the artist represents on the page is not the horse he sees, but the memory of the horse he has just seen. Proof that for even the most miserable illustrator, a picture is possible only through memory. The logical extension of this concept, which regards the active worklife of a miniaturist as but preparation for both

the resulting bliss of blindness and blind memory, is that the masters of Herat regarded the illustrations they made for bibliophile shahs and princes as training for the hand—as an exercise. They accepted the work, the endless drawing and staring at pages by candlelight for days without break, as the pleasant labor that delivered the miniaturist to blindness. Throughout his whole life, the master miniaturist Mirek constantly sought out the most appropriate moment for this most glorious of approaching events, either by purposely disturbing blindness in the prick through and all their leaves on fingernails, grains of rice and even on strands of hair, or by cautiously delaying the imminent darkness by the effortless drawing of pleasant, sun-filled gardens. When he was seventy, in order to reward this great master, Sultan Huseyin Baykara allowed him to enter the treasury containing thousands of manuscript plates that the Sultan had collected and secured underlock and key. There, in the treasury that also contained weapons, gold and bolt upon bolt of silk and velvet cloth, by the candlelight of golden candelabra, Master Mirek stared at the magnificent leaves of those books, each a legend in its own right , made by the old masters of Herat. And after three days and nights of continuous scrutiny, the great master went blind. He accepted his condition with maturity and resignation, the way one might greet the Angels of Allah, and he never spoke or painted again. Mirza Muhammet Haydar Duglat, the author of the History of Rashid, ascribed this turn of events as follows: “A miniaturist united with the vision and landscape of Allah's immortal time can never return to the manuscript pages meant for ordinary mortals”; and he adds, “Whereever the blind miniaturist's memories reach Allah there reigns an absolute silence, a blessed darkness and the infinity of a blank page.”

Certainly it was less out of desire to hear my answer to Master Osman's question on blindness and memory than to put himself at ease that Black asked me the question while he pored over my possessions, my room and my pictures. Yet again, I was pleased to see that the stories I recounted affected him. “Blindness is a realm of bliss from which the Devil and guilt are barred,” I said to him. “In Tabriz,” said Black, “under Master Mirek's influence, some of the miniaturists of the old style still look upon blindness as the greatest virtue of Allah's grace, and they're embarrassed about growing old but not blind. Even today, fearing that others will consider this proof of a lack of talent and skill, they pretend to be blind. As a result of this moral conviction which bears the influence of Jemalettin of Kazvin, some of them sit for weeks in the darkness amid mirrors, in the dim light of an oil lamp, without eating or drinking and stare at illustrated pages painted by the old masters of Herat in order to learn how to perceive the world like a blind man despite not truly being blind.”

Somebody knocked. I opened the door to find a handsome apprentice from the workshop whose lovely almond eyes were opened wide. He said that the body of our brother, the gilder Effendi, had been discovered in an abandoned well and that his funeral process would commence at the Mihrimah Mosque during the afternoon prayer. He then ran off to deliver the news to others. Allah, may you protect us all. I AM ESTHERTell me then, does love make one a fool or do only fools fall in love? I've been a clothes peddler and matchmaker for years, and I don't have the slightest clue. How it'd thrill me to become acquired with men—or couples—who grew more intelligent and became more cunning and devious as they fell deeper in love. I do know this much though: If a man resorts to wiles, guile and petty deceptions, it means he's nowhere near being in love. As for Black Effendi, it's obvious that he's already lost his composure—when he even talks about Shekure he loses all self-control .

At the bazaar, I fed him by rote all the well-rehearsed refrains that I tell everyone: Shekure is always thinking of him, she asked me about his response to her letter, I'd never seen her like this and so on. He gave me such a look that I pitied him. He told me to take the letter to Shekure straightaway. Every idiot assumes there's a pressing circumstance about his love that necessitates particular haste, and thereby lays bare the intensity of his love, unwittingly putting a weapon into the hands of his beloved. If his lover is smart, she'll postpone the answer. The moral: Haste delays the fruits of love.

Had lovesick Black known that I first took a detour while carrying the letter he'd charged me to deliver “posthaste,” he'd thank me. In the market square, I nearly froze to death waiting for him. After he left, I thought I'd visit one of my “daughters” to warm up. I call the maidens whose letters I've delivered, the ones I've married off through the sweat of my brow, my “daughters.” This ugly maiden of mine was so thankful and beholden to me that at my every visit, beyond waiting on me hand and foot, flitting about like a moth, she'd press a few silver coins into my palm. Now she was pregnant and in good humor. She put linden tea on the boil. I savored each sip. When she left me alone, I counted the coins Black Effendi had given me. Twenty silver pieces. I set out on my way again. I passed through side streets and through ominous alleyways that were frozen, muddy and nearly impassable. As I was knocking on the door, mirth took hold of me and I began to shout. “The clothier is here! Clothierrr!” I said. “Come and see the best of my ruffled muslin fit for a sultan. Come get my stunning shawls from Kashmir, my Bursa velvet sash cloth, my superb silk-edged Egyptian shirt cloth, my embroidered muslin tablecloths, my mattress and bedsheets, and my colorful handkerchiefs. Clothierrr!” The door opened. I entered. As always, the house smelled of bedding, sleep, frying oil and humidity, that terrible smell peculiar to aging bachelors. "Old hag," he said. "Why are you shouting?" I silently removed the letter and handed it to him. In the half-lit room, he stealthily and quietly approached me and snatched it from my hand. He passed into the next room where an oil lamp always burned. "Isn't your dear father home?" He didn't answer. He'd lost himself in the letter. I left him alone so he could read. He stood behind the lamp, and I couldn't see his face. After finishing the letter, he read it anew. "Yes," I said, "and what has he written?" Hasan read: My Dearest Shekure, as I too have for years now sustained myself through my dreams of one single person, I respectfully understand your waiting for your husband without considering another. What else could one expect from a woman of your stature besides honesty and virtue? [ Hasan cackled!] My coming to visit your father for the sake of painting, however, does not amount to harassing you. This would never even cross my mind. I make no claim at having received a sign from you or any other encouragement. When your face appeared to me at the window like divine light, I considered it nothing but an act of God's grace. The pleasure of seeing your face is all I need. [“He took that from Nizami,” Hasan interrupted, annoyed.] But you ask me to keep my distance; tell me then, are you an angel that approaching you should be so terrifying? Listen to what I have to say, listen: I used to try to sleep watching the moonlight fall onto the naked mountains from remote and godforsaken caravansaries wher e nobody but a desperate han keeper and a few thugs fleeing the gallows lodged, and there, in the middle of the night, listening to the howling of wolves even lonelier and more unfortunate than myself, I used to think that one day you would suddenly appear to me, just as you did at the window. Read closely: Now that I've returned to your father for the sake of the book, you've sent back the picture I made in my childhood. I know this is not a sign of your death but a sign that I've found you again. I saw one of your children, Orhan. That poor fatherless boy. One day I will become his father! "God protect him, he's written well," I said, "this one has become quite the poet." “”Are you an angel that approaching you should be so terrifying?”” he repeated. “He stole that line from Ibn Zerhani. I could do better.” He took his own letter out of his pocket. “Take this and deliver it to Shekure." For the first time, accepting money along with the letters disturbed me. I felt something like disgust toward this man and his mad obsession, his unrequited love. Hasan, as if to confirm my hunch, for the first time in a long while set aside his good etiquette and said quite rudely: "Tell her that if we so desire, we'll force her back here under pressure of the judge." "You really want me to say that?" Silence. “Nay,” he said. The light from the oil lamp illuminated his face, allowing me to see him lower his head like a guilty child. It's because I know this side of Hasan's character as well that I have some respect for his feelings and deliver his letters. It's not only for the money, as you might think. I was leaving the house, and he stopped me at the door. “Do you let Shekure know how much I love her?” he asked me excitedly and foolishly. "Don't you tell her so in your letters?" “Tell me how I might convince her and her father? How might I persuade them?” “By being a good person,” I said and walked to the door. “At this age, it’s too late…” he said with sincere anguish. “You've begun to earn a lot of money, Customs Officer Hasan. This makes one a good person…” I said and fled. The house was so dark and melancholy that the air outside seemed warmer. The sunlight hit my face. I wished for Shekure's happiness. But I also felt something for that poor man in that damp, chilly and dark house. On a whim, I turned into the Spice Market in Laleli thinking the smells of cinnamon, saffron and pepper would restore my spirits. I was mistaken. At Shekure's house, after she took up the letters, she immediately asked after Black. I told her that the fire of love had mercilessly engulfed his entire being. This news pleased her. “Even lonely spinsters busy with their knitting are discussing why Elegant Effendi might've been killed,” I said later, changing the subject. “Hayriye, make some halva as a present of condolence and take it over to Kalbiye, poor Effendi's widow,” said Shekure. “All the Erzurumis and quite a crowd of others will be attending his funeral service,” I said. “His relatives swear they'll avenge his spilled blood.” Shekure had already begun to read Black's letter. I looked into her face intently and angrily. This woman was probably such a fox that she could control how her passions were reflected in her face. As she read I sensed that my silence pleased her, that she regarded it as my approval of the special import she gave to Black's letter. Shekure finished the letter and smiled at me; to meet with her satisfaction, I felt forced to ask, “What has he written?” "Just as in his childhood...He's in love with me." "What are your thoughts?" "I'm a married woman. I'm waiting for my husband." Contrary to your expectations, the fact that she'd lie to me after asking me to get involved in her affairs didn't anger me. Actually, this comment relieved me. If more of the young maidens and women I've carried letters for and advised in the ways of the world attended to details the way Shekure did, they would've lessened the work for us both by half. More importantly, they would've ended up in better marriages. “What does the other one write?” I asked anyway. “I don’t intend to read Hasan’s letter right now,” she answered. “Does Hasan know that Black’s returned to Istanbul?” "He doesn't even know he exists." “Do you speak with Hasan?” she asked, opening wide her beautiful black eyes. "As you've requested." "Yes?" “He's in agony. He's deeply in love with you. Even if your heart belongs to another, it'll be difficult ever to be free of him now. By accepting his letters you've greatly encouraged him. Be wary of him, however . For not only does he want to make you return there, but by establishing that his older brother has died, he's preparing to marry you." I smiled to soften the weight of these words and so as not to be reduced to being that malcontent's mouthpiece. “What's the other one say, then?” she asked, but did she herself know whom she was inquiring after? "The miniaturist?" “My mind's all a jumble,” she said suddenly, perhaps afraid of her own thoughts. “It seems that matters will become even more confused. My father's growing older. What'll become of us, of these fatherless children? I sense an evil approaching, that the Devil is preparing some mischief for us. Esther, tell me something that will hearten me.” "Don't you fret in the slightest, my dearest Shekure," I said as emotion welled up within me. "You're truly intelligent, you're very beautiful. One day you'll sleep in the same bed with your handsome husband, you'll cuddle with him, and having forgotten all your worries, you'll be happy. I can read this in your eyes." Such affection rose within me that my eyes filled with tears. “Fine, but which one will become my husband?” "Isn't that wise heart of yours giving you an answer?" "It's because I don't understand what my heart is saying that I'm inspired." For a moment it occurred to me that Shekure didn't trust me at all, that she was masterfully concealing her distrust in order to learn what I knew, that she was trying to arouse my pity. When I saw she wouldn't be writing a response to the letters at present, I grabbed my sack, entered the courtyard and slipped away—but not before saying something I told all my maids, even those who were cross-eyed: "Fear not, my dear, if you keep those beautiful eyes of yours peeled, no misfortune, no misfortune at all will befall you." I, SHEKUREIf truth be told, it used to be that each time Esther the clothier paid a visit, I'd fantasize that a man stricken with love would finally be roused to write a letter that could stir the heart of an intelligent woman like myself —beautiful, well-bred and widowed, yet with her honor still intact—and set it pounding. And to discover that the letter was from one of the usual suits, would, at the very least, fortify my resolve and forbearance to await my husband's return. But these days, every time Esther leaves, I become confused and feel all the more wretched. I listened to the sounds of my world. From the kitchen came the bubbling sound of boiling water and the smell of lemons and onions. Hayriye was boiling zucchini. Shevket and Orhan were frolicking and playing “swordsman” in the courtyard beneath the pomegranate tree, I heard their shouts. My father was sitting silently in the next room. I opened and read Hasan's letter and was reassured that there was no cause for alarm. Still, I grew a little more frightened of him, and congratulated myself for opposing his efforts to make love to me when we shared the same house. Next, I read Black's letter, holding it gently as if it were some delicate and sensitive bird, and my thoughts became muddled. I didn't read the letters again. The sun broke through the clouds and it occurred to me that if I'd entered Hasan's bedchamber one night and made love with him, no one, except Allah, would've been the wiser. He did resemble my missing husband; thing. Sometimes a strange thought li ke this entered my head. As the sun quickly warmed me, I could feel my body: my skin, my neck, even my nipples. Orhan slipped inside as the sunlight struck me through the open door. “Mama, what are you reading?” he said. All right then, remember how I said that I didn't reread the letters Esther had just delivered? I lied. I was in the midst of reading them again. This time, I truly did fold them up and tuck them away in my blouse . "Come here, you, onto my lap," I said to Orhan. He did so. "Oh my, you're so heavy. May God protect you, you've gotten quite big," I said and kissed him. " You're as cold as ice..." "You're so warm, Mama," he interrupted, leaning back onto my bosom. We were leaning tight against each other, enjoying sitting that way in silence. I smelled the nape of his neck and kissed him. I hugged him even more tightly. We were still. “I'm feeling ticklish,” he said later. “Tell me then,” I said in my serious voice. “If the Sultan of the Jinns came and said he'd grant you a wish, what would you want most of all?” “I'd want Shevket to go away.” “What besides? Would you want to have a father?” “No, when I grow up I'm going to marry you myself.” It wasn't aging, losing one's beauty or even being bereft of husband and money that was the worst of all calamities, what was truly horrible was not having anyone to be jealous of you. I lowered Orhan's warming body from my lap. Thinking that a wicked woman like myself ought to wed someone with a good soul, I went up to see my father. “His Excellency Our Sultan will reward you after seeing for Himself that His book has been completed,” I said. “You'll go to Venice again.” “I cannot be certain,” said my father. “This murder has distressed me. Our enemies are apparently quite powerful.” “I know, as well, that my own situation has emboldened them, giving rise to misunderstandings and unfounded hopes.” “How do you mean?” “I ought to be wed as soon as possible.” “What?” said my father. “To whom? But you are married. Where did this notion come from?” he asked. “Who's asked for your hand? Even if we were to find a reasonable and appealing prospect,” said my reasonable father, “I doubt we'd be able to take him, not like that, you understand.” He summed up my unfortunate situation as follows: “You're aware that there are weighty and complicated matters we must settle before you can marry again.” After a protracted silence, he added, “Is it that you want to leave me, my dear daughter?” “Last night I dreamed that my husband had died,” I said. I didn't cry the way a woman who'd actually seen such a dream would have. “Like those who know how to read a picture, one should know how to read a dream.” “Would you consider it appropriate for me to describe my dream?” There was a pause: We smiled at each other, quickly inferring—as intelligent people do—all possible conclusions from the matter at hand. “By interpreting your dream, I might be convinced of his death, yet your father-in-law, your brother-in-law and the judge, who is obligated to listen to them, will demand more proof.” “Two years have passed since I returned here with the children and my in-laws haven't been able to force me back…” “Because they very well realize that they have their own misdeeds to answer for,” said my father. “This doesn't mean that they'll be willing to let you petition for a divorce.” “If we were followers of the Maliki or the Hanbeli sects,” I said, “the judge, acknowledging that four years have passed, would grant me a divorce in addition to securing a support allowance for me. But since we are, many thanks to Allah, Hanefis, this option is not open to us.” “Don't mention the uskudar judge's Shafute stand-in to me. That's not a sound venture.” “All the women of Istanbul whose husbands are missing at the front go to him with their witnesses to get divorced. Since he's a Shafute, he simply asks, ”Is your husband missing?“ ”How long has he been missing?“ ”Are you having trouble making ends meet?“ ”Are these your witnesses?“ and immediately grants the divorce.” “My dear Shekure, who's planted such schemes in your head?” he said. “Who's stripped you of your reason?” “After I'm divorced once and for all, if there is a man who can truly strip me of my reason, you will, of course, tell me who that might be and I shall never question your decision about my husband.” My shrewd father, realizing that his daughter was as shrewd as he, began to blink. My father would blink rapidly like this for three reasons: 1. because he was in a tight spot and his mind was racing to find a clever way out; 2. because he was on the verge of tears of hopelessness and sorrow; 3. because he was in a tight spot, cunningly combining reasons 1 and 2 to give the impression that he might soon cry out of sorrow. “Are you taking the children and abandoning your old father? Do you realize that on account of our book”—yes, he said “our book”—“I was afraid of being murdered, but now that you want to take the children and leave, I welcome death.” “My dear father, wasn't it you who always said that only a divorce could save me from that good-for-nothing brother-in-law?” “I don't want you to abandon me. One day your husband might return. Even if he doesn't, there's no harm in your being married—so long as you live in this house with your father.” “I want nothing more than to live in this house with you.” “Darling, weren't you just now saying that you wanted to get married as soon as possible?” This is the dead end you reach by arguing with your father: In due course, you too will be convinced that you're in the wrong. “I was,” I said, gazing at the ground in front of me. Then, holding back my tears and encouraged by the truth of what came to mind, I said: “All right then, shall I never be married again?” “There's a special place in my heart for the son-in-law who won't take you far from me. Who is your suitor, would he be willing to live here with us in this house?” I fell silent. We both knew, of course, that my father would never respect a son-in-law willing to live here together with us, and would gradually demean and stifle him. And as Father's underhanded and expert belittling of the man who'd moved in with his bride's family proceeded I would soon want to be that wife no more. “Without a father's approval, in your situation, you know that getting married is practically impossible, don't you? I don't want you to get married, and I refuse to grant you permission to do so—” “I don't want to get married, I want a divorce.” “—because some thoughtless beast of a man who cares about nothing but his own concerns might hurt you. You know how much I love you, don't you, my dear Shekure? Besides, we must finish this book.” I said nothing. For if I were to speak—prompted by the Devil, who was aware of my anger—I would tell my father right to his face that I knew he slept with Hayriye at night. But would it befit a woman like me to admit that she knew that her elderly father slept with a slave girl? “Who is it that wants to marry you?” I gazed at the ground before me and was quiet, not out of embarrassment, but out of anger. And recognizing the extent of my anger, but not being able to respond in some manner made me even more furious. At that juncture, I imagined my father and Hayriye in bed in that ridiculous and disgusting position. I was on the verge of tears when I said: “There's zucchini on the stove, I don't want it to burn.” I crossed to the room beside the staircase, the one with the always-closed window that looked out onto the well. In the dark, quickly locating the roll-up mattress with my hands, I spread it open and lay down: Ah, what a wonderful feeling, to lie down and fall asleep in a fit of tears like a child who's been wrongly chastised! And what agony it is to know that I'm the only person in the world who likes me. As I cry in my solitude, only you, who hear my sobs and moans, can come to my aid. A while later, I found that Orhan had stretched out upon my bed. He placed his head between my breasts. I saw that he was sighing, and crying too. Pulling him close to me, I held him. “Don't cry, Mother,” he said later. “Father will return from the war.” "How do you know?" He didn't answer. I loved him so, and pressed him to my bosom so that I forgot my own worries entirely. Before I cuddle up with my fine-boned, delicate Orhan and fall asleep, let me confess my only pressing concern: I regret having just now told you, out of spite, about the matter between my father and Hayriye. No, I wasn't lying, but I'm still so embarrassed that it would be best if you forgot about it. Pretend I never mentioned anything, as if my father and Hayriye weren't thus involved, please? I AM YOUR BELOVED UNCLEAlas, it's difficult having a daughter, difficult. As she wept in the next room, I could hear her sobs, but I could do nothing but look at the pages of the book I held in my hands. On a page of the volume I was trying to read, the Book of the Apocalypse, it was written that three days after death, one's soul, receiving permission from Allah, visited the body it formerly inhabited. Upon beholding the piteous state of its body, bloodied, decomposing and oozing, as it rested in the grave, the soul would sorrowfully, tearfully and mournfully grieve, “Lo, my miserable mortal coil, my dear wretched old body.” At once, I thought of Elegant Effendi's bitter end at the bottom of the well, and how upset his soul naturally must have been upon visiting, and finding his body not at his grave, but in the well. When Shekure's sobs died down, I put aside the book on death. I donned an extra woolen undershirt, wound my thick wool sash tightly around my waist so as to warm my midriff, pulled on my shalwar pants lined with rabbit fur and, as I was leaving the house, turned to discover Shevket in the doorway. “Where are you going, Grandfather?” “You get back inside. To the funeral.” I passed through snow-covered streets, between poor rotting houses leaning this way and that way, barely able to stand, and through fire-ravaged neighborhoods. I walked for a long time, taking the cautious steps of an aging man trying not to slip and fall on the ice. I passed through out-of-the-way neighborhoods and gardens and fields. I walked by shops that dealt in carriages and wheels and passed iron smiths, saddlers, harness makers and farriers on my way toward the walls of the city. I'm not sure why they decided to start the funeral procession all the way at the Mihrimah Mosque near the city's Edirne Gate. At the mosque, I embraced the big-headed and bewildered brothers of the deceased, who looked angry and obstinate. We miniaturists and calligraphers embraced each other and wept. As I was performing my prayers within a leaden fog that had suddenly descended and swallowed everything, my gaze fell on the coffin resting atop the mosque's stone funeral block, and I felt such anger toward the miscreant who'd committed this crime, believe me, even the Allahumme Barik prayer became muddled in my mind. After the prayers, while the congregation shouldered the coffin, I was still among all the miniaturists and calligraphers. Stork and I had forgotten that on some nights, when we sat in the dim light of oil lamps working until morning on my book, he'd tried to convince me of the inferiority of Elegant Effendi's gilding work and of the lack of balance in his use of colors—he colored everything navy blue so it would look richer! We'd both forgotten that I'd actually given him credence, by allowing “But no one else is qualified to do this work,” and we embraced each other anyway, sobbing once more. Later, Olive gave me a friendly and respectful look before hugging me—a man who knows how to embrace is a good man—and these gestures so pleased me that I was reminded how of all the workshop artists, he was the one who most believed in my book. On the stairs of the courtyard gate I found myself beside Head Illuminator Master Osman. We were both at a loss for words, a strange and tense moment. One of the deceased's brothers began to cry and sob, and someone pompously shouted, “God is great.” “To which cemetery?” Master Osman asked me for the sake of asking something. To respond “I don't know” seemed hostile for some reason. Flustered, and without thinking, I asked the same question of the man standing next to me on the stairs, “To which cemetery? The one by the Edirne Gate?” “Eyup,” said an ill-tempered, bearded and young dolt. “Eyup,” I said turning to the master, but he'd heard what the ill-tempered dolt had said anyway. Then, he looked at me as if to say, “I understand” in a way that let me know he didn't want our encounter to last a moment longer than it already had. Without mentioning my influence on Our Sultan's growing interest in Frankish styles of painting, Master Osman was of course annoyed that Our Sultan had ordered me to oversee the writing out, embellishment and illustration of the illuminated manuscript, which I've described as “secret.” On one occasion, the Sultan forced the great Master Osman to copy a portrait of His Highness, which had been commissioned from a Venetian. I know Master Osman holds me responsible for having to imitate that painter, for having to make that strange painting, which he did with disgust, referring to the experience as “torture.” His wrath was justified. Standing in the middle of the staircase for a while, I looked at the sky. When I was convinced that I'd been left quite behind, I continued down the icy stairs. I'd barely descended—ever so slowly—two steps when a man took me by the arm and embraced me: Black. “The air is freezing,” he said. “You must be cold.” I hadn't the slightest doubt that this was the one who'd muddled Shekure's mind. The self-confidence with which he took my arm was proof enough. There was something in his demeanor that announced, “I've worked for twelve years and have truly grown up.” When we came to the bottom of the stairs, I told him that I'd expect an account later of what he'd learned at the workshop. “You go ahead, my child,” I said. “Go ahead and catch up to the congregation.” He was taken aback, but didn't let on. The way he let go of my arm with reservation and walked ahead of me pleased me, even. If I gave Shekure to him, would he agree to live in the same house with us? We'd left the city through the Edirne Gate. I saw the coffin on the verge of disappearing into the fog along with the crowd of illustrators, calligraphers and apprentices shouldering it as they quickly descended the hill toward the Golden Horn. They were walking so fast, they'd already traveled half of the muddy road that led down the snow-covered valley to Eyup. In the silent fog, off to the left, the chimney of the Han 1m Sultan Charity candleworks shop happily piped up its smoke. Under the shadow of the walls, there were tanneries and the bustling slaughterhouses that served the Greek butchers of Eyup. The smell of offal coming from these places had wafted over the valley, which extended to the vaguely discernible domes of the Eyup Mosque and its cypress-lined cemetery. After walking for a while longer, I heard from below the shouts of children at play coming from the new Jewish quarter in Balat. When we reached the plain where Eyup was located, Butterfly approached me, and in his usual fiery manner, abruptly broached his subject: “Olive and Stork are the ones behind this vulgarity,” he said. “Like everyone else, they knew I had a bad relationship with the deceased. They knew everyone was aware of this. There was jealousy between us, even open animosity and antagonism, over who would assume leadership of the workshop after Master Osman. Now they expect the guilt to fall on my shoulders, or at the least, that the Head Treasurer, and under his influence, Our Sultan, will distance themselves from me, nay, from us.” “Who is this ”us' of which you speak?““Those of us who believe that the old morality ought to persist at the workshop, that we should follow the path laid by the Persian masters, that an artist shouldn't illustrate just any scene for money alone. In place of weapons, armies, slaves and conquests, we believe that the old myths, legends and stories ought to be introduced anew into our books. We shouldn't forgo the old models. Genuine miniaturists shouldn't loiter at the shops in the bazaar and paint any old thing, depictions of indecency, for a few extra kurush from anybody who happens by. His Excellency Our Sultan would find us justified.” “You're incriminating yourself senselessly,” I said so he might be done with his ranting. “I'm convinced that the atelier could not harbor anybody capable of committing such a crime. You're all brethren. There's no great harm in illustrating a few subjects that haven't been depicted previously, at least no harm so great as to be an occasion for enmity.” As happened when I first heard the horrid news, I had an epiphany of sorts. Elegant Effendi's murderer was one of the premier masters in the palace workshop and he was a member of the crowd before me, climbing the hill that led to the cemetery. I was also convinced that the murderer would continue with his devilry and sedition, that he was an enemy of the book I was making, and most probably, that he'd visited my house to pick up some work illustrating and painting. Had Butterfly, too, like most of the artists who frequented my house, fallen in love with Shekure? As he made his assertions, had he forgotten the times when I'd requested that he paint pictures that were contrary to his point of view, or was he just needling me with expert skill? Nay, I thought a little while later, he couldn't be needling me. Butterfly, like the other master illustrators, obviously owed me a debt of gratitude: With money and gifts to miniaturists dwindling, due to the wars and lack of interest on the part of Our Sultan, the sole significant source of extra income had for some time been what they earned working for me. I knew they were jealous of one another over my attentions, and for this reason—but not only for this reason—I met with them individually at my house, hardly a basis for hostility toward me. All of my miniaturists were mature enough to behave intelligently, to sincerely find a reason to admire a man to whom they were obliged for their own profit. To relieve the silence and ensure that the previous topic of conversation wouldn't be revisited, I said, “Oh, will His wonders never cease! They're able to take the coffin up that hill as fast as they brought it down.” Butterfly smiled sweetly showing all his teeth: “Due to the cold.” Could this one actually kill a man, I wondered, for example, out of envy? Might he kill me? He had the following excuse: This man was debasing my religion. Nay, but he's a great master, a perfect embodiment of talent, why should he resort to murder? Age means not only straining oneself climbing hills, but also, I gather, not being so afraid of death. It means a lack of desire, entering into a slave girl's bedchamber, not in a fit of excitement, but out of custom. In a burst of intuition, I told him to his face the decision I'd made: “I'm not continuing with the book any longer.” “What?” said Butterfly as his expression changed. “There's some kind of ill-fortune in it. Our Sultan has cut off the funding. You're to tell Olive and Stork, as well.” Perhaps he would have inquired further, but we found ourselves on the slopes of the graveyard amid tightly spaced towering cypresses, high ferns and tombstones. As the great crowd encircled the grave site, my only clue that the body was at that very moment being lowered into the grave was the increasing intensity of the weeping and sobbing and the exclamations of bismillahi and ala milleti Resulullah. “Uncover his face completely,” someone said. They were removing the white shroud, and they must've been eye to eye with the corpse if indeed there was an eye remaining in that smashed head. I was in the back and I couldn't see anything. I'd once gazed into the eyes of Death, not at a grave site, in an entirely different place…A memory: Thirty years ago, Our Sultan's grandfather, Denizen of Paradise, decided once and for all to take Cyprus from the Venetians. Sheikhulislam Ebussuut Effendi, recalling that this island was once designated a commissariat for Mecca and Medina, issued a fatwa which more or less stated that it was inappropriate for an island which had helped sustain holy sites to remain under Christian infidel control. In turn, the difficult task of informing the Venetians of this unforeseen decision, that they must surrender their island, fell to me. As a result, I was able to tour the cathedrals of Venice. Though I marveled at their bridges and palazzos, I was most enchanted by the pictures hanging in Venetian homes. Nevertheless, in the midst of this bewilderment, trusting in the hospitality displayed by the Venetians, I delivered the menacing correspondence, informing them in a haughty, supercilious fashion that Our Sultan desired Cyprus. The Venetians were so angry that in their congress, which had been hastily convened, it was decided that even to discuss such a letter was unacceptable. Furious mobs had forced me to confine myself to the Doge's palazzo. And when some rogues managed to get past the guards and doorkeepers and had set to strangling me, two of the Doge's personal musketeers succeeded in escorting me out one of the secret passageways to an exit that opened onto the canal. There, in a fog not unlike this one, I thought for an instant that the tall and pale gondolier dressed in white, who'd taken me by the arm, was none other than Death. I caught sight of my reflection in his eyes. Longingly, I dreamed of finishing my book in secret and returning to Venice. I approached the grave, which had been carefully covered with dirt: At this moment, angels are interrogating him above, asking him whether he is male or female, his religion and whom he recognizes as his prophet. The possibility of my own death came to mind. A crow alighted beside me. I gazed lovingly into Black's eyes and asked him to take my arm and accompany me on the way back. I told him I expected him at the house early the next morning to continue working on the book. I had indeed imagined my own death, and realized, once again, that the book must be completed, whatever the cost. I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERERThey threw cold, muddy earth onto the battered and disfigured corpse of ill-fated Elegant Effendi and I wept more than any of them. I shouted, “I want to die with him!” and “Let me share his grave!” and they held me by the waist so I wouldn't fall in. I gasped for air and they pressed their palms to my forehead, drawing my head back so I might breathe. By the glances of the deceased's relatives, I sensed I might have exaggerated my sobs and wailing; I pulled myself together. Based upon my excessive sorrow the workshop gossips might suppose that Elegant Effendi and I had been in love. I hid behind a plane tree until the funeral ended to avoid drawing more attention to myself. A relative of the oaf I'd sent to Hell—an even bigger idiot than the deceased—discovered me behind the tree and stared deep into my eyes with a look he assumed was meaningful. He held me in his embrace for a while, then the ignoramus said the following: “Were you ”Saturday“ or ”Wednesday'?““”Wednesday“ was the workshop name of the dearly departed for a time,” I said. He fell silent. The story behind these workshop names, which bound us to one another like a secret pact, was simple: During our apprenticeships, when Osman the miniaturist had newly graduated from assistant master to the level of master, we all shared a great respect, admiration and love for him. He was a virtuoso and he taught us everything, for God had blessed him with an enchanting artistic gift and the intellect of a jinn. Early each morning, as was demanded of apprentices, one of us would go to the master's home, and following respectfully behind him on the way to the workshop, carry his pen and brush box, his bag and his portfolio full of papers. So desperate were we to be near him that we'd argue and fight among ourselves to determine who would go that day. Master Osman had a favorite. But if he were always to go, it would fan the flames of the never-ending gossip and tasteless jokes that inevitably filled the workshop, and so the great master decided that each of us would be assured a specified day of the week. The great master worked on Fridays and stayed at home Saturdays. His son, whom he loved dearly—who later betrayed him and us by quitting the trade—would accompany his father on Mondays like a common apprentice. There was also a tall thin brother of ours known as “Thursday,” a miniaturist more gifted than any of us, who passed away at a young age, succumbing to the fever brought on by a mysterious illness. Elegant Effendi, may he rest in peace, would go on Wednesdays, and was therefore known as “Wednesday.” Later, our great master meaningfully and lovingly changed our names from “Tuesday” to “Olive,” from “Friday” to “Stork,” and from “Sunday” to “Butterfly,” renaming the dearly departed as “Elegant” in allusion to the finesse of his gilding work. The great master must have said, “Welcome ”Wednesday,“ how are you this morning?” to the late Elegant just as he used to greet all of us back then. When I recalled how he would address me, I thought my eyes might fill with tears: Master Osman admired us, and his own eyes would tear when he beheld the beauty of our work; he'd kiss our hands and arms, and despite the beatings, we felt as if we were in Heaven as apprentices; and so our talent blossomed with his love. Even jealousy, which cast its shadow over those happy years, had a different hue then. Now I am completely divided, just like those figures whose head and hands are drawn and painted by one master while their bodies and clothes are depicted by another. When a God-fearing man like myself unexpectedly becomes a murderer, it takes time to adjust. I've adopted a second voice, one befitting a murderer, so that I might still carry on as though my old life continued. I am speaking now in this derisive and devious second voice, which I keep out of my regular life. From time to time, of course, you'll hear my familiar, regular voice, which would've remained my only voice had I not become a murderer. But when I speak under my workshop name, I'll never admit to being “a murderer.” Let no one try to associate these two voices, I have no individual style or flaws in artistry to betray my hidden persona. Indeed, I believe that style, or for that matter, anything that serves to distinguish one artist from another, is a flaw—not individual character, as some arrogantly claim. I do admit that in my own situation, this presents a problem. For though I might speak through my workshop name, lovingly given to me by Master Osman and used by Enishte Effendi, who also admired it, in no wise do I want you to figure out whether I am Butterfly, Olive or Stork. For if you do you won't hesitate to turn me over to the torturers of the Sultan's Commander of the Imperial Guard. And, I must mind what I think about and say. Actually, I know that you're listening to me even when I'm mulling over matters in private. I can't afford careless contemplation of my frustrations or the incriminating details of my life. Even when recounting the “Alif,” “Ba” and “Djim” stories. I was always mindful of your gaze. One side of the warriors, lovers, princes and legendary heroes that I've illustrated tens of thousands of times faces whatever is depicted there, in that mythical time—the enemies they're battling, for example, or the dragons they're slaying, or the beautiful maidens over whom they weep. But another aspect, and another side of their bodies, faces the book lover who happens to be gazing at the magnificent painting. If I do have style and character, it's not only hidden in my artwork, but in my crime and in my words as well! Yes, try to discover who I am from the color of my words! I, too, know that if you catch me, it'll bring consolation to unfortunate Elegant Effendi's miserable soul. They're shoveling dirt on him as I stand here beneath trees, amid chirping birds, watching the gilded waters of the Golden Horn and the leaden domes of Istanbul, and discovering anew how wonderful it is to be alive. Pathetic Elegant Effendi, soon after he joined the circle of that fierce-browed preacher from Erzurum, he stopped liking me completely; yet, in the twenty-five years that we illustrated books for Our Sultan, there were times when we felt very close to each other. Twenty years ago, we became friends while working on a royal history in verse for the late father of our present sultan. But we were never closer than when working on the eight illustrated plates that were to accompany a collection of Fuzuli poems. One summer evening back then, as a concession to his understandable but illogical desires—apparently a miniaturist ought to feel in his soul the text he's illustrating—I came here and patiently listened to him pretentiously recite lines from Fuzuli's collected works as flocks of swallows fluttered above us in a frenzy. I still recall a line recited that evening: “I am not me but eternally thee.” I've always wondered how one might illustrate this line. I ran to his house as soon as I learned that his body had been found. There, the diminutive garden where we once sat and recited poetry, now covered in snow, seemed diminished, just like any garden revisited after a period of years. His house was that way, too. From the next room, I could hear the wails of women, and their exaggerated exclamations, mounting as if they were competing with each other. When his eldest brother spoke, I listened intently: The face of our forlorn brother Elegant was practically destroyed, and his head was smashed. After he was removed from the bottom of the well where he'd lain for four days, his brothers scarcely knew him, and his poor wife, Kalbiye, whom they'd brought from the house, was forced to identify the unrecognizable body in the dark of night by its torn and tattered clothing. I was reminded of a depiction of the Midian merchants pulling Joseph from the pit into which he'd been cast by his jealous brothers. I quite